Dean took the tiniest step back and narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, either that or it’s not the boy we should be worrying about.” He observed Sam’s eyes widen a little. “Sam, maybe it’s not the kid haunting this house. Dad salted and burned the little son of a bitch, maybe it wasn’t him in the first place.”
Sam shook his head. “Maybe, maybe not. Right now we gotta protect Jessica and take her and her family somewhere safe.” He glanced at Jessica sitting in the armchair, nervously biting her nails.
“Oh, I can take her somewhere safe.” Dean smirked staring at the girl from the corner of the room, but Sam’s elbow suddenly hitting his stomach hard enough to make him choke a bit brought him back to the case. “Fine, fine. We’ll get them outta here and figure things out. Check dad’s journal for anything.”
Sam puffed out a long breath. “Okay, look, you take Jessica and her parents and I’ll stay here, read through the journal and see if anything sticks out.” He pressed his lips into a thin line, still watching Jessica. “She’s scared, Dean. Dad should’ve cleaned up his mess before he blew out of town.”
“Well, tough, Sam, he thought it was cut and dry. You can’t go around blaming dad for this.” Dean protested, and Sam felt a swelling of anger at Dean’s readiness to leap to John’s defense. Just like old times.
Sam met Dean’s expectant look with a glare. “Watch me.” He moved back toward the armchair, crouching in front of Jessica and resting a hand on her knee. “Jessica,” The name stuck like a thorn to his tastebuds, and Sam cleared his throat. “My brother’s gonna get you and your family someplace safe.”
Jessica sniffled, slightly. “What about you?”
“I’ll stay here. Try to figure out what’s endangering you and your parents, so we can get rid of it for good.”
Dean nodded, not looking at Sam. There was no point hiding his anger towards his little brother, how could Sam not trust their dad? Their dad was a hero, he always fought evil, ever since Dean could remember. And for Sam it was nothing.
“C’mon, guys, pack some of your stuff and let’s go.” Dean said running one hand through his short, spiky hair. Jessica still seemed confused but she stood up and started collecting the most important things.
Jessica raised one eyebrow and looked away. “Back then, the ghost would show up exactly at 6:34 in the evening, every single Wednesday. It would make all the clocks stop, that’s why I remember.” She paused and looked at Sam, frowning. “It started again two weeks back. Exactly 6:34, and last week it was here, too.” She examined her nails still frowning. She was scared, there was no doubt about it.
Dean looked around the room; the old paintings on the walls gave him the creeps. He focused back on the girl—who was pretty, by the way, her lips, her eyes— he shook his head a little, trying to focus on the case instead.
“Uh, Jessica. You remember anything about that ghost back then?” He asked cocking his head slightly to the side.
“Not much.” Jessica shook her head. “Just… It was a ghost of some guy who used to live in this house who was— apparently a victim of his parents or something. I’m not sure.”
Dean raised his eyebrows and look at Sam. “Huh.”
Sam frowned, his brows scrunching. “Do you remember what exactly our dad did to banish this ghost, Jessica?” He saw her pallor, the healthy flush leaving her cheeks. “Please. You’re not gonna get in trouble for anything you saw. But we need to know exactly what happened here, if we’re going to help your family now.”
Jessica seemed to deliberate, for a moment, before she nodded. “He tried not to tell us much, you know? Like it was top-secret.” Her voice cracked around the smallest laugh, at that. “It was in our house, it wasn’t like we didn’t know what was happening.”
“Right. But there was something, wasn’t there? Something you saw that he didn’t want you telling anyone else about.” Sam needled in deeper, searching for the cause for that reluctant gleam in Jessica’s eye. She glanced at Dean, caught his cheeky smile, and pressed her lips together.
“He said he…dug up a grave. Burned a body.” Her eyes traveled from Dean’s face as the smile slipped, to Sam’s bleak frown. “He said that would do the trick, he said that boy, whoever he was, he couldn’t haunt the house anymore.”
Sam pushed himself to his feet. “I need to speak with my brother.” He didn’t wait for Dean to oblige, hauling him up by his elbow and boxing him toward the corner of the room. Ignoring Dean’s violent, “Dude, what?”, Sam released him and put his back to Jessica, facing Dean. “If dad salted and burned the corpse, Dean, this thing’s gotta be holding on some other way. Blood residue, DNA, something.”
Dean took the tiniest step back and narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, either that or it’s not the boy we should be worrying about.” He observed Sam’s eyes widen a little. “Sam, maybe it’s not the kid haunting this house. Dad salted and burned the little son of a bitch, maybe it wasn’t him in the first place.”
Sam shook his head. “Maybe, maybe not. Right now we gotta protect Jessica and take her and her family somewhere safe.” He glanced at Jessica sitting in the armchair, nervously biting her nails.
“Oh, I can take her somewhere safe.” Dean smirked staring at the girl from the corner of the room, but Sam’s elbow suddenly hitting his stomach hard enough to make him choke a bit brought him back to the case. “Fine, fine. We’ll get them outta here and figure things out. Check dad’s journal for anything.”
Sam woke from a dream splashed through with the gold filigree of fire and the kiss of Jessica’s blood like warm lips on his forehead. He rolled over, snaking out a hand to drag the unlit bedside clock into the light that edged around the curtains: seven-thirty, and Dean was still fast asleep, stretched out on his stomach with his arms crammed under his pillow; a decent night’s sleep hadn’t eluded him, and Sam was reluctant to disturb his cabin-fevered brother.
He rolled off the bed and laced on his shoes, letting himself out into a damp and dim California morning. He stretched himself into a mild jog toward the mom-n’-pop coffee shop the next block over, slowing his stride on the sidewalk when he approached it, and bracing himself against a catacomb of memories unfurling through his mind: clear recollections of escaping the hub of Stanford’s central local to be here with Jessica; in the quiet, studying, with her feet in his lap. His throat burned; he took a quick left and holed himself up in a Starbucks chain across the street, ordering a Cappuccino for himself, regular coffee and a muffin for Dean.
There was a temptation, stepping back out into the clean air, to go for a run that would leave his demons eating the dust. But they had a case, or something like one, and he knew Dean would be chomping at the bit and furious if he woke and Sam wasn’t there. He meandered back toward the Garden Motel, letting himself work through his frustration at being dragged along on this hunt before he had to shoulder open the motel door.
The sound of the door being opened and closed, even so quietly you could barely hear it, would always rouse Dean from sleep; so suddenly he was never able to remember what he was dreaming about. His dreams back when he was a kid were never dreams regular children would have. There were always monsters, fire, dead bodies, and the worst thing that had always haunted him, dad’s and little Sammy’s dead bodies torn to pieces by some monster. And Dean could never come on time, he could never save them. So most of the time, he was grateful the sound rescued him from going deeper into the nightmares, even when the sound of the door meant his father had gone for another dangerous hunt.
This time was different. For the first time in forever, Dean didn’t dream about anything, which was good and bad. Good, because at least he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night, all sweaty, panting like a dog. Bad, because no dreams made the sleep seem worthless.
Dean opened his eyes at the clicking of the lock. Sam had gone somewhere. Dean lazily sat up and rubbed his eyes, and jumped off of the bed. He stretched his neck a bit and went to take a shower. That hunt was the only distraction they had at that moment. And Dean was happy they had it at all.
When Dean walked out of the bathroom, Sam was already back at the motel room.
“`Sup, Sammy?”
Sam’s initial retort was a biting one; but, given their argument the night before, he made an effort to modulate his temper, to wrestle it under control as he set the muffin and the black coffee on the kitchenette table. “Well, California’s still spinning.” He shoved the coffee toward Dean, watching as his brother dropped the towel from his shirtless torso and snatched the Styrofoam cup in one hand, popped the top off and took an experimental sniff. Satisfied, it seemed, that Sam wasn’t tricking him with a fancy coffee, Dean took a long swallow.
“Any trouble out there?” Dean’s gaze tracked him smoothly over the rim of the cup, and Sam rolled his eyes, his irritation petering out as he remembered just how tired he was. It made an argument with Dean seem pointless, at this juncture.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle, dad.” Sam took a sip of his cappuccino, realized he wasn’t, really, thirsty, or hungry, or anything other than comfortably numb. He scooped up his duffle bag and checked the weapons cache inside. The dull gleam of knives bounced back across his eyes, bringing on a memory of fire that he quickly dismissed. “So? What’s the hold up, it’s like a fifteen minute drive to the address that girl gave you, right? We should head out.”
Dean collapsed on the bed and ruffled his wet hair to make them dry faster. He grabbed the muffin and took a massive bite, making more than half of the muffin disappear in his mouth. “Breakfast—” Dean pointed to Sam lecturingly. “—is very important, Sammy. A man’s gotta eat breakfast before fighting evil.” He smirked and shoved the rest of the muffin into his mouth.
Sam blew out a heavy breath and rolled his eyes impatiently. “Get dressed, I’ll be waiting in the car.” He said dryly and left slamming the door forcefully enough to make the sound ring in Dean’s ears for a while after.
Dean looked around. His clothes were randomly scattered all over the room and he was still in nothing but a towel. He stood up, and collected the clothes into the duffle and then he remembered his clean clothes - if you can call them clean at all, they rarely had time to get everything washed properly - were at the very bottom of the bag. He dug his hand in search for a pair of jeans and some tshirt and when he finally found something he could consider clean enough to wear, he dressed up.
They were leaving the room, which meant he had to make sure they cleaned up their mess, that they didn’t leave anything that would help either monsters, or anyone track them down. That’s what dad always taught me. He checked under his pillow, under Sam’s, checked every corner. No salt, no trace they’d been there. Good. He nodded to himself, grabbed his duffle and walked out the door. Sam was in the passenger seat, reading something, or writing, Dean wasn’t sure. Without saying anything he threw the bag onto the backseat and got in the car. He looked at Sam, but didn’t say anything.
Dean smelled like blueberries and bath-soap and cologne, the familiar scent that collided with the gunmetal and leather of the Impala’s interior. It was too much, too much like stepping out of a perfect sphere and onto the broken, piercing globe of his old life. Sam thumbed over the graphite lead that Dean had used to jot down the call he’d taken the night before. “So, this is from a chick named Jessica?” He leveled his voice around the name, determined not to allow an ounce of give in his tone. “Sounds like you two know each other?”
“Not directly. Sorta word of mouth.” Dean put the Impala into reverse, gunning her from the Garden Motel’s parking lot. “Dad banished some ugly spirit for her and her folks a couple years back. She called one of his old phones, that’s how I got the specs on the case.”
“Dad worked a case near Stanford?” Sam picked his head up, surprise icing in his veins. Dean tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel and said nothing, a classic sign that Sam wouldn’t be getting much of an elaboration out of him. He returned to the spotty case his brother had built. “All right, fine, Jessica. She says there were cold spots and flickering lights in her house?”
“Yeah, and the television from Hell. I’m telling you, man, sounds like a spirit’s clunking around in there again.”
Sam frowned, glancing out the windshield. “But dad would’ve salted and burned the bones, right? So how could it be back?”
“Dunno, dad’s always been pretty thorough if you ask me. We’re just gonna talk to the girl, find out more about the place.” Dean glanced at Sam who was staring out the window, kinda absent, or so Dean thought. “Hey, you still with me?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam said, trying to sound natural. He blew out a heavy sigh and looked at Dean. “Think we’re gonna have to hit a library, see if there’s anything dad might have overlooked.”
Dean nodded and frowned, focusing on the road. A distraction. For both of them. A case. “Hey, Sammy.” Dean smirked a little. “Still remember how to kill monsters or should I give you time to revise?”
“Dude, shut up.” Sam shot back, but there was a hint of a smile that tipped at the corners of his lips. “And it’s Sam, remember?” He ignored Dean’s poignant eye-roll, focusing on the smoggy landscape zipping by as Dean handled the Impala with expert care. No surprise there; Dean had been driving the boat of a car since Sam was seven. John had never really believed in traffic laws when lives were at stake.
Jessica’s house—and not Sam’s Jessica, he had to remind himself, not Jess—was a two-story brick establishment, a back wall of glass overlooking an in-ground swimming pool. Jessica herself answered the door, a dark-haired beauty a head shorter than Sam, and the fact that she wasn’t fair-haired or tan-skinned made Sam breathe easier.
“You can come in,” She said, twisting her fingers together loosely on her way into the living room. It was well-furnished, bright morning sunlight sparkling off the water in the pool. Sam took the couch and Dean sat beside him, unnecessarily close, their knees almost bumping. To distract himself, Sam canvased the room while Jessica lowered herself into the armchair across from them. It was an ornate house, just on this side of prestigious; but there was a scar of black on the carpet, something old and faded like a healed wound.
“Jessica, where did that mark come from?” Sam asked, quietly.
“Oh. It was that spirit John banished for us. It didn’t want to go without a fight. My parents are sort of sentimentalists, they wanted to keep it as a reminder or something.” She worried at her lower lip with her teeth. “I can’t believe we have another ghost in this house. You’d think one was enough for a lifetime.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not always the case.” Dean drawled, slinging an arm along the back of the couch behind Sam. “Evil breeds evil. Ghosts love a good haunting ground and they don’t really care of some other spirit was there before.”
“But we’re not entirely sure that’s what’s going on here.” Sam glanced at Dean, quellingly. “Jessica, do you have any reason to believe this might be the same spirit our dad got rid of?”
Jessica raised one eyebrow and looked away. “Back then, the ghost would show up exactly at 6:34 in the evening, every single Wednesday. It would make all the clocks stop, that’s why I remember.” She paused and looked at Sam, frowning. “It started again two weeks back. Exactly 6:34, and last week it was here, too.” She examined her nails still frowning. She was scared, there was no doubt about it.
Dean looked around the room; the old paintings on the walls gave him the creeps. He focused back on the girl—who was pretty, by the way, her lips, her eyes— he shook his head a little, trying to focus on the case instead.
“Uh, Jessica. You remember anything about that ghost back then?” He asked cocking his head slightly to the side.
“Not much.” Jessica shook her head. “Just… It was a ghost of some guy who used to live in this house who was— apparently a victim of his parents or something. I’m not sure.”
Dean raised his eyebrows and look at Sam. “Huh.”
Sam woke from a dream splashed through with the gold filigree of fire and the kiss of Jessica’s blood like warm lips on his forehead. He rolled over, snaking out a hand to drag the unlit bedside clock into the light that edged around the curtains: seven-thirty, and Dean was still fast asleep, stretched out on his stomach with his arms crammed under his pillow; a decent night’s sleep hadn’t eluded him, and Sam was reluctant to disturb his cabin-fevered brother.
He rolled off the bed and laced on his shoes, letting himself out into a damp and dim California morning. He stretched himself into a mild jog toward the mom-n’-pop coffee shop the next block over, slowing his stride on the sidewalk when he approached it, and bracing himself against a catacomb of memories unfurling through his mind: clear recollections of escaping the hub of Stanford’s central local to be here with Jessica; in the quiet, studying, with her feet in his lap. His throat burned; he took a quick left and holed himself up in a Starbucks chain across the street, ordering a Cappuccino for himself, regular coffee and a muffin for Dean.
There was a temptation, stepping back out into the clean air, to go for a run that would leave his demons eating the dust. But they had a case, or something like one, and he knew Dean would be chomping at the bit and furious if he woke and Sam wasn’t there. He meandered back toward the Garden Motel, letting himself work through his frustration at being dragged along on this hunt before he had to shoulder open the motel door.
The sound of the door being opened and closed, even so quietly you could barely hear it, would always rouse Dean from sleep; so suddenly he was never able to remember what he was dreaming about. His dreams back when he was a kid were never dreams regular children would have. There were always monsters, fire, dead bodies, and the worst thing that had always haunted him, dad’s and little Sammy’s dead bodies torn to pieces by some monster. And Dean could never come on time, he could never save them. So most of the time, he was grateful the sound rescued him from going deeper into the nightmares, even when the sound of the door meant his father had gone for another dangerous hunt.
This time was different. For the first time in forever, Dean didn’t dream about anything, which was good and bad. Good, because at least he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night, all sweaty, panting like a dog. Bad, because no dreams made the sleep seem worthless.
Dean opened his eyes at the clicking of the lock. Sam had gone somewhere. Dean lazily sat up and rubbed his eyes, and jumped off of the bed. He stretched his neck a bit and went to take a shower. That hunt was the only distraction they had at that moment. And Dean was happy they had it at all.
When Dean walked out of the bathroom, Sam was already back at the motel room.
“`Sup, Sammy?”
Sam’s initial retort was a biting one; but, given their argument the night before, he made an effort to modulate his temper, to wrestle it under control as he set the muffin and the black coffee on the kitchenette table. “Well, California’s still spinning.” He shoved the coffee toward Dean, watching as his brother dropped the towel from his shirtless torso and snatched the Styrofoam cup in one hand, popped the top off and took an experimental sniff. Satisfied, it seemed, that Sam wasn’t tricking him with a fancy coffee, Dean took a long swallow.
“Any trouble out there?” Dean’s gaze tracked him smoothly over the rim of the cup, and Sam rolled his eyes, his irritation petering out as he remembered just how tired he was. It made an argument with Dean seem pointless, at this juncture.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle, dad.” Sam took a sip of his cappuccino, realized he wasn’t, really, thirsty, or hungry, or anything other than comfortably numb. He scooped up his duffle bag and checked the weapons cache inside. The dull gleam of knives bounced back across his eyes, bringing on a memory of fire that he quickly dismissed. “So? What’s the hold up, it’s like a fifteen minute drive to the address that girl gave you, right? We should head out.”
Dean collapsed on the bed and ruffled his wet hair to make them dry faster. He grabbed the muffin and took a massive bite, making more than half of the muffin disappear in his mouth. “Breakfast—” Dean pointed to Sam lecturingly. “—is very important, Sammy. A man’s gotta eat breakfast before fighting evil.” He smirked and shoved the rest of the muffin into his mouth.
Sam blew out a heavy breath and rolled his eyes impatiently. “Get dressed, I’ll be waiting in the car.” He said dryly and left slamming the door forcefully enough to make the sound ring in Dean’s ears for a while after.
Dean looked around. His clothes were randomly scattered all over the room and he was still in nothing but a towel. He stood up, and collected the clothes into the duffle and then he remembered his clean clothes - if you can call them clean at all, they rarely had time to get everything washed properly - were at the very bottom of the bag. He dug his hand in search for a pair of jeans and some tshirt and when he finally found something he could consider clean enough to wear, he dressed up.
They were leaving the room, which meant he had to make sure they cleaned up their mess, that they didn’t leave anything that would help either monsters, or anyone track them down. That’s what dad always taught me. He checked under his pillow, under Sam’s, checked every corner. No salt, no trace they’d been there. Good. He nodded to himself, grabbed his duffle and walked out the door. Sam was in the passenger seat, reading something, or writing, Dean wasn’t sure. Without saying anything he threw the bag onto the backseat and got in the car. He looked at Sam, but didn’t say anything.
Dean smelled like blueberries and bath-soap and cologne, the familiar scent that collided with the gunmetal and leather of the Impala’s interior. It was too much, too much like stepping out of a perfect sphere and onto the broken, piercing globe of his old life. Sam thumbed over the graphite lead that Dean had used to jot down the call he’d taken the night before. “So, this is from a chick named Jessica?” He leveled his voice around the name, determined not to allow an ounce of give in his tone. “Sounds like you two know each other?”
“Not directly. Sorta word of mouth.” Dean put the Impala into reverse, gunning her from the Garden Motel’s parking lot. “Dad banished some ugly spirit for her and her folks a couple years back. She called one of his old phones, that’s how I got the specs on the case.”
“Dad worked a case near Stanford?” Sam picked his head up, surprise icing in his veins. Dean tapped his thumbs on the steering wheel and said nothing, a classic sign that Sam wouldn’t be getting much of an elaboration out of him. He returned to the spotty case his brother had built. “All right, fine, Jessica. She says there were cold spots and flickering lights in her house?”
“Yeah, and the television from Hell. I’m telling you, man, sounds like a spirit’s clunking around in there again.”
Sam frowned, glancing out the windshield. “But dad would’ve salted and burned the bones, right? So how could it be back?”
“Dunno, dad’s always been pretty thorough if you ask me. We’re just gonna talk to the girl, find out more about the place.” Dean glanced at Sam who was staring out the window, kinda absent, or so Dean thought. “Hey, you still with me?”
“Yeah, yeah.” Sam said, trying to sound natural. He blew out a heavy sigh and looked at Dean. “Think we’re gonna have to hit a library, see if there’s anything dad might have overlooked.”
Dean nodded and frowned, focusing on the road. A distraction. For both of them. A case. “Hey, Sammy.” Dean smirked a little. “Still remember how to kill monsters or should I give you time to revise?”
Sam woke from a dream splashed through with the gold filigree of fire and the kiss of Jessica’s blood like warm lips on his forehead. He rolled over, snaking out a hand to drag the unlit bedside clock into the light that edged around the curtains: seven-thirty, and Dean was still fast asleep, stretched out on his stomach with his arms crammed under his pillow; a decent night’s sleep hadn’t eluded him, and Sam was reluctant to disturb his cabin-fevered brother.
He rolled off the bed and laced on his shoes, letting himself out into a damp and dim California morning. He stretched himself into a mild jog toward the mom-n’-pop coffee shop the next block over, slowing his stride on the sidewalk when he approached it, and bracing himself against a catacomb of memories unfurling through his mind: clear recollections of escaping the hub of Stanford’s central local to be here with Jessica; in the quiet, studying, with her feet in his lap. His throat burned; he took a quick left and holed himself up in a Starbucks chain across the street, ordering a Cappuccino for himself, regular coffee and a muffin for Dean.
There was a temptation, stepping back out into the clean air, to go for a run that would leave his demons eating the dust. But they had a case, or something like one, and he knew Dean would be chomping at the bit and furious if he woke and Sam wasn’t there. He meandered back toward the Garden Motel, letting himself work through his frustration at being dragged along on this hunt before he had to shoulder open the motel door.
The sound of the door being opened and closed, even so quietly you could barely hear it, would always rouse Dean from sleep; so suddenly he was never able to remember what he was dreaming about. His dreams back when he was a kid were never dreams regular children would have. There were always monsters, fire, dead bodies, and the worst thing that had always haunted him, dad’s and little Sammy’s dead bodies torn to pieces by some monster. And Dean could never come on time, he could never save them. So most of the time, he was grateful the sound rescued him from going deeper into the nightmares, even when the sound of the door meant his father had gone for another dangerous hunt.
This time was different. For the first time in forever, Dean didn’t dream about anything, which was good and bad. Good, because at least he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night, all sweaty, panting like a dog. Bad, because no dreams made the sleep seem worthless.
Dean opened his eyes at the clicking of the lock. Sam had gone somewhere. Dean lazily sat up and rubbed his eyes, and jumped off of the bed. He stretched his neck a bit and went to take a shower. That hunt was the only distraction they had at that moment. And Dean was happy they had it at all.
When Dean walked out of the bathroom, Sam was already back at the motel room.
“`Sup, Sammy?”
Sam’s initial retort was a biting one; but, given their argument the night before, he made an effort to modulate his temper, to wrestle it under control as he set the muffin and the black coffee on the kitchenette table. “Well, California’s still spinning.” He shoved the coffee toward Dean, watching as his brother dropped the towel from his shirtless torso and snatched the Styrofoam cup in one hand, popped the top off and took an experimental sniff. Satisfied, it seemed, that Sam wasn’t tricking him with a fancy coffee, Dean took a long swallow.
“Any trouble out there?” Dean’s gaze tracked him smoothly over the rim of the cup, and Sam rolled his eyes, his irritation petering out as he remembered just how tired he was. It made an argument with Dean seem pointless, at this juncture.
“Nothing I couldn’t handle, dad.” Sam took a sip of his cappuccino, realized he wasn’t, really, thirsty, or hungry, or anything other than comfortably numb. He scooped up his duffle bag and checked the weapons cache inside. The dull gleam of knives bounced back across his eyes, bringing on a memory of fire that he quickly dismissed. “So? What’s the hold up, it’s like a fifteen minute drive to the address that girl gave you, right? We should head out.”
Dean collapsed on the bed and ruffled his wet hair to make them dry faster. He grabbed the muffin and took a massive bite, making more than half of the muffin disappear in his mouth. “Breakfast—” Dean pointed to Sam lecturingly. “—is very important, Sammy. A man’s gotta eat breakfast before fighting evil.” He smirked and shoved the rest of the muffin into his mouth.
Sam blew out a heavy breath and rolled his eyes impatiently. “Get dressed, I’ll be waiting in the car.” He said dryly and left slamming the door forcefully enough to make the sound ring in Dean’s ears for a while after.
Dean looked around. His clothes were randomly scattered all over the room and he was still in nothing but a towel. He stood up, and collected the clothes into the duffle and then he remembered his clean clothes - if you can call them clean at all, they rarely had time to get everything washed properly - were at the very bottom of the bag. He dug his hand in search for a pair of jeans and some tshirt and when he finally found something he could consider clean enough to wear, he dressed up.
They were leaving the room, which meant he had to make sure they cleaned up their mess, that they didn’t leave anything that would help either monsters, or anyone track them down. That’s what dad always taught me. He checked under his pillow, under Sam’s, checked every corner. No salt, no trace they’d been there. Good. He nodded to himself, grabbed his duffle and walked out the door. Sam was in the passenger seat, reading something, or writing, Dean wasn’t sure. Without saying anything he threw the bag onto the backseat and got in the car. He looked at Sam, but didn’t say anything.
(Source: viveskt)
Sam woke from a dream splashed through with the gold filigree of fire and the kiss of Jessica’s blood like warm lips on his forehead. He rolled over, snaking out a hand to drag the unlit bedside clock into the light that edged around the curtains: seven-thirty, and Dean was still fast asleep, stretched out on his stomach with his arms crammed under his pillow; a decent night’s sleep hadn’t eluded him, and Sam was reluctant to disturb his cabin-fevered brother.
He rolled off the bed and laced on his shoes, letting himself out into a damp and dim California morning. He stretched himself into a mild jog toward the mom-n’-pop coffee shop the next block over, slowing his stride on the sidewalk when he approached it, and bracing himself against a catacomb of memories unfurling through his mind: clear recollections of escaping the hub of Stanford’s central local to be here with Jessica; in the quiet, studying, with her feet in his lap. His throat burned; he took a quick left and holed himself up in a Starbucks chain across the street, ordering a Cappuccino for himself, regular coffee and a muffin for Dean.
There was a temptation, stepping back out into the clean air, to go for a run that would leave his demons eating the dust. But they had a case, or something like one, and he knew Dean would be chomping at the bit and furious if he woke and Sam wasn’t there. He meandered back toward the Garden Motel, letting himself work through his frustration at being dragged along on this hunt before he had to shoulder open the motel door.
The sound of the door being opened and closed, even so quietly you could barely hear it, would always rouse Dean from sleep; so suddenly he was never able to remember what he was dreaming about. His dreams back when he was a kid were never dreams regular children would have. There were always monsters, fire, dead bodies, and the worst thing that had always haunted him, dad’s and little Sammy’s dead bodies torn to pieces by some monster. And Dean could never come on time, he could never save them. So most of the time, he was grateful the sound rescued him from going deeper into the nightmares, even when the sound of the door meant his father had gone for another dangerous hunt.
This time was different. For the first time in forever, Dean didn’t dream about anything, which was good and bad. Good, because at least he didn’t wake up in the middle of the night, all sweaty, panting like a dog. Bad, because no dreams made the sleep seem worthless.
Dean opened his eyes at the clicking of the lock. Sam had gone somewhere. Dean lazily sat up and rubbed his eyes, and jumped off of the bed. He stretched his neck a bit and went to take a shower. That hunt was the only distraction they had at that moment. And Dean was happy they had it at all.
When Dean walked out of the bathroom, Sam was already back at the motel room.
“`Sup, Sammy?”
Anonymous asked: Cold spots, yes. Weird smells? I guess, but I've never really noticed before. There's sometimes a short, hard knock on the walls but that's it.
Okay, we’ll check it out, alright? You salt the doors and windows and wait for us.
The Garden Motel was several miles from Stanford and about their usual fare; usual as Sam could remember it, from a childhood spent in one ramshackle motel after the other. They all seemed to blur together, but he could appreciate the fact that Dean had at least put forth an effort to get them into a higher establishment than Dad ever had. This one, at least, had water clean of rust and walls that were something other than nicotine-yellow. The lack of suspicious stains in the bedding might’ve mattered, too, if Sam was able to really think about it.
But he wasn’t; the pall of Jessica’s death hung over him, a dark and heavy cloud, and the meeting with the law enforcement hadn’t helped. They’d been nothing but exemplary of their trade, eager to protect and serve. Offering to help him find a place to stay until the insurance could pay off repairs to the apartment; they hadn’t been brutal in their questions, just efficient. But Sam was still exhausted, nursing a headache and a bad mood when he stepped off the bus and into the pouring rain. He jogged for the motel room, 12B painted in gunmetal gray against olive-drab green, and he unlocked the door, shouldering inside.
Dean was sprawled on the couch, bedhead and in his sweats, jotting on a notepad resting against his half-cocked knee. He hadn’t bothered to smooth himself over after his rendezvous with the woman at the gas station, and Sam felt an insatiable stab of anger that Dean would take a roll between the sheets when Jessica was still a pile of ashes at the morgue. Granted, she hadn’t been Dean’s girlfriend; but Sam assumed some grieving was in order.
He shucked off his sopping jacket and announced, unnecessarily, “I’m back.”
Sex has always been the best distraction for Dean, ever since high school issues of teenage Dean, he would just unload his frustrations and worries by finding some chick to sleep with. Physical exercise and a distraction, all in one, a perfect combination. No wonder it took Dean this long to get gas, Jessica’s death was a shock to both of them. A couple of hours back he joked about the Smurfs on her shirt and now she was gone. For good. And the simple fact that he hadn’t even known her didn’t help much, because she’d been a very important person in his brother’s life, and his brother was an important person in his.
As soon as Sam entered the room, Dean tossed the notepad into his duffle and straightened.
“Yeah, I can see that.” He said, standing up. He wasn’t sure what else to say, he’d never been a good shoulder to cry on, or so he thought. “How’d it go?”
Sam watched the thoughts flit through Dean’s eyes, a brief expression of satisfaction that could only be born of recounting a pleasure-romp, rearranging itself into contrition and finally setting on that neutral mask, the game-face that had never failed to drive Sam to distraction with annoyance. And now this, a casual, “How did it go?” as Dean stood and stretched, relaxing his muscles on a low groan and rolling the kinks from his shoulders.
Sam couldn’t help it; his expression formed itself into a rictus of malignance and condescension. “Well, Dean, I sat in a freezing cold plastic chair for two hours while a couple of police officers grilled me about the last couple before Jessica’s death. Which I wasn’t here for, by the way, because I was working a case with you.” He threw his jacket at Dean, letting it smack his chest with a wet slap. Dean caught it in one hand, his brows hunching low. “Wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.”
“Look—” Dean began, and Sam cut him off.
“No, you look, Dean. Today’s been hell, all right? The cops are already saying it was the same thing that killed mom, some short in the electric or whatever, and we’ve got jack for leads. And you’re scribbling in your stupid notebook, you’re not even looking into this. So just…” He crossed the room and dropped onto one of the twin beds with a groan, massaging his temples. “Just drop it.”
“Stop being a friggin’ bitch and listen to me! We got a lead, we got dad. He’s been after that thing long enough to have something. I’ve been actually going through his journal, trying to get fish on somethin’ that would get us to him, so get yourself together, Sam!” Dean spat, suddenly angry. Maybe a little too angry than he should but it didn’t matter. Sam needed a kick in the ass, hard enough to make him jump outta the hole he let himself fall into. And Dean was the only one to do it, since dad was nowhere to be found.
Dean grabbed the notepad and flipped it a few pages back, stood there for a second hesitating and dropped it back into the bag. He sat on his bed and wiped his sweaty hands into his sweats. “We have a case to work in the meantime.”
Dean’s microburst of rage left Sam momentarily fazed with surprise, sitting dripping on the bedspread; but his temper rallied quickly, honing against the whetstone of Dean’s mercurial moods. He swept a hand back through his streaming hair. “Dean, I’m telling you, whatever this case is, it’s small-time. If these coordinates can take us to dad, then that’s what we need to focus on. After we look for leads of our own.”
“Sam, I just said dad would have an answer,” Dean enunciated frostily, and Sam cocked a jagged smile.
“Right. The man spent twenty-two years on the trail of this thing, dragging us all over the country. If he had anything, he would’ve told us a long time ago.” Sam laid his hands together, palm-to-palm, and rested his lips against them. His eyes traced the coffee-colored swirls on the walls, finding memories in the patterns. “No. We need to find something we can take to him, Dean. And we need to find it soon. We can’t waste time looking at some random case when we know where dad is.”
Dean frowned and spread his arms in disbelief. Sam wasn’t even looking at him, which only added to Dean’s irritation. “Since when is saving a human life such a waste of time? Huh, Sam?” Dean leveled himself to meet Sam’s eyes for a fraction of a second. Sam was obviously blinded by his wild urge to get immediate revenge, but they both knew it wasn’t possible at that point. It’s been twenty two years since John started looking for any signs of the monster who killed Mary, clearly that thing didn’t want to be found. Dean shrugged and turned away from Sam, walked towards the table and sat in the nearest chair, nervously rubbing his forehead. He needed a drink. Or twelve.
“I didn’t say—”
“I know what you said. You know what, Sam?” Dean stood up, and opened the fridge. He grabbed two bottles of beer and tossed one to Sam. Sam caught it with one hand and stared at Dean, confused. “Fuel up, you’re gonna need it because guess what. I’m the oldest and I say we’re looking into it.” Dean smirked just the tiniest bit as Sam glared at him. “Save the bitchface, bitch.”
The Garden Motel was several miles from Stanford and about their usual fare; usual as Sam could remember it, from a childhood spent in one ramshackle motel after the other. They all seemed to blur together, but he could appreciate the fact that Dean had at least put forth an effort to get them into a higher establishment than Dad ever had. This one, at least, had water clean of rust and walls that were something other than nicotine-yellow. The lack of suspicious stains in the bedding might’ve mattered, too, if Sam was able to really think about it.
But he wasn’t; the pall of Jessica’s death hung over him, a dark and heavy cloud, and the meeting with the law enforcement hadn’t helped. They’d been nothing but exemplary of their trade, eager to protect and serve. Offering to help him find a place to stay until the insurance could pay off repairs to the apartment; they hadn’t been brutal in their questions, just efficient. But Sam was still exhausted, nursing a headache and a bad mood when he stepped off the bus and into the pouring rain. He jogged for the motel room, 12B painted in gunmetal gray against olive-drab green, and he unlocked the door, shouldering inside.
Dean was sprawled on the couch, bedhead and in his sweats, jotting on a notepad resting against his half-cocked knee. He hadn’t bothered to smooth himself over after his rendezvous with the woman at the gas station, and Sam felt an insatiable stab of anger that Dean would take a roll between the sheets when Jessica was still a pile of ashes at the morgue. Granted, she hadn’t been Dean’s girlfriend; but Sam assumed some grieving was in order.
He shucked off his sopping jacket and announced, unnecessarily, “I’m back.”
Sex has always been the best distraction for Dean, ever since high school issues of teenage Dean, he would just unload his frustrations and worries by finding some chick to sleep with. Physical exercise and a distraction, all in one, a perfect combination. No wonder it took Dean this long to get gas, Jessica’s death was a shock to both of them. A couple of hours back he joked about the Smurfs on her shirt and now she was gone. For good. And the simple fact that he hadn’t even known her didn’t help much, because she’d been a very important person in his brother’s life, and his brother was an important person in his.
As soon as Sam entered the room, Dean tossed the notepad into his duffle and straightened.
“Yeah, I can see that.” He said, standing up. He wasn’t sure what else to say, he’d never been a good shoulder to cry on, or so he thought. “How’d it go?”
Sam watched the thoughts flit through Dean’s eyes, a brief expression of satisfaction that could only be born of recounting a pleasure-romp, rearranging itself into contrition and finally setting on that neutral mask, the game-face that had never failed to drive Sam to distraction with annoyance. And now this, a casual, “How did it go?” as Dean stood and stretched, relaxing his muscles on a low groan and rolling the kinks from his shoulders.
Sam couldn’t help it; his expression formed itself into a rictus of malignance and condescension. “Well, Dean, I sat in a freezing cold plastic chair for two hours while a couple of police officers grilled me about the last couple before Jessica’s death. Which I wasn’t here for, by the way, because I was working a case with you.” He threw his jacket at Dean, letting it smack his chest with a wet slap. Dean caught it in one hand, his brows hunching low. “Wasn’t exactly a walk in the park.”
“Look—” Dean began, and Sam cut him off.
“No, you look, Dean. Today’s been hell, all right? The cops are already saying it was the same thing that killed mom, some short in the electric or whatever, and we’ve got jack for leads. And you’re scribbling in your stupid notebook, you’re not even looking into this. So just…” He crossed the room and dropped onto one of the twin beds with a groan, massaging his temples. “Just drop it.”
“Stop being a friggin’ bitch and listen to me! We got a lead, we got dad. He’s been after that thing long enough to have something. I’ve been actually going through his journal, trying to get fish somethin’ that would get us to him so get yourself together, Sam!” Dean spat, suddenly angry. Maybe a little too angry than he should but it didn’t matter. Sam needed a kick in the ass, hard enough to make him jump outta the hole he let himself fall into. And Dean was the only one to do it, since dad was nowhere to be found.
Dean grabbed the notepad and flipped it a few pages back, stood there for a second hesitating and dropped it back into the bag. He sat on his bed and wiped his sweaty hands into his sweats. “We have a case to work in the meantime.”
