Against the Clock 3/13 (Gen, PG-13, Dean, Sam, S1 casefic)

[swanseajill]

Against the Clock

by Swanseajill

Chapter 3 

It was close to ten p.m. when they drove west along Main and began to pass the predictable string of motels. Reluctantly pushing aside a mental image of a comfortable bed and a steaming-hot power shower, Dean cruised past the usual suspects and chose a small motel called Wild Water Lodge just beyond the town limit. Its crooked sign boasting “Rock bottom prices” in faded blue paint held the promise of the usual faded carpets and questionable cleanliness.

Dean stopped outside the reception office and let Sam out to check them in. He turned off the engine and rested his forehead on the steering wheel for a moment, wondering where he was going to find the strength to get out of the car, never mind walk to the motel room. He’d been trying to hide it from Sam all afternoon, but honestly, he felt like crap.

It had started just after breakfast with the beginnings of a dull headache. As the day progressed so had the pain in his head, and by mid-afternoon, his back had begun to ache. Now, his head was thumping, the back pain seemed to have spread to every muscle in his body and his throat felt raw. On top of that he felt nauseous, dizzy and bone-weary. Yeah. ‘Crap’ pretty much covered it.

The passenger door creaked open and Sam got back in the car. “Room 26, far end of the lot.”

Dean started the engine and drove across to the room. With an effort, he followed Sam out of the car, hefted his bag out of the trunk and walked the few yards to the door of Room 26.

Sam snapped on the light, and Dean reeled as the sudden brightness burned aching eyes and set the geometric pattern of the carpet whirling. The room began to spin. He swayed a little and sat down quickly on the nearest bed.

Sam took a step toward him, a frown creasing his forehead. “You okay?”

Dean forced a grin. “Dude, we need to salt and burn that carpet,” he said lightly to cover up the moment of weakness.

Sam studied him closely for a moment, clearly not buying the deflection, then let it go. “I’m not sure it’s possessed,” he said, “but it’s definitely a health hazard.”

Dean looked dejectedly around the shabby room. It was decidedly seventies in décor, the geometric pattern complimented by faded plum-colored wallpaper. “Want to bet on how many cockroaches there are in the bathroom?”

Sam wrinkled his nose. “Not really.” He jerked a thumb toward the bathroom. “Why don’t you take first shower and find out?”

That may have been one of the best ideas Sam had ever had.

After a cursory search for insect life, Dean turned the shower on, cranked the temperature up high, and stood under the steaming flow. The heat felt good on aching muscles, but did little to relieve the escalating pounding in his head.

Finally, mindful of the need to leave Sam at least a trickle of hot water, he dressed and left the bathroom. Sam had put on one of the bedside lamps, so Dean casually switched off the overhead light. The subdued lighting was a relief, and the carpet settled down into a less trip-inducing pattern.

Sam was sitting on his bed, rummaging in his bag, and Dean eased down on his own mattress.

“No cockroaches,” he remarked, “But there’s something I don’t want to identify growing in the sink.” He lay down carefully, lacing his hands behind his head. “So, what do you think?”

“About the case?”

“No, about the décor.”

Sam blew out a breath. “I don’t know, Dean. Nothing we’ve heard today makes me think there’s a supernatural cause to all this.”

“Maybe. But nothing we’ve seen discounts it, either.”

“I just don’t think this is our kind of case.”

“Dad thought it was.”

Sam gave Dean a pointed look. “He said he had a feeling it was. That doesn’t mean he was right.”

“Doesn’t mean he was wrong, either. Dad’s gut feelings are usually right.”

“Dean,” Sam said earnestly, “there’s nothing pointing to a supernatural cause. These people were shot. How many spirits have you come across that shoot their victims? The serial-killer theory sounds much more likely to me.”

Dean scoffed. “Same time, same date every year? That doesn’t sound like your average serial killer to me.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “So now you’re an expert on serial killers?”

Dean swallowed his irritation at Sam’s sarcasm. “I’ve read enough to know that it’s an unusual pattern, yes.”

Sam sighed in that annoying way he had, as if he was simply humoring his brother. “So what do you want to do? Because seriously, I think we’re at a dead end. There’s no lead, nowhere to start.”

Dean sat up, ignored the way the room lurched unpleasantly, and frowned at his brother. “We’ve barely started yet, and you want to just give up and move on?”

Sam looked away. “Maybe.”

Dean’s patience snapped. “You know what, Sam? Your attitude? It’s pissing me off.”

“Why?” Sam shot back. “Because I dare to question Dad?”

Dean ran a hand over his aching eyes. He didn’t need this. Not now, not when he was feeling crappy and they had a case to solve in only twenty-four hours. “You know what I think, Sam? I don’t think you care about solving this case and saving someone’s life. I think all you care about is proving Dad wrong.”

Sam stood up. “That’s bullshit, Dean.”

“Is it?”

Dean’s challenging words hung in the air. Sam glowered, and his chin jutted out defiantly, but instead of retorting, he said tightly, “There’s a take-out pizza place across the street. I’ll go and get us something to eat.”

He pulled on his jacket and stalked out, slamming the door behind him. Dean winced, the loud noise intensifying the hammering in his skull, and the very thought of pizza making his stomach roil.

He turned out the lamp and laid back, glad of the darkness that eased the throbbing behind his eyes.

He was already regretting his harsh words, uttered out of frustration and fatigue. Sam did care about saving people and Dean knew his barb had hit home.

Damn Sam and his stubborn insistence on questioning Dad at every turn.

Dean had to admit, if only to himself, that the unexpected text had rocked him too. For the past month an unthinkable idea had been lurking at the back of his mind, firmly pushed back every time it tried to claw its way to the surface. What if Dad hadn’t answered Sam’s text because he couldn’t? What if he was lying hurt somewhere, or even worse?

Now that he knew the truth, he wasn’t sure how to deal with it. When he’d believed he only had a few weeks to live, all through those long and frightening days of weakness when it took all his energy just to get out of bed, when he’d discovered what it felt like to be an invalid, all he’d wanted was to see his dad. He’d been a little ashamed of his weakness, but that hadn’t stopped him dreaming of Dad knocking on the motel door one day to tell him that he’d found some magical cure, that everything was going to be all right.

But Dad hadn’t come, and it was Sam who’d saved him, even if the cost had been too high. Dad’s deliberate choice to stay away hurt. He tried to push the resentful feeling away, but he was tired, his defenses were low and it stubbornly resisted all efforts to remove it.

He was angry at the betrayal of his father that these thoughts signified. Dad loved him; he knew that. So as he’d told Sam, there must be some compelling reason why he’d chosen not to get in touch. He had to hold on to that because to think otherwise would bring his whole world crashing down.

After a while, he fell into a fitful doze, only to be jerked awake when the door opened. Sam came in, balancing a huge pizza box and two large, steaming cups. He put them down on the table between the beds and switched on a lamp.

Dean grimaced as the bright light hit his sensitive eyes and dragged his aching body up, squinting at his watch. Eleven p.m. “Where’d you go for the pizza? Alaska?”

“There was a line,” Sam said, a hint of tension in his voice.

He shrugged out of his jacket and sat down on the edge of his bed, then lifted the lid of the cardboard box. The aroma of cheese and pepperoni filled the room. Dean’s stomach lurched.

Sam picked up a slice of pizza and took a bite. Dean reached for the cup. Even the usually enticing aroma of coffee made him feel slightly nauseous, but he needed the caffeine.

Sam chewed and swallowed, the tension seeming to drain out of him as he ate. “Pizza’s good,” he said, after another few bites. “Better take your share before I finish it all.”

“Try it and die, bitch,” Dean said automatically, but he still didn’t reach for a piece.

Sam eyed him. “What’s wrong with you?”

“We haven’t eaten since noon. You have to be hungry. Are you sick?”

“No.” Dean sipped scalding coffee, trying not to wince as he swallowed and the razor blades in his throat leapt to attention. After a moment, he said, “Look, I’m sorry, okay. I was out of order.”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Sam said quietly. “Either way, you were right that someone’s life is on the line. So let’s just take a good look at what we have so far and work out what to do next.”

Dean studied Sam, searching for a clue as to his thoughts, but Sam’s expression was neutral. After a pause, he said, “Yeah, okay.” Pretty much the last thing he wanted to do was force his aching brain into coherent thought, but there was no choice, not with the timescale they were working with. He scrubbed a hand wearily over his face.

Sam gave him a searching look. “Look, it’s late, and it’s been a long day,” Sam said. “Maybe we should take a rain check, get some sleep, work on this in the morning.”

Dean shook his head. “We don’t have much time, Sam. What did the records have down for time of death?”

Sam gave him another penetrating stare, then reached for his notes. “Nothing precise,” he said after a moment’s study, “but they all happened sometime between nine p.m and three a.m.”

“Working on nine gives us less than twenty-four hours to solve the case,” Dean said.

Sam hesitated, seemed about to say something, then nodded. “All right. Here’s what we have.” He began ticking facts off on his fingers. “Four victims. All in their mid-twenties, the first female, the other three male. They all died from bullet wounds to the heart at roughly the same time on the same date, and all their bodies were found in an old quarry in the woods just outside town, although police reports say none of them was actually killed there.” He paused. “So I guess the first question is, why those particular victims?”

“They’re all around the same age, but that seems to be the only thing they have in common - apart from being dead,” Dean said. “There’s no obvious connection between them, other than that Vic Anderson bought a used car from the garage where Del Mason worked.”

“Pretty weak.”

“Yeah.”

“Random victims, then?” Sam suggested.

“Maybe.”

“Let’s suppose this is our kind of gig. Could it have been a monster of some kind? Wendigo? Werewolf?”

Dean grunted. “I don’t know of any monsters that shoot their victims. And the fact that they were all killed on the same date? That doesn’t add up.” He ran through other possible explanations in his head. “Could be a vengeful spirit,” he suggested finally.

Sam shot him a skeptical look. “So what, it’s choosing random victims that happen to stray into the wrong place?”

“Maybe.”

“I’ve never heard of a spirit killing and then moving the victim’s body,” Sam said.

He was right.

There was silence as both brothers chewed over the facts.

Dean was frustrated. He couldn’t think straight. His head hurt too much, and it felt too heavy on his shoulders. He rested his elbows on his knees, head held between his hands, and bit back a groan.

“We’re missing something,” he said eventually. “There has to be a trigger, an event that started all this off. We need to take a step back and look at that.”

“Okay, we’ll do that, but in the morning.” Sam frowned. “You don’t look too good, Dean. You need to get some sleep. You’re sick, aren’t you?”

This time, Dean didn’t bother to deny it.

“This isn’t just a headache, is it?”

Sam was nothing if not persistent.

“Dean?” Sam pressed when Dean still didn’t answer.

Dean sighed. “I feel like crap, okay?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Okay. Want to fill in a few details?”

Dean grunted. “Something’s trying to drill its way through my head, I'm an inch from throwing up, there are razor blades stuck in my throat and my whole body aches. What’s your diagnosis, Doctor Kildare?”

“Sounds like you’re coming down with something,” Sam said. Master of the obvious, that Sammy. “Have you taken anything?”

“Some Tylenol this afternoon.”

He watched tiredly as Sam fished around in his duffel, coming up eventually with two round white pills that he popped into Dean’s hand.

“Take these.”

Dean looked at the pills suspiciously. They were larger than the pills he’d taken earlier. “What are they?”

“Just Tylenol, but the prescription stuff. Stronger than the ones you’ve been taking. They’ll help you sleep.”

Dean hesitated. He hated painkillers. They slowed him down and that could be fatal. Still, he had Sam to watch his back and he needed some sleep if he was to be on his game in the morning. He popped the pills in his mouth and washed them down with some water. Then he shrugged out of his jeans, lay down with a sigh of relief, and pulled the comforter around him.

Chapter 4

Chapter 1 
Chapter 2