Fanfic - SPN: Plain Gold Band - Ch. 6 - The Case
Title: Plain Gold Band [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
Chapter Six: The Case
[077.Productive]
Dean woke in the morning, more groggy than he'd ever care to admit, with bitter cotton dryness on his tongue, but his mind slowly cleared as he listened to Sam in the shower, singing some song he felt like he should know but couldn't quite place. He gave up trying to figure it out after a moment and rolled over, only vaguely noting his near-nakedness as he punched his pillow and lay down again.
Thinking about the night before, he cringed, recalling a moody Sam and a near collision with some asshole named Brandon. Towards the end, he'd somehow gotten himself wobbly drunk and Sam had apparently dragged him home and gotten him ready for bed. He knew they had work to do, but there was a throbbing at his temples that said a long sleep would be better even than chocolate right then.
The bathroom door clicked open and he heard his brother emerge, entering the space between their beds. "Dean?"
Sam's voice was soft, but it still thumped heavily against the walls of Dean's skull and he groaned. "What?"
"How're you feeling?"
"Like death on a bun."
Sam laughed lightly. "You are what you eat."
"Shut up." Dean swatted at his brother, groaning again, but he couldn't help that his pout turned up at the corners.
"We've got work, ya know?"
"I know."
"Are you gonna get up?"
"If I have to."
"You kinda do."
Dean grunted and turned to blink, bleary-eyed, at his brother. Sam was smiling, not a smirk or a dark grin, just a seemingly genuine smile, soft around the edges, and it made something in Dean's chest relax and sigh. "How are you feeling?"
Sam nodded slowly, smile widening. "Pretty good, considering."
"Considering what?"
"Considering how fucked up this week has been."
Dean pushed himself up to sitting and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, avoiding Sam's. "Yeah, it's been … something."
Sam's smile faltered some as Dean looked up at him. "I'm still not sure about this, but … we've got a case to solve, right?"
Dean's stomach flipped as he thought about Sam walking out the door again and not coming back. "What aren't you sure about, Sam?"
Sam dropped his eyes and shook his head demurely. "I just need to be somewhere that I can be myself … and since you actually know what that is and can't really handle it … maybe it would be better if we didn't torture ourselves trying to make this work."
"You're not- ..."
"Yes, I am!" The volume of his voice didn't rise as he met Dean's gaze, but the snap of intensity said his composed demeanor was crumbling. "That's exactly the kind of thing I'm talking about, Dean. I might not like it, but this is who I am. You can't make it vanish by the power of denial and you can't fix it by staying away like it's a wound you're going to infect. Either you're with me completely or you're not at all."
Sam's words knocked the sleep right out of Dean and he swung his legs over the side of the bed, facing his brother more directly. "How can you think that I'm not?"
"I can just tell, okay?" His voice shook as it neared yelling. "I know that you can see it, that you know it, even if you don't know why, that I'm- …" His mouth stopped mid-motion, throat working over choked down words. They came out anyway, wrought with a mix of emotions Dean couldn't decipher. "That I'm tainted, wrong, like- … like everything we've ever hunted. Nothing better. I'm just- …"
"Sam, stop! You're not- … What are you talking about?" He was looking up at Sam, but he didn't feel small, his tone carrying the hefty authority of a big brother trying to keep his younger sibling from walking out in front of a moving train.
"You don't think I see it when I look in the mirror? That I don't notice darkness in my eyes that wasn't there before? That I don't feel it, like worms shifting under my skin? That I don't taste it, bitter acid on my tongue, with every breath and swallow? That I don't wish sometimes- … That I don't try to forget?" Sam's body was as fitfully tense as his voice and every time his eyes settled on Dean's they only stayed a moment before flitting away again, as if it hurt too much to look at him. "And you just- … I know why you pull away. I thought this would be better, but you just remind me- … So, I- …" He took a deep breath and his eyes glittered anxiously, but his switch into an external tranquility was instant, like he'd pushed a button inside somewhere marked 'calm'. Then, his lips lifted into that smile again, but Dean could see through it now, the broken goodbye written across his features. "I've made my peace with leaving, okay? You won't have to see- … It'll be better this way."
"Sam, come on, it's not- …" He sputtered as he tried to explain his avoidant behavior. "You and me isn't gonna help anything. It's always been- … It shouldn't've happened in the first place. I don't think you're … tainted or whatever. I'm just … trying to keep us both as clean as possible."
"Did you not just hear me? I'm not clean. I can't be clean. I'm fucking- …" Sam bared his teeth a moment before forcing his eyebrows to straighten and his mouth to twitch back into something more positive. "You know this, Dean. You just don't want to believe it, but if what Dad said wasn't enough, then … believe me, okay? It's only going to get uglier. So, if you can't handle this then- …"
"Why don't you just tell me what you found?" There was pleading in his tone that he hadn't meant to put there, but it was a stripped-bare honesty that Sam seemed to respond to, blinking and sighing the wind out of his puffed up chest.
"I will, okay? If- …if things work out, then … yeah … I'll tell you everything."
Dean didn't miss the conditional setup, and he didn't miss the way Sam's voice wavered when he said it because he really wasn't sure if those conditions would ever be met. "But if things don't work out … ?"
"A clean break would be better. For both of us." Sam nodded gently, but his eyes slid away. This was the conclusion that Sam imagined they would come to in the end.
"That right?" Dean looked at Sam a long time, wondering if Sam really believed it would be better or if he just thought it was inevitable.
Sam ran his tongue over his lips slowly before responding, but he lifted his head when he spoke, a hearty level of conviction in his eyes. "Yeah, it is."
Finally, Dean just shook his head, lips tilting downward. "I don't believe any of that. I don't. Whatever Dad thought, whatever you found, whatever it is, it's only part who you are and it's always been there, right? So … it doesn't have to be any more a part of your life than you let it be."
"That's bullshit!" Sam was up in arms again, stepping back as if to give his hands room to fling out as he argued his case. "What about Mom's death? What about Dad taking up hunting? You can try and be whoever you think you would've been if those things hadn't've happened, but they still shape who you are, even if you don't want them to." His eyebrows were squished in tight enough to hurt, and his voice was hard and heavy as if it was a bat he could use to smack some sense into Dean. "Hell, look at me! How many times have I run from this and how many times have I had to come running right back? We don't fit with the normal world, because we're not normal, and I don't fit with the human world, because I'm not human. … I'm a freak. You even said it yourself once."
Sam couldn't possibly think he'd- … "You know I wasn't- …"
"What? Serious? It doesn't matter. It's true. Maybe I didn't know it then, but I sure as hell do now. I'm a freak and I know what that means to me. The only question still on the table is what it means to you … and I'm pretty sure that I already know your answer."
Sam reached for Dean in the space of a blink, a hand at the back of Dean's neck and a pair of lips slammed against his. It took a second, but Dean's hands found his brother's arm and chest, intent to push him away. Sam only tightened his grip and pressed his other hand over Dean's on his chest, as if to hold it there more than pull it away, but Dean's efforts were still wholly thwarted.
Dean kept trying to get away, but was only met with more force, Sam's tongue moving over his lips purposefully, and Dean knew he had to quit playing nice if he really wanted to end this. He bit, his teeth sinking, deep and sharp, into Sam's bottom lip, but all Sam did was groan and lean in, more of his weight on Dean's hand. Then Dean could taste blood and see the wet redness coating Sam's mouth as Sam pulled off of him and loosened his grip without changing the placement of his hands.
Sam's eyelids drooped as he worried his own lip, sucking it clean of blood, and Dean nearly had to fight with himself so he'd neither cringe nor lean in and help. He shook his head and his hands as he let them drop from where they'd been working to keep Sam at bay. If Sam came in again, Dean knew he'd have to get serious about fighting. He didn't want to do it, but Sam's strength seemed to trump his at every turn.
Sam's hands fell too, however, and he inched back even more, his legs hitting his bed as the façade of his smile soured into something sadly victorious. "See?"
"Sam- …" Dean was already shaking his head, but he didn't know what would come out of his mouth if he kept talking.
"Why don't you grab a shower and get dressed? We've got a long day." Sam was shaking his head too, his sad smile deepening darkly like a wound stretched across his jaw.
"Listen, you don't- … you don't need that. Alright?" I don't need that. I don't. He wouldn't let either of them need it, even if it hurt.
"Of course not." Sam's smile had lost all its warmth, but it was light and steady again even though it seemed false. "I don't need anything."
There was something there in Sam's eyes that Dean was almost scared to read and he looked away for a moment, feeling defeated. "I- … That's not what I'm saying. I- …"
"I don't care." Sam shrugged, his tone biting, words brief. "It's late. We've got work to do. Get showered, get dressed, and let's get this shit done." He walked around to look at Dean pointedly. "Go!"
Dean almost expected Sam to gesture at the bathroom door as if he was a kid and wouldn't know where it was that he was supposed to be going in compliance with the authority yelling at him. If Sam hadn't just off-balanced him as much as he had, Dean might've laughed. Instead, he stared blankly at his brother, trying to understand who this person was, this one who used to make at least some kind of sense to him.
Sam just let out a frustrated huff and turned to march to the door. "I'm going for coffee. Get your shit together."
The door clanged shut and Dean couldn't decide if the slump in his shoulders was relief or sadness. He didn't know what to do about his brother anymore and worry plagued him as he dragged himself to the bathroom and through the motions of getting ready. A nagging voice just inside his ear kept making him doubt, making him question, Sam, yes, but also himself.
Why was he fighting what Sam wanted, what he'd allowed himself to want even knowing it was wrong? It was the right thing to do, stepping away, shoving Sam aw- … No, not that, just- … Was it still right even if that meant losing Sam again? Did that seem right the first time? Because- … Why did it have to be one or the other? Sam had never needed it like this, like something was clawing him up inside and this messed up thing they had was the only way to feed it. What the hell had happened while he was away? What the fuck kind of answers would twist him up like this?
Yet, even as he pounded himself with questions that only someone else could answer, Dean could feel how much he wished not to know and he hated himself for that fear.
---
Sam dragged him to the diner for breakfast, not talking, just silently fuming. Dean didn't know what to say, though, so he didn't say much of anything either. The reprieve he got heading to the bathroom wasn't really one, the sound of piss hitting ceramic not being all that better than Sam's quiet snarling. He caught wind of another fire on his way out, though, 'a real shame' of a fire, and his forehead wrinkled as he tried to figure out his own curiosity with it. It took more willpower than it should for him to trudge back to his brother instead of turning to bother the men who had already disappeared into the john. He shook his head as he neared the table, though, all questions of drought and arson subdued by the sight of the diner's signature Hungry Man Breakfast Skillet.
Over round three of coffee and round one of morning eats, they compiled and went through the list of band members before splitting to cover their bases. Sam set out on foot, canvassing the downtown as Dean took the car further out in the city with plans to go by the houses and offices assigned to him. Both of them were in less-than-friendly moods, but they plastered on their prettiest smiles, attempting to determine if any of the musicians had a grudge against their spouse's lover or had dated around regardless of wedding bands or were even just plain pious and confused enough to kill in the name of the Divine, anything that might help them pinpoint the source of the suicidal energy.
No matter how tactful Dean tried to be in his questioning, however, it wasn't really a surprise that his efforts got him yelled at a few times and several doors were slammed behind him as he walked down hallways and driveways. But, even so, the list was steadily narrowing down as he weeded out the liars and the cheats from the singles and those just generally lost in the muck of relationships. A handful of B-and-Es were way more reasonable than two dozen or two hundred dozen, so his mood improved as his day started to look up. When he arrived at the home of Arturo Fernandez, though, his mood sunk again, but this time, it was weighted by confusion more than angst.
"He didn't do anything. He was with me all night- … after work, of course, but- … He was with me."
"And you are … ?" Dean quirked his eyebrow at the wide-eyed woman who'd immediately gone into a fit of panic when he'd said who he was, or rather who he was pretending to be.
"I'm his wife, Brianna. Did you think he only- …" She stopped mid-phrase, her eyes welling up with tears she didn't allow to fall. "We've been married twenty-three years and- … He's a good man. I just- … I may not have been enough, but he never would've- … He was with me all night. I swear." With her final statement she all but stomped her foot, head nodding crisply, determined, and Dean could see that she was telling the truth, though about what, he wasn't really sure.
"Well, why don't we sit down and talk for a minute, alright?"
She nodded again, unlocking the screen to let him in. She started, though, when a gruff male voice boomed out from somewhere deeper in the house. "Brianna, send them away! I don't want any visitors. It's- … It's too much."
Barely glancing at Dean, she straightened, despite the way her voice was shaking. "I know, but it's- … it's the police."
Dean could almost feel the stunned silence, hear the heavy breathing, and he ventured a few calming words. "I'm just here to talk, Mr. Fernandez. You haven't been charged with anything." Not that Dean really knew whatever it was the household thought he was here to cuff the guy for.
"Are you still at the table, honey?" Her voice was tentative, but hopeful, as if Dean's comment put her somewhat at ease.
"Yeah."
"We'll come to you then." She turned to Dean, motioning for him to follow as she headed further down the hall. "This way."
As Dean entered the room he could see the stocky male filling up one end of the dining room table that had been positioned in the corner of the living room closest to the open kitchen. He vaguely remembered seeing the guy some time the night before, a shiny brass saxophone in hand, but he really hadn't made much of an impression, at least not enough to clue Dean in to whatever these two were worrying over. Arturo looked at him warily for a moment, his eyes bloodshot and puffy, but he eventually shrugged and took a swig from the beer in his hand.
"Would you like something to drink, detective?"
Dean shifted to see Brianna who had quietly slid toward the kitchen as the men eyed each other. "No, ma'am. I'm just fine, thanks, but uh … could you stick around?" Until he knew what was going on, keeping them both in sight and talking seemed like the best idea.
She nodded, mumbling, and fell numbly into the nearest chair before clearing her throat and finding her strength again, her eyes sharp as they met his. "What do you want to know?"
Dean steeled himself, breathing deep as he read the intensity in her eyes, clearly ready to be honest, but to defend her husband to the best of her ability. "Well, you said that you weren't … 'enough' … did you mean that- …"
"I was a rotten bastard who couldn't- … who- … I don't know what I was doing. He just- … I'd never- …" Arturo hung and shook his head, gripping the bottle tighter as if it would be better if it shattered in his hand. "Brujo!" He slammed his beer down onto the table, teeth bared, but the anger in his voice was in counterpoint to the tears trickling down his cheeks.
"Maybe." Brianna's voice was soft as she watched her broken husband. "But maybe you- …" Her own tears began to stream as her voice caught but she struggled on anyway, her hand covering his free hand gently. "Maybe you loved him. Maybe this- … maybe this wasn't how it was supposed to go."
Dean almost jumped as the inappropriately joyous and angry tones of his cell phone broke the emotional intensity of the scene and he turned to walk away from the stricken couple with motioned apologies as he lifted the receiver to his ear, his voice hushed.
"Sam?"
"He's dead."
Dean felt his heart stall for a moment, worry over Sam still fresh in his mind, but it was his brother's voice on the phone. He knew that. He did. So, this wasn't a report on his demise. Breathe. "Who's dead?"
"Who do you think?"
He twitched at Sam's cold irritation, an image entering his mind of a shadow falling over someone from behind, then a messy spray of blood as he- … as Brandon turned and fell out of sight. "You're not- … Sam, I thought you were- … You're not talking about that Brandon guy are you?"
Sam made a sound midway between puzzlement and amusement, but his curious tone had an edge of impatience to it when he spoke. "Why would Brandon be dead, Dean?"
Dean blinked, shaking his head as if that would clear out the thoughts that made no sense. "I dunno. I just- … I dunno."
"What are we working on right now?"
"Umm- …"
"The case. We're working on the case right now. Does Brandon have anything to do with the case?"
"I don't think so."
"Then why would he be dead?"
"I dunno, okay. I just- …"
"No, you do know, or you think you do. So, just say it. Say what you were thinking. Maybe hearing it out loud will help you put it in perspective."
Dean had never seen Sam hurt anyone unless it seemed necessary. So, he knew he shouldn't be that quick to think something so terrible of Sam, and he didn't, not really, but the unpredictable aggression in Sam made Dean more uneasy than he was willing to admit. He tried to shrug it off. "Nevermind. I just- …"
"You just got confused." Sam sighed, clearly working at being patient. "I can almost understand that, but … don't worry, okay? B. and I had a little talk after you crashed last night, but he's still breathing. No big deal."
Breathing a little easier, Dean nodded his head, hearing the truth in Sam's words. He paused mid-nod, though, eyebrows bunching in. "Wait. You- … You went out again last night? While I was stone-cold out of it?" It wasn't that Dean needed protection, but if he remembered correctly he'd been in a pretty bad way and wasn't Sam the guy who'd been yelling at him for not sticking around when needed?
"You were fine and I wasn't gone that long, alright?" There was a tightness inching into Sam's voice and Dean tensed some in reaction, trying to figure out what his brother wasn't saying. "Really, though? This can wait 'til later. Focus on the case. We've got another dead body on our hands."
"Who?"
"Richie Cunningham."
The gears in Dean's brain shift-clicked into position and he tipped his head off to one side. "Well, that explains a lot."
"What do you mean?"
"I think I'm at his … friend's … house, right now."
"Oh really?"
"Arturo Fernandez, the sax player. He and his wife have been freaking out since the minute I got here, probably thinking they're suspects in a murder case."
"Maybe they are."
"I doubt it. What happened?"
"Looks like suicide. Supposedly he sent some kind of apology/suicide letter in a mass email early this morning, then he just … killed himself … and set his house on fire. They haven't found the body yet, but … the house is pretty badly burned. There won't be anything to find."
Dean stilled, barely breathing, as if the thoughts slowly merging in his mind would stop moving if he did. "He set his house on fire?"
"Yeah. Why?"
Swallowing, Dean licked his lips, pushing away needless fears but asking the questions he desperately wanted answers to anyway. "Did any of the other victims destroy property?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
The defensiveness in Sam's voice really wasn't helping anything. "It's not supposed to mean anything, Sam. I'm just- … I'm trying to understand where this fits."
"With the rest of the suicides."
"Does it? I mean … despite the deaths being centered on Kismet, no one from the band has been a victim before, and … I don't remember every detail, but … I'm pretty sure most of the victims only hurt themselves. No one else and no property, at least not intentionally."
"So?"
Dean could hear Sam itching to get to the point or get off the phone and he gave his head a shake, closing his eyes to hold back the ache building between them. "So … find out whatever you can, but don't assume this is the same thing. Maybe it is, but- …"
"Fine. See you back at the motel." Click.
Collecting himself before turning around, voice stern, Dean strode back to the couple now embraced almost desperately at one end of the table. "I'm going to need a copy of the email and a statement from each of you, regarding your whereabouts last night and your involvement with the late Richard Cunningham."
If there was ever a time when he wished for a crazed wife to appear and cackle away his uneasiness with a gleeful confession, this would be it. He knew the Fernandezes would disappoint, though. It was just easier to do than to think right then, to talk and write and move and not wonder if fire was following them.
---
When Sam slipped into the room, Dean had been reading and re-reading for a while, all the pieces they had starting to mesh into some Picaso-esque crashing of people and themes. His voice was as tired as he felt when he lifted his head. "So what's the word?"
Sam's face was gaunt even with its lingering tan, his eyes haunted, and Dean froze as his brother's words tripped over each other, struggling to find the air. "They- … They don't know how the guy did it, because- … He was supposed to be at a friend's place, next door, and he- … He was there. There was blood where he'd- … His parents' had gone out of town and- … They think maybe he drank and doused himself in gasoline, but that doesn't make any sense because he wasn't there. He wasn't."
Sam was shaking his head and Dean wanted to rise, but he felt stuck, unable to move. "Calm down, okay? Just- …"
"No! It's not okay. They said- … They think that he just laid down and- … or someone laid him- …" He swallowed thickly, staring ahead. "The house was supposed to be empty. The neighbors, the bassist and her family, told me like they told the firemen this morning. They thought he was in their guest room, because- … He wasn't allowed to stay home all night by himself. He was- … He wasn't quite right, ya know? So- … When it burned it should've been- … It should've been empty. That's what they- …"
Sam's eyes swung to Dean, then, blazing with a mix of horror, anger, and defense. "Richie wasn't in that house. There shouldn't have been anyone in that house. It was just supposed be- …" Mid-thought his expression snapped into something mild but almost surprised and he turned away, taking deep breaths and pressing a hand to his eyes.
Dean didn't know what to say, but words fell out anyway, soft and rough at the same time. "I believe you." His breath stuttered as he tried not to process what that hinted at, what Sam had- …
"I'm sorry. I'm- … I can handle it. I can do this. I can- … Ignore me. I'm alright, it's just- …"
"It's okay. You- …" What? Didn't know? Didn't mean to? That would mean that Sam had- … and he hadn't. He hadn't. He was just- … He was torn up about- … The house fire probably- … Maybe he was remembering Jess, or- … "It's okay." The lack of emotion in his own voice scared him, but he wasn't sure the well of his emotions had anything but worry on the menu and he was trying to be strong now.
Sam took in a set of purposefully long breaths and finally walked further into the room, stopping at the edge of his bed but not turning to sit down. When he looked up at Dean again, he was fully composed, business-like. "I'm sorry. Let me start over. … Richie's family was going out of town yesterday, so he was supposed to spend the night next door at the home of Stephanie Lyons, the bassist, and her family. Apparently, Richie had a recent history of severe mental illness and his parents preferred that he not be home alone all night. He went back to Stephanie's last night and she put him to bed around 2:30am. Neither she nor her family heard anything from his room the rest of the night, but when the firetrucks came around 5:00am to put out the fire next door, Stephanie's husband, Paul, found the guest room empty but for the occasional smear of blood. Sometime during the craziness of the next few hours, several bandmembers called to get Stephanie to check on Richie because they'd received his suicide note and hoped she could get to him in time. Apparently she didn't. The going theory is that Richie was cutting himself after the household had gone to bed and, at some point, got up the courage to send the suicide email and go next door to finish the job."
Sighing, almost shrugging, Sam nodded curtly and sunk onto his bed, waiting patiently for Dean to respond to his report. Dean, though, was in a subtle state of shock, trying to reconcile the broken guy who'd been there moments before with this very different one who seemed wholly unfazed by the situation.
"What?"
"You know if- … if something happened and you- …" Dean didn't know what he was saying, but he couldn't stop himself. "You could tell me."
Sam watched his eyes for a moment and opened his mouth as if to speak, but he only ended up breathing. He shook his head with a bitter laugh. "I didn't kill him, if that's what you're asking. Is that- … Is that how you think of me now, Dean? Is that why- …"
"No. It's just- …" He couldn't figure a way to say this truthfully without seeming to throw salt into the wound of Sam's current sensitivity, but it needed to be said. "Sometimes you … confuse me. That's all. I'm not sure that I- … that I understand you sometimes."
There was hurt at the edges of Sam's eyes, but he straightened up as his lips gave in to a soft, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I'll do better. You don't have to worry about me. I've let myself get weird around you, but that was just sloppy. I'll do better, okay? I don't want you freaking out on me."
Dean nodded, but the movement was numb.
"So what did you find out?"
"Uhh." Dean blinked his gaze back down to the papers in his lap. "Umm. Arturo and Richie had been seeing each other off and on since Arturo moved to town with his wife last July. About a month ago, though, Arturo broke it off, supposedly for good. He's been fighting his desires, trying to be faithful to his wife ever since, and Richie's pretty much left him alone. That's why it was a shock to him that Richie would say, in the email, that he was killing himself because he couldn't live without the guy. Yeah, he mentioned not wanting to be a burden to his parents anymore and not being able stand the guilt of forcing others to feel his pain, but most of the letter was about how empty his life was and would continue to be without Arturo." He passed the email to Sam, pointing out the relevant passages. "Poor guy thought that the worst was behind him, but- …"
"Nowhere near it."
A chill shook its way down Dean's back, but he pumped his shoulders, hoping to warm up. "Right." His head whipped up, though, as he grabbed for the email. "Wait! He said he was forcing other people to feel his pain, right? And we got a weird vibe not just from the band last night, but from him. So … maybe it was him, maybe- … maybe he was the one."
"What are you talking about?" Sam peered at him like he'd just suggested the killer was an old fish.
"Maybe he was the guy causing all the suicides." It fit and he nodded to himself as he thought it out more thoroughly.
"How?"
"I dunno, but ... think about it. Arturo broke up with him around the same time the suicides started and if it was about forcing others to feel his pain then- ..."
"He was just pushing them to do what he couldn't."
"Exactly!" His brow bent deeply with thought, but he was glad to see his brother catching on. "And his involvement might explain why his death didn't completely fit the same pattern as the others." Sure. Yeah. That made sense.
"Maybe, but we can't really know that for sure now. Any altars or suspicious books he might've had just went up in flames."
"True." Dean breathed in slowly, wondering how to get at the necessary information. He trod back through thoughts about how this suicide was different, then he mentally stumbled over something and tried to look at it more closely. "Didn't you say he had mental issues?"
"Yeah. And I know you're thinking that none of the other victims did, but that still doesn't prove that he somehow caused them to commit suicide." Sam was asking good questions, bringing up important points, but the casual disinterest in his voice felt like a bristle rub in Dean's brain. He had to make Sam understand.
"No, but … maybe we could get a handle on his shrink's notes, see if he talked about dabbling in sorcery or something."
Sam just looked at him.
"What?" He could hear the irritation in his voice as he worked not throw his hands around in frustration. "It's not a crazy idea, Sam. Can we just check?"
"Sure. … Tomorrow." Sam gave him a shrug and a nod, but it was enough.
"Fine. But whether or not he talked about being magically inclined, if we stick around and the suicide rate drops dramatically, we should probably consider that a win and head out of this crazy town." They were both on edge and the weirdness of the place really wasn't helping at all.
Sam nodded slowly. "Yeah. That would be good."
Dean watched his brother, really wanting to understand what was going on in his head but failing miserably at every step. "So … you're sticking around then?"
Sam seemed to stop breathing for a moment, eyes dropping evasively as he shifted on the bed. "Haven't decided yet."
"Right." Of course. Yeah. Sure. Whatever.
"Listen." Sam reacted to the acidity of his tone with harshness of his own. "I know you have it in your head that you're the only one working at this, that it's only hard for you, but … it's been a long time and … we're not who we used to be. I know who you want me to be, but … that's not who I am anymore. … It's the same with you."
Dean scoffed, lips tilting in a smirk akin to 'you don't know what you're talking about'. "I haven't changed."
"Really?" Sam's eyes darkened a shade as his voice deepened. "You're still that loyal guy who stood by me no matter what, who gave me what I needed when I needed it, who even took my side against dad sometimes, who- … who killed to protect me?" The sharpness of Sam's scrutiny made Dean want to pull away, but he didn't. He didn't have anything to hide, did he? "Are you really still that guy, Dean? Because I don't think the brother I knew would've doubted me as much you have over the past few days and that's the guy I came back for."
"That's not fair." His voice was strong, but his thoughts were shaken. Had he changed? His loyalty should never have been a question. Ever. Had he really been living that loyalty openly, though? Even with all the times he'd ducked out, suspected, or just didn't support Sam the way he needed? A dull pain began to blossom behind his eyes as he thought about how many times he'd let some wrongly calibrated part of his brain get between them since Sam's return. Maybe he was going about this all wrong.
"This isn't about fair. If that guy isn't here, then I've got no reason to stay. Know what I mean?" Sam's eyes were hard and Dean could feel the seriousness of the question, despite its almost casual phrasing.
Dean wasn't an idiot, he knew that the guy Sam wanted had been for him, his life had been shaped around Sam's, contingent on Sam's. At first it had been without thought, a mindset so deeply ingrained that the only challenge to it was his father's will, but then Sam had all but tossed him out on the curb. Loyalty didn't seem to mean shit when someone called down from the Ivory Tower and said that Sam was on their V. I. P. list. Dean had never really let that sense of devotion and obligation go, but things had changed even as they rebuilt who they were after Stanford. Now Sam was laying all his cards out, telling his brother to put up or shut up.
"Dean …?"
The unsympathetic impatience in that voice made Dean swallow, but he'd been thinking about his answer for days now and he couldn't figure out how there could really be any other response, not if the alternative was Sam leaving again. His eyelids slid down, almost closed, and he exhaled in time with his heartbeat, measured in its work to keep him calm. "Yeah."
"Are you with me?"
"Yeah." Dean's nod was slow and shaky, but what else was there to say at this point?
"Okay then."
He watched Sam's legs as they straightened up and approached him, making his breath run faster. The hand at his nape then higher, on his cheek, was too warm, but he didn't pull away. He might not understand it entirely or think it was the best thing for both of them, but … there were so many worse things and as much as he'd been fighting it, he couldn't say a part of him didn't want it, didn't find a sort of freedom and wholeness in it, being wanted and needed that deeply, being everything to Sam.
He shuddered as Sam's lips met his, gentle and knowing, remembering every flourish that made Dean gasp. Then Dean was kissing him back, shaking himself free from instincts that didn't work and doubts that didn't fit, loosening the strings that held him to ideas and ideals that contradicted the needs and wants of his only family.
There was tension in his shoulders but he ignored it. This was where he was needed, how he was needed, and that was okay. It was. It had to be. It could even be good if he let it. He pushed down his worries and let it, the feel of his brother's mouth and hands making his body hum and his mind tumble back into warm memories edged with desperation, but thick with a connection he'd ached for months over.
When Sam pulled back, only a hand on Dean's cheek maintaining contact, Dean's body followed subtly, as if magnetized, and he opened his eyes to see his brother studying his face. Sam's expression was serious, but his lips were tipped upwards and Dean resisted the urge to feel patted on the head when Sam spoke his appraising, "that's good."
He shifted away from Sam's touch, closing his eyes as he settled more securely on the edge of the bed. Then he opened his mouth, but he was out of words.
"Why don't you order us a pizza, alright? I'll go grab some soda from the vending machine."
Sam barely waited for Dean to nod an 'okay' before walking around the bed and out the door. Then Dean was alone.
He called for pizza then sat back, staunchly avoiding the clock and ignoring the significance of one TV show ending and a new one starting up. The delivery guy arrived when Sam did, citing technical difficulties and something about a walk to the corner store, but Dean didn't do anything with information. It didn't really matter, right? He trusted Sam, didn't he? Of course. So, he just shrugged and snatched a Mountain Dew from his brother's hands as he handed off some cash and collected their pizza.
The night was pretty quiet after that, quiet but for the occasional explosion on TV as Sam indulged Dean in his penchant for action, Sam's snickering at epically low levels. They called Kismet during a commercial break, just to check in, even though neither of them really felt like working right then, but the message on the machine said they were closed due to bereavement and would be open again the next night with their own form of memorial service. Dean tried not to notice how pleased his brother seemed by that information as they both turned their attention back to the tiny screen on the bureau across the room. It might be nice to have a night in this time and a night off.
He didn't even slink away when his bed dipped midway through the night, but he sighed, relieved, when all that came was body-heat and sleep.
Prologue - One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven - Eight - Epilogue
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
Chapter Six: The Case
[077.Productive]
Dean woke in the morning, more groggy than he'd ever care to admit, with bitter cotton dryness on his tongue, but his mind slowly cleared as he listened to Sam in the shower, singing some song he felt like he should know but couldn't quite place. He gave up trying to figure it out after a moment and rolled over, only vaguely noting his near-nakedness as he punched his pillow and lay down again.
Thinking about the night before, he cringed, recalling a moody Sam and a near collision with some asshole named Brandon. Towards the end, he'd somehow gotten himself wobbly drunk and Sam had apparently dragged him home and gotten him ready for bed. He knew they had work to do, but there was a throbbing at his temples that said a long sleep would be better even than chocolate right then.
The bathroom door clicked open and he heard his brother emerge, entering the space between their beds. "Dean?"
Sam's voice was soft, but it still thumped heavily against the walls of Dean's skull and he groaned. "What?"
"How're you feeling?"
"Like death on a bun."
Sam laughed lightly. "You are what you eat."
"Shut up." Dean swatted at his brother, groaning again, but he couldn't help that his pout turned up at the corners.
"We've got work, ya know?"
"I know."
"Are you gonna get up?"
"If I have to."
"You kinda do."
Dean grunted and turned to blink, bleary-eyed, at his brother. Sam was smiling, not a smirk or a dark grin, just a seemingly genuine smile, soft around the edges, and it made something in Dean's chest relax and sigh. "How are you feeling?"
Sam nodded slowly, smile widening. "Pretty good, considering."
"Considering what?"
"Considering how fucked up this week has been."
Dean pushed himself up to sitting and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, avoiding Sam's. "Yeah, it's been … something."
Sam's smile faltered some as Dean looked up at him. "I'm still not sure about this, but … we've got a case to solve, right?"
Dean's stomach flipped as he thought about Sam walking out the door again and not coming back. "What aren't you sure about, Sam?"
Sam dropped his eyes and shook his head demurely. "I just need to be somewhere that I can be myself … and since you actually know what that is and can't really handle it … maybe it would be better if we didn't torture ourselves trying to make this work."
"You're not- ..."
"Yes, I am!" The volume of his voice didn't rise as he met Dean's gaze, but the snap of intensity said his composed demeanor was crumbling. "That's exactly the kind of thing I'm talking about, Dean. I might not like it, but this is who I am. You can't make it vanish by the power of denial and you can't fix it by staying away like it's a wound you're going to infect. Either you're with me completely or you're not at all."
Sam's words knocked the sleep right out of Dean and he swung his legs over the side of the bed, facing his brother more directly. "How can you think that I'm not?"
"I can just tell, okay?" His voice shook as it neared yelling. "I know that you can see it, that you know it, even if you don't know why, that I'm- …" His mouth stopped mid-motion, throat working over choked down words. They came out anyway, wrought with a mix of emotions Dean couldn't decipher. "That I'm tainted, wrong, like- … like everything we've ever hunted. Nothing better. I'm just- …"
"Sam, stop! You're not- … What are you talking about?" He was looking up at Sam, but he didn't feel small, his tone carrying the hefty authority of a big brother trying to keep his younger sibling from walking out in front of a moving train.
"You don't think I see it when I look in the mirror? That I don't notice darkness in my eyes that wasn't there before? That I don't feel it, like worms shifting under my skin? That I don't taste it, bitter acid on my tongue, with every breath and swallow? That I don't wish sometimes- … That I don't try to forget?" Sam's body was as fitfully tense as his voice and every time his eyes settled on Dean's they only stayed a moment before flitting away again, as if it hurt too much to look at him. "And you just- … I know why you pull away. I thought this would be better, but you just remind me- … So, I- …" He took a deep breath and his eyes glittered anxiously, but his switch into an external tranquility was instant, like he'd pushed a button inside somewhere marked 'calm'. Then, his lips lifted into that smile again, but Dean could see through it now, the broken goodbye written across his features. "I've made my peace with leaving, okay? You won't have to see- … It'll be better this way."
"Sam, come on, it's not- …" He sputtered as he tried to explain his avoidant behavior. "You and me isn't gonna help anything. It's always been- … It shouldn't've happened in the first place. I don't think you're … tainted or whatever. I'm just … trying to keep us both as clean as possible."
"Did you not just hear me? I'm not clean. I can't be clean. I'm fucking- …" Sam bared his teeth a moment before forcing his eyebrows to straighten and his mouth to twitch back into something more positive. "You know this, Dean. You just don't want to believe it, but if what Dad said wasn't enough, then … believe me, okay? It's only going to get uglier. So, if you can't handle this then- …"
"Why don't you just tell me what you found?" There was pleading in his tone that he hadn't meant to put there, but it was a stripped-bare honesty that Sam seemed to respond to, blinking and sighing the wind out of his puffed up chest.
"I will, okay? If- …if things work out, then … yeah … I'll tell you everything."
Dean didn't miss the conditional setup, and he didn't miss the way Sam's voice wavered when he said it because he really wasn't sure if those conditions would ever be met. "But if things don't work out … ?"
"A clean break would be better. For both of us." Sam nodded gently, but his eyes slid away. This was the conclusion that Sam imagined they would come to in the end.
"That right?" Dean looked at Sam a long time, wondering if Sam really believed it would be better or if he just thought it was inevitable.
Sam ran his tongue over his lips slowly before responding, but he lifted his head when he spoke, a hearty level of conviction in his eyes. "Yeah, it is."
Finally, Dean just shook his head, lips tilting downward. "I don't believe any of that. I don't. Whatever Dad thought, whatever you found, whatever it is, it's only part who you are and it's always been there, right? So … it doesn't have to be any more a part of your life than you let it be."
"That's bullshit!" Sam was up in arms again, stepping back as if to give his hands room to fling out as he argued his case. "What about Mom's death? What about Dad taking up hunting? You can try and be whoever you think you would've been if those things hadn't've happened, but they still shape who you are, even if you don't want them to." His eyebrows were squished in tight enough to hurt, and his voice was hard and heavy as if it was a bat he could use to smack some sense into Dean. "Hell, look at me! How many times have I run from this and how many times have I had to come running right back? We don't fit with the normal world, because we're not normal, and I don't fit with the human world, because I'm not human. … I'm a freak. You even said it yourself once."
Sam couldn't possibly think he'd- … "You know I wasn't- …"
"What? Serious? It doesn't matter. It's true. Maybe I didn't know it then, but I sure as hell do now. I'm a freak and I know what that means to me. The only question still on the table is what it means to you … and I'm pretty sure that I already know your answer."
Sam reached for Dean in the space of a blink, a hand at the back of Dean's neck and a pair of lips slammed against his. It took a second, but Dean's hands found his brother's arm and chest, intent to push him away. Sam only tightened his grip and pressed his other hand over Dean's on his chest, as if to hold it there more than pull it away, but Dean's efforts were still wholly thwarted.
Dean kept trying to get away, but was only met with more force, Sam's tongue moving over his lips purposefully, and Dean knew he had to quit playing nice if he really wanted to end this. He bit, his teeth sinking, deep and sharp, into Sam's bottom lip, but all Sam did was groan and lean in, more of his weight on Dean's hand. Then Dean could taste blood and see the wet redness coating Sam's mouth as Sam pulled off of him and loosened his grip without changing the placement of his hands.
Sam's eyelids drooped as he worried his own lip, sucking it clean of blood, and Dean nearly had to fight with himself so he'd neither cringe nor lean in and help. He shook his head and his hands as he let them drop from where they'd been working to keep Sam at bay. If Sam came in again, Dean knew he'd have to get serious about fighting. He didn't want to do it, but Sam's strength seemed to trump his at every turn.
Sam's hands fell too, however, and he inched back even more, his legs hitting his bed as the façade of his smile soured into something sadly victorious. "See?"
"Sam- …" Dean was already shaking his head, but he didn't know what would come out of his mouth if he kept talking.
"Why don't you grab a shower and get dressed? We've got a long day." Sam was shaking his head too, his sad smile deepening darkly like a wound stretched across his jaw.
"Listen, you don't- … you don't need that. Alright?" I don't need that. I don't. He wouldn't let either of them need it, even if it hurt.
"Of course not." Sam's smile had lost all its warmth, but it was light and steady again even though it seemed false. "I don't need anything."
There was something there in Sam's eyes that Dean was almost scared to read and he looked away for a moment, feeling defeated. "I- … That's not what I'm saying. I- …"
"I don't care." Sam shrugged, his tone biting, words brief. "It's late. We've got work to do. Get showered, get dressed, and let's get this shit done." He walked around to look at Dean pointedly. "Go!"
Dean almost expected Sam to gesture at the bathroom door as if he was a kid and wouldn't know where it was that he was supposed to be going in compliance with the authority yelling at him. If Sam hadn't just off-balanced him as much as he had, Dean might've laughed. Instead, he stared blankly at his brother, trying to understand who this person was, this one who used to make at least some kind of sense to him.
Sam just let out a frustrated huff and turned to march to the door. "I'm going for coffee. Get your shit together."
The door clanged shut and Dean couldn't decide if the slump in his shoulders was relief or sadness. He didn't know what to do about his brother anymore and worry plagued him as he dragged himself to the bathroom and through the motions of getting ready. A nagging voice just inside his ear kept making him doubt, making him question, Sam, yes, but also himself.
Why was he fighting what Sam wanted, what he'd allowed himself to want even knowing it was wrong? It was the right thing to do, stepping away, shoving Sam aw- … No, not that, just- … Was it still right even if that meant losing Sam again? Did that seem right the first time? Because- … Why did it have to be one or the other? Sam had never needed it like this, like something was clawing him up inside and this messed up thing they had was the only way to feed it. What the hell had happened while he was away? What the fuck kind of answers would twist him up like this?
Yet, even as he pounded himself with questions that only someone else could answer, Dean could feel how much he wished not to know and he hated himself for that fear.
---
Sam dragged him to the diner for breakfast, not talking, just silently fuming. Dean didn't know what to say, though, so he didn't say much of anything either. The reprieve he got heading to the bathroom wasn't really one, the sound of piss hitting ceramic not being all that better than Sam's quiet snarling. He caught wind of another fire on his way out, though, 'a real shame' of a fire, and his forehead wrinkled as he tried to figure out his own curiosity with it. It took more willpower than it should for him to trudge back to his brother instead of turning to bother the men who had already disappeared into the john. He shook his head as he neared the table, though, all questions of drought and arson subdued by the sight of the diner's signature Hungry Man Breakfast Skillet.
Over round three of coffee and round one of morning eats, they compiled and went through the list of band members before splitting to cover their bases. Sam set out on foot, canvassing the downtown as Dean took the car further out in the city with plans to go by the houses and offices assigned to him. Both of them were in less-than-friendly moods, but they plastered on their prettiest smiles, attempting to determine if any of the musicians had a grudge against their spouse's lover or had dated around regardless of wedding bands or were even just plain pious and confused enough to kill in the name of the Divine, anything that might help them pinpoint the source of the suicidal energy.
No matter how tactful Dean tried to be in his questioning, however, it wasn't really a surprise that his efforts got him yelled at a few times and several doors were slammed behind him as he walked down hallways and driveways. But, even so, the list was steadily narrowing down as he weeded out the liars and the cheats from the singles and those just generally lost in the muck of relationships. A handful of B-and-Es were way more reasonable than two dozen or two hundred dozen, so his mood improved as his day started to look up. When he arrived at the home of Arturo Fernandez, though, his mood sunk again, but this time, it was weighted by confusion more than angst.
"He didn't do anything. He was with me all night- … after work, of course, but- … He was with me."
"And you are … ?" Dean quirked his eyebrow at the wide-eyed woman who'd immediately gone into a fit of panic when he'd said who he was, or rather who he was pretending to be.
"I'm his wife, Brianna. Did you think he only- …" She stopped mid-phrase, her eyes welling up with tears she didn't allow to fall. "We've been married twenty-three years and- … He's a good man. I just- … I may not have been enough, but he never would've- … He was with me all night. I swear." With her final statement she all but stomped her foot, head nodding crisply, determined, and Dean could see that she was telling the truth, though about what, he wasn't really sure.
"Well, why don't we sit down and talk for a minute, alright?"
She nodded again, unlocking the screen to let him in. She started, though, when a gruff male voice boomed out from somewhere deeper in the house. "Brianna, send them away! I don't want any visitors. It's- … It's too much."
Barely glancing at Dean, she straightened, despite the way her voice was shaking. "I know, but it's- … it's the police."
Dean could almost feel the stunned silence, hear the heavy breathing, and he ventured a few calming words. "I'm just here to talk, Mr. Fernandez. You haven't been charged with anything." Not that Dean really knew whatever it was the household thought he was here to cuff the guy for.
"Are you still at the table, honey?" Her voice was tentative, but hopeful, as if Dean's comment put her somewhat at ease.
"Yeah."
"We'll come to you then." She turned to Dean, motioning for him to follow as she headed further down the hall. "This way."
As Dean entered the room he could see the stocky male filling up one end of the dining room table that had been positioned in the corner of the living room closest to the open kitchen. He vaguely remembered seeing the guy some time the night before, a shiny brass saxophone in hand, but he really hadn't made much of an impression, at least not enough to clue Dean in to whatever these two were worrying over. Arturo looked at him warily for a moment, his eyes bloodshot and puffy, but he eventually shrugged and took a swig from the beer in his hand.
"Would you like something to drink, detective?"
Dean shifted to see Brianna who had quietly slid toward the kitchen as the men eyed each other. "No, ma'am. I'm just fine, thanks, but uh … could you stick around?" Until he knew what was going on, keeping them both in sight and talking seemed like the best idea.
She nodded, mumbling, and fell numbly into the nearest chair before clearing her throat and finding her strength again, her eyes sharp as they met his. "What do you want to know?"
Dean steeled himself, breathing deep as he read the intensity in her eyes, clearly ready to be honest, but to defend her husband to the best of her ability. "Well, you said that you weren't … 'enough' … did you mean that- …"
"I was a rotten bastard who couldn't- … who- … I don't know what I was doing. He just- … I'd never- …" Arturo hung and shook his head, gripping the bottle tighter as if it would be better if it shattered in his hand. "Brujo!" He slammed his beer down onto the table, teeth bared, but the anger in his voice was in counterpoint to the tears trickling down his cheeks.
"Maybe." Brianna's voice was soft as she watched her broken husband. "But maybe you- …" Her own tears began to stream as her voice caught but she struggled on anyway, her hand covering his free hand gently. "Maybe you loved him. Maybe this- … maybe this wasn't how it was supposed to go."
Dean almost jumped as the inappropriately joyous and angry tones of his cell phone broke the emotional intensity of the scene and he turned to walk away from the stricken couple with motioned apologies as he lifted the receiver to his ear, his voice hushed.
"Sam?"
"He's dead."
Dean felt his heart stall for a moment, worry over Sam still fresh in his mind, but it was his brother's voice on the phone. He knew that. He did. So, this wasn't a report on his demise. Breathe. "Who's dead?"
"Who do you think?"
He twitched at Sam's cold irritation, an image entering his mind of a shadow falling over someone from behind, then a messy spray of blood as he- … as Brandon turned and fell out of sight. "You're not- … Sam, I thought you were- … You're not talking about that Brandon guy are you?"
Sam made a sound midway between puzzlement and amusement, but his curious tone had an edge of impatience to it when he spoke. "Why would Brandon be dead, Dean?"
Dean blinked, shaking his head as if that would clear out the thoughts that made no sense. "I dunno. I just- … I dunno."
"What are we working on right now?"
"Umm- …"
"The case. We're working on the case right now. Does Brandon have anything to do with the case?"
"I don't think so."
"Then why would he be dead?"
"I dunno, okay. I just- …"
"No, you do know, or you think you do. So, just say it. Say what you were thinking. Maybe hearing it out loud will help you put it in perspective."
Dean had never seen Sam hurt anyone unless it seemed necessary. So, he knew he shouldn't be that quick to think something so terrible of Sam, and he didn't, not really, but the unpredictable aggression in Sam made Dean more uneasy than he was willing to admit. He tried to shrug it off. "Nevermind. I just- …"
"You just got confused." Sam sighed, clearly working at being patient. "I can almost understand that, but … don't worry, okay? B. and I had a little talk after you crashed last night, but he's still breathing. No big deal."
Breathing a little easier, Dean nodded his head, hearing the truth in Sam's words. He paused mid-nod, though, eyebrows bunching in. "Wait. You- … You went out again last night? While I was stone-cold out of it?" It wasn't that Dean needed protection, but if he remembered correctly he'd been in a pretty bad way and wasn't Sam the guy who'd been yelling at him for not sticking around when needed?
"You were fine and I wasn't gone that long, alright?" There was a tightness inching into Sam's voice and Dean tensed some in reaction, trying to figure out what his brother wasn't saying. "Really, though? This can wait 'til later. Focus on the case. We've got another dead body on our hands."
"Who?"
"Richie Cunningham."
The gears in Dean's brain shift-clicked into position and he tipped his head off to one side. "Well, that explains a lot."
"What do you mean?"
"I think I'm at his … friend's … house, right now."
"Oh really?"
"Arturo Fernandez, the sax player. He and his wife have been freaking out since the minute I got here, probably thinking they're suspects in a murder case."
"Maybe they are."
"I doubt it. What happened?"
"Looks like suicide. Supposedly he sent some kind of apology/suicide letter in a mass email early this morning, then he just … killed himself … and set his house on fire. They haven't found the body yet, but … the house is pretty badly burned. There won't be anything to find."
Dean stilled, barely breathing, as if the thoughts slowly merging in his mind would stop moving if he did. "He set his house on fire?"
"Yeah. Why?"
Swallowing, Dean licked his lips, pushing away needless fears but asking the questions he desperately wanted answers to anyway. "Did any of the other victims destroy property?"
"What's that supposed to mean?"
The defensiveness in Sam's voice really wasn't helping anything. "It's not supposed to mean anything, Sam. I'm just- … I'm trying to understand where this fits."
"With the rest of the suicides."
"Does it? I mean … despite the deaths being centered on Kismet, no one from the band has been a victim before, and … I don't remember every detail, but … I'm pretty sure most of the victims only hurt themselves. No one else and no property, at least not intentionally."
"So?"
Dean could hear Sam itching to get to the point or get off the phone and he gave his head a shake, closing his eyes to hold back the ache building between them. "So … find out whatever you can, but don't assume this is the same thing. Maybe it is, but- …"
"Fine. See you back at the motel." Click.
Collecting himself before turning around, voice stern, Dean strode back to the couple now embraced almost desperately at one end of the table. "I'm going to need a copy of the email and a statement from each of you, regarding your whereabouts last night and your involvement with the late Richard Cunningham."
If there was ever a time when he wished for a crazed wife to appear and cackle away his uneasiness with a gleeful confession, this would be it. He knew the Fernandezes would disappoint, though. It was just easier to do than to think right then, to talk and write and move and not wonder if fire was following them.
---
When Sam slipped into the room, Dean had been reading and re-reading for a while, all the pieces they had starting to mesh into some Picaso-esque crashing of people and themes. His voice was as tired as he felt when he lifted his head. "So what's the word?"
Sam's face was gaunt even with its lingering tan, his eyes haunted, and Dean froze as his brother's words tripped over each other, struggling to find the air. "They- … They don't know how the guy did it, because- … He was supposed to be at a friend's place, next door, and he- … He was there. There was blood where he'd- … His parents' had gone out of town and- … They think maybe he drank and doused himself in gasoline, but that doesn't make any sense because he wasn't there. He wasn't."
Sam was shaking his head and Dean wanted to rise, but he felt stuck, unable to move. "Calm down, okay? Just- …"
"No! It's not okay. They said- … They think that he just laid down and- … or someone laid him- …" He swallowed thickly, staring ahead. "The house was supposed to be empty. The neighbors, the bassist and her family, told me like they told the firemen this morning. They thought he was in their guest room, because- … He wasn't allowed to stay home all night by himself. He was- … He wasn't quite right, ya know? So- … When it burned it should've been- … It should've been empty. That's what they- …"
Sam's eyes swung to Dean, then, blazing with a mix of horror, anger, and defense. "Richie wasn't in that house. There shouldn't have been anyone in that house. It was just supposed be- …" Mid-thought his expression snapped into something mild but almost surprised and he turned away, taking deep breaths and pressing a hand to his eyes.
Dean didn't know what to say, but words fell out anyway, soft and rough at the same time. "I believe you." His breath stuttered as he tried not to process what that hinted at, what Sam had- …
"I'm sorry. I'm- … I can handle it. I can do this. I can- … Ignore me. I'm alright, it's just- …"
"It's okay. You- …" What? Didn't know? Didn't mean to? That would mean that Sam had- … and he hadn't. He hadn't. He was just- … He was torn up about- … The house fire probably- … Maybe he was remembering Jess, or- … "It's okay." The lack of emotion in his own voice scared him, but he wasn't sure the well of his emotions had anything but worry on the menu and he was trying to be strong now.
Sam took in a set of purposefully long breaths and finally walked further into the room, stopping at the edge of his bed but not turning to sit down. When he looked up at Dean again, he was fully composed, business-like. "I'm sorry. Let me start over. … Richie's family was going out of town yesterday, so he was supposed to spend the night next door at the home of Stephanie Lyons, the bassist, and her family. Apparently, Richie had a recent history of severe mental illness and his parents preferred that he not be home alone all night. He went back to Stephanie's last night and she put him to bed around 2:30am. Neither she nor her family heard anything from his room the rest of the night, but when the firetrucks came around 5:00am to put out the fire next door, Stephanie's husband, Paul, found the guest room empty but for the occasional smear of blood. Sometime during the craziness of the next few hours, several bandmembers called to get Stephanie to check on Richie because they'd received his suicide note and hoped she could get to him in time. Apparently she didn't. The going theory is that Richie was cutting himself after the household had gone to bed and, at some point, got up the courage to send the suicide email and go next door to finish the job."
Sighing, almost shrugging, Sam nodded curtly and sunk onto his bed, waiting patiently for Dean to respond to his report. Dean, though, was in a subtle state of shock, trying to reconcile the broken guy who'd been there moments before with this very different one who seemed wholly unfazed by the situation.
"What?"
"You know if- … if something happened and you- …" Dean didn't know what he was saying, but he couldn't stop himself. "You could tell me."
Sam watched his eyes for a moment and opened his mouth as if to speak, but he only ended up breathing. He shook his head with a bitter laugh. "I didn't kill him, if that's what you're asking. Is that- … Is that how you think of me now, Dean? Is that why- …"
"No. It's just- …" He couldn't figure a way to say this truthfully without seeming to throw salt into the wound of Sam's current sensitivity, but it needed to be said. "Sometimes you … confuse me. That's all. I'm not sure that I- … that I understand you sometimes."
There was hurt at the edges of Sam's eyes, but he straightened up as his lips gave in to a soft, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I'll do better. You don't have to worry about me. I've let myself get weird around you, but that was just sloppy. I'll do better, okay? I don't want you freaking out on me."
Dean nodded, but the movement was numb.
"So what did you find out?"
"Uhh." Dean blinked his gaze back down to the papers in his lap. "Umm. Arturo and Richie had been seeing each other off and on since Arturo moved to town with his wife last July. About a month ago, though, Arturo broke it off, supposedly for good. He's been fighting his desires, trying to be faithful to his wife ever since, and Richie's pretty much left him alone. That's why it was a shock to him that Richie would say, in the email, that he was killing himself because he couldn't live without the guy. Yeah, he mentioned not wanting to be a burden to his parents anymore and not being able stand the guilt of forcing others to feel his pain, but most of the letter was about how empty his life was and would continue to be without Arturo." He passed the email to Sam, pointing out the relevant passages. "Poor guy thought that the worst was behind him, but- …"
"Nowhere near it."
A chill shook its way down Dean's back, but he pumped his shoulders, hoping to warm up. "Right." His head whipped up, though, as he grabbed for the email. "Wait! He said he was forcing other people to feel his pain, right? And we got a weird vibe not just from the band last night, but from him. So … maybe it was him, maybe- … maybe he was the one."
"What are you talking about?" Sam peered at him like he'd just suggested the killer was an old fish.
"Maybe he was the guy causing all the suicides." It fit and he nodded to himself as he thought it out more thoroughly.
"How?"
"I dunno, but ... think about it. Arturo broke up with him around the same time the suicides started and if it was about forcing others to feel his pain then- ..."
"He was just pushing them to do what he couldn't."
"Exactly!" His brow bent deeply with thought, but he was glad to see his brother catching on. "And his involvement might explain why his death didn't completely fit the same pattern as the others." Sure. Yeah. That made sense.
"Maybe, but we can't really know that for sure now. Any altars or suspicious books he might've had just went up in flames."
"True." Dean breathed in slowly, wondering how to get at the necessary information. He trod back through thoughts about how this suicide was different, then he mentally stumbled over something and tried to look at it more closely. "Didn't you say he had mental issues?"
"Yeah. And I know you're thinking that none of the other victims did, but that still doesn't prove that he somehow caused them to commit suicide." Sam was asking good questions, bringing up important points, but the casual disinterest in his voice felt like a bristle rub in Dean's brain. He had to make Sam understand.
"No, but … maybe we could get a handle on his shrink's notes, see if he talked about dabbling in sorcery or something."
Sam just looked at him.
"What?" He could hear the irritation in his voice as he worked not throw his hands around in frustration. "It's not a crazy idea, Sam. Can we just check?"
"Sure. … Tomorrow." Sam gave him a shrug and a nod, but it was enough.
"Fine. But whether or not he talked about being magically inclined, if we stick around and the suicide rate drops dramatically, we should probably consider that a win and head out of this crazy town." They were both on edge and the weirdness of the place really wasn't helping at all.
Sam nodded slowly. "Yeah. That would be good."
Dean watched his brother, really wanting to understand what was going on in his head but failing miserably at every step. "So … you're sticking around then?"
Sam seemed to stop breathing for a moment, eyes dropping evasively as he shifted on the bed. "Haven't decided yet."
"Right." Of course. Yeah. Sure. Whatever.
"Listen." Sam reacted to the acidity of his tone with harshness of his own. "I know you have it in your head that you're the only one working at this, that it's only hard for you, but … it's been a long time and … we're not who we used to be. I know who you want me to be, but … that's not who I am anymore. … It's the same with you."
Dean scoffed, lips tilting in a smirk akin to 'you don't know what you're talking about'. "I haven't changed."
"Really?" Sam's eyes darkened a shade as his voice deepened. "You're still that loyal guy who stood by me no matter what, who gave me what I needed when I needed it, who even took my side against dad sometimes, who- … who killed to protect me?" The sharpness of Sam's scrutiny made Dean want to pull away, but he didn't. He didn't have anything to hide, did he? "Are you really still that guy, Dean? Because I don't think the brother I knew would've doubted me as much you have over the past few days and that's the guy I came back for."
"That's not fair." His voice was strong, but his thoughts were shaken. Had he changed? His loyalty should never have been a question. Ever. Had he really been living that loyalty openly, though? Even with all the times he'd ducked out, suspected, or just didn't support Sam the way he needed? A dull pain began to blossom behind his eyes as he thought about how many times he'd let some wrongly calibrated part of his brain get between them since Sam's return. Maybe he was going about this all wrong.
"This isn't about fair. If that guy isn't here, then I've got no reason to stay. Know what I mean?" Sam's eyes were hard and Dean could feel the seriousness of the question, despite its almost casual phrasing.
Dean wasn't an idiot, he knew that the guy Sam wanted had been for him, his life had been shaped around Sam's, contingent on Sam's. At first it had been without thought, a mindset so deeply ingrained that the only challenge to it was his father's will, but then Sam had all but tossed him out on the curb. Loyalty didn't seem to mean shit when someone called down from the Ivory Tower and said that Sam was on their V. I. P. list. Dean had never really let that sense of devotion and obligation go, but things had changed even as they rebuilt who they were after Stanford. Now Sam was laying all his cards out, telling his brother to put up or shut up.
"Dean …?"
The unsympathetic impatience in that voice made Dean swallow, but he'd been thinking about his answer for days now and he couldn't figure out how there could really be any other response, not if the alternative was Sam leaving again. His eyelids slid down, almost closed, and he exhaled in time with his heartbeat, measured in its work to keep him calm. "Yeah."
"Are you with me?"
"Yeah." Dean's nod was slow and shaky, but what else was there to say at this point?
"Okay then."
He watched Sam's legs as they straightened up and approached him, making his breath run faster. The hand at his nape then higher, on his cheek, was too warm, but he didn't pull away. He might not understand it entirely or think it was the best thing for both of them, but … there were so many worse things and as much as he'd been fighting it, he couldn't say a part of him didn't want it, didn't find a sort of freedom and wholeness in it, being wanted and needed that deeply, being everything to Sam.
He shuddered as Sam's lips met his, gentle and knowing, remembering every flourish that made Dean gasp. Then Dean was kissing him back, shaking himself free from instincts that didn't work and doubts that didn't fit, loosening the strings that held him to ideas and ideals that contradicted the needs and wants of his only family.
There was tension in his shoulders but he ignored it. This was where he was needed, how he was needed, and that was okay. It was. It had to be. It could even be good if he let it. He pushed down his worries and let it, the feel of his brother's mouth and hands making his body hum and his mind tumble back into warm memories edged with desperation, but thick with a connection he'd ached for months over.
When Sam pulled back, only a hand on Dean's cheek maintaining contact, Dean's body followed subtly, as if magnetized, and he opened his eyes to see his brother studying his face. Sam's expression was serious, but his lips were tipped upwards and Dean resisted the urge to feel patted on the head when Sam spoke his appraising, "that's good."
He shifted away from Sam's touch, closing his eyes as he settled more securely on the edge of the bed. Then he opened his mouth, but he was out of words.
"Why don't you order us a pizza, alright? I'll go grab some soda from the vending machine."
Sam barely waited for Dean to nod an 'okay' before walking around the bed and out the door. Then Dean was alone.
He called for pizza then sat back, staunchly avoiding the clock and ignoring the significance of one TV show ending and a new one starting up. The delivery guy arrived when Sam did, citing technical difficulties and something about a walk to the corner store, but Dean didn't do anything with information. It didn't really matter, right? He trusted Sam, didn't he? Of course. So, he just shrugged and snatched a Mountain Dew from his brother's hands as he handed off some cash and collected their pizza.
The night was pretty quiet after that, quiet but for the occasional explosion on TV as Sam indulged Dean in his penchant for action, Sam's snickering at epically low levels. They called Kismet during a commercial break, just to check in, even though neither of them really felt like working right then, but the message on the machine said they were closed due to bereavement and would be open again the next night with their own form of memorial service. Dean tried not to notice how pleased his brother seemed by that information as they both turned their attention back to the tiny screen on the bureau across the room. It might be nice to have a night in this time and a night off.
He didn't even slink away when his bed dipped midway through the night, but he sighed, relieved, when all that came was body-heat and sleep.
Prologue - One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven - Eight - Epilogue