Entry tags:
SPN: The Narrow Way Part 1 of ?
Fandom: Supernatural
Title: The Narrow Way: Chapter 1/?
Rating: PG-13 for now
Warnings: None for this chapter
Summary: And there it was. A woman with wild, white hair; her mouth opened in a scream, and a second later it was piercing into his ears, sharp and almost as painful as the sound of Castiel's voice.
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and Kripke. I'm only borrowing them for a while.
Feedback: I am a junkie, feed my addiction. I especially like constructive criticism. Let me know anything you think.
Author’s notes: All right, there are a lot of notes here. I originally began writing this in November of '08, after two episodes of Supernatural season 4 had aired. So, it is canon until S4 E2 'Are You There, God? It's Me, Dean Winchester.' I did take the parts of show canon that I liked and manipulated it into my story, whenever it already fit my intentions. I tried to be as accurate as possible, but once again, accuracy at times was played with in accordance to my plot. This is my version of Season 4 of Supernatural, my Apocalypse.
I really have to thank![[profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lady_krysis, for her intensive beta and all of her insightful comments that have really helped to make this into something I'm proud to have written. Thanks to dungeonmarm for some additional edits and a sharp eye on some of my smaller details, and thanks to scheherezhad for cheering me on. Thanks to all of those mentioned above, and to sweetnlow for your incredible and immense support, without which this would have died on my laptop without ever seeing the light. I love you guys.
Chapter One: Cry Baby Cry
Jeff Wilson knew he was driving too fast, but he was creeped out by the long, silent stretch of road, and the stupid radio had been fussy for the last couple of miles, so he’d turned it off. Melanie was fast asleep in the passenger seat beside him, and he tried to relax, to listen to her breathing and calm down. The trees were passing by him in blurs, outlines dark and fuzzy, and he eased off the gas sheepishly.
Melanie stirred in her seat as he slowed, her eyes cracking open as she yawned and tried to stretch in her seat without hitting him in the side of his head. “Jeff?” she asked quietly, her voice thick with sleep, and he glanced over at her with a smile. “Where are we?”
“We’re taking the scenic route,” he said heartily. “That’s what road trips are for, right?”
Melanie sighed, giving him the look that meant he wasn’t fooling her one bit. “You got lost, didn’t you? We were supposed to be at the hotel hours ago.”
“All right, I admit it. I give in without a fight. I’m lost. I think the directions at that last gas station were wrong,” Jeff said. “There was that stupid little trading post a couple of miles back—as soon as I can find a place, I’ll turn around. Maybe we can get a room there.”
Melanie looked at him, amused. “It wasn’t a trading post, you know. There were actual houses. People live there.”
“It’s close enough,” Jeff said uncharitably. He focused on the road again, keeping an eye out for anywhere that he could use to turn, the shadows still sending a little shiver down his back.
Then Melanie screamed, a high-pitched note of terror that rattled through the car, and Jeff slammed on the breaks, automatically thrusting a hand out to keep Melanie from bolting forward into the windshield. “Oh my god, oh my god!” Melanie shrieked, covering her face in her hands. “Jeff, did you hear—— did you see that? Did you see?”
“What?” Jeff asked frantically. He looked out the window, squinting toward the darkness of the woods around it. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but Melanie wasn’t the type of girl to scream like that over nothing. “What was it?”
Melanie dropped her hands from her face, pressing them against the glass of her window instead as she looked out. “There was this—this lady, I think, and she was screaming. She was pointing, and her fingers were—” Melanie shuddered violently. “You really didn’t see it?”
Jeff shook his head. “I didn’t see anything, hon. Just the road. Are you sure it wasn’t a nightmare?”
Melanie was already shaking her head before he even finished his sentence. “No, I was awake. I was talking to you, for God’s sake.”
“You’ve talked to me in your sleep before,” he said gently.
Melanie looked at him skeptically. “After I’ve opened my eyes?”
Jeff didn’t have an answer to that, because the truth was that she never had. He sighed. “At any rate, do you still see it?” Melanie shook her head. “Then it’s gone now, whatever it was. I’m turning here—we’ll get a place to sleep at the trading post town and start again tomorrow morning, okay?”
“Okay.” Melanie nodded and rested back against her seat again, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. “I can't believe you didn’t see it. It scared the hell out of me.”
“Hey, you screaming scared the hell out of me, okay? I think that makes us even.” Jeff stopped the car and looked carefully up and down the empty road before doing a tight U turn. They started down the road again; Melanie carefully avoided looking in the direction where she had apparently seen the woman, huddling into herself anxiously.
“You’re really freaked by whatever you saw, aren’t you?” Jeff asked.
“Yeah,” Melanie agreed immediately. “I feel like somebody’s walked over my grave.”
“Well, that’s just silly,” Jeff said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “You don't have a grave!”
Melanie rolled her eyes, tension bleeding out of her a little. “Oh, that was so witty it hurt.” Melanie reached over to turn the radio on, switching it to one of her fluffy pop stations, and Jeff let her, hoping it would help her calm down.
It happened in a second as Melanie was leaning over to play with the stations—one blink, and there was a woman by the side of the road, with wild white hair and washed out, pale skin. Her mouth was open in what might have been a scream, but Jeff didn’t hear anything from inside the car. The woman pointed at Melanie until they flew past, mouth open wide and soundless.
Melanie bounced up a little as when she found a song that she liked, and shot him an embarrassed smile. “You’re right. I think I must have just dreamed it. I can't believe I let something stupid like that get to me.”
Jeff nodded, his mouth dry, and stayed silent.
~*~
They made it safely to the little city (and Melanie was right, it was actually more than a trade store, even if not by much) and got a small room at the only hotel. It was quaint, a little rustic, run by a little Irish lady with a thick accent and a warm smile.
By the time they got settled into their room, both Jeff and Melanie were calmer, reassured by the dual comforts of a place to sleep and the promise of a hot shower. Jeff let Melanie go into the bathroom first and kicked off his shoes, flopping onto the bed. It was covered with an actual duvet, and Jeff laughed, patting it a little as he closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he was surprised to discover that he’d apparently fallen asleep, for an hour and a half or so, if the clock was to be believed. He indulged in a luxurious stretch. “Melanie?” Jeff sat up and looked around the small room, curious when she didn’t respond. The light was on in the bathroom, and there was the sound of the shower running. “Melanie?” He wandered sleepily over to the bathroom, scratching at the itchy line of his pants as he prodded the door. “I have to—” Jeff’s voice stuck stubbornly in his throat as the door swung slowly open, and he closed his eyes, shaking his head once before opening them again.
The water was running, and had been for a while, if one were to judge by the water temperature of the cold beads as they flicked him with their droplets, but Jeff barely felt them, frozen to the spot by the dark pool of crimson staining the tile of the bathroom, Melanie’s eyes staring sightlessly up toward the ceiling.
Jeff began to scream and couldn’t stop.
~*~
The road was nothing but gravel beneath the Impala's tires, and Dean swore at the sound of pebbles striking against the undercarriage, craning his head out the window to stare balefully at the ground.
“I’m sorry, baby,” Dean crooned, stroking the dashboard of the Impala soothingly. “We’ll get this job done, and then we’ll take you in for a full check up, I promise.” Dean saw Sam’s expression squinch up from the corner of his eye and turned a full scowl in his brother’s direction. “You got something to say, Sammy?”
Sam just shook his head, a smile twisting the corners of his mouth. “Nothing, Dean.”
Dean gave him a suspicious look but shrugged after a minute, letting it go. “So, wanna run by me again what’s so weird out here in Nowhere, Iowa?”
It was Sam’s turn to glare at Dean this time, and he settled back more comfortably into his seat. “Weren’t you listening to me oh, I don't know, at any point during this entire trip?”
You were talking?” Dean asked in surprise and shot a mischievous look in his brother’s direction. He tapped the edge of the Impala's window gently, stroking a finger along the rubber sealing of the window.
“Do you guys need a room?” Sam asked pointedly. “Because I can walk, if you need some quality time.”
“Don't listen to him, baby,” Dean whispered. “He’s just jealous because you love me best.” The Impala's engine revved in what could have possibly been agreement, and Dean laughed at Sam’s expression.
“Lighten up on the gas, will you? It’s not cheap,” came Sam’s peevish response, and Dean looked over at him curiously. Sam folded his arms over his chest. “Were you serious when you said you weren’t listening to me at all?”
Dean shook his head. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. Having fun, you know?”
Sam snorted and shook his shaggy head, pulling the journal from the glove compartment and opening it up to flip through the pages, looking for any information he might have missed the first time around.
“Anyway,” Sam said, “I want to say it might be another Woman in White, but it doesn’t seem to fit right.”
“What are you talking about?” Dean asked. “Now you’re having doubts about the case? When you got that call, you seemed pretty serious. According to your friend, there’s been something strange going on. We have sightings of a woman in a white dress—people are dying. It seems like a pretty clear-cut case, right?”
“That’s true, but I’ve been looking at the local history, and it doesn’t seem like there’s any basis for it. There are a couple of suicides, a couple of murders here and there over the years, but nothing tragic enough to warrant the kind of hostility that a Woman in White usually has. Not to mention, the victims don't have anything in common—”
“You’re just looking for a mystery, aren’t you?” Dean asked, his voice just fond enough to take the sting out of his words. “Maybe it’s just going to be a nice and simple salt and burn. A little monster hunting vacation.”
“Maybe.” Sam didn’t sound convinced and continued to flip thoughtfully through the pages of the journal.
“Well,” Dean said, and pulled up to the local diner with a final clink of rock against the underside of the Impala. “First thing’s first. Everywhere has got pie. And where there’s pie, there’s gossip. What’s our cover this time?”
“Reporters?” Sam hazarded, and then shook his head. “No, there’d be no reason for it. With no connection to the victims, this is something that would be on the local paper, not high profile enough for anywhere else.”
“Ah, we’ll just be tourists and play it by ear,” Dean decided and opened the door, swinging his feet out to the ground. He shut the door and looked around, noting the shabby little diner and the four way intersection that made the main street of the town. He’d been up and down the roads of the United States thousands of times, and it never failed to amaze him how many tiny, insignificant little communities were still around. It was both a little awesome and a little creepy, really.
They made their way up to the diner door, and Sam pulled it open, letting Dean slip in before him. It was a diner like a thousand other diners they’d been in before—red padded stools up at the bar, red and white checkered tile floors, a throw back to ‘50s interior complete with a bored blonde waitress in orthopedic shoes leaning against the counter and popping gum loudly.
Dean gave her his brightest smile anyway, out of habit, and eased into the closest booth, looking hungrily at the daily special written on the whiteboard next to the entrance of the kitchen.
The waitress sauntered over to them and gave them a grin, briskly wiping her hands on her apron. “What can I get you boys?” she asked.
Dean looked away from the daily specials (they were all so promising, full of artery-clogging yumminess) and gave her a nod, taking a look at her name tag. “Hi, Phyllis. My buddy here wants some coffee.” He leaned toward her conspiratorially, while Sam looked at him with something that might have been called fondness. Dean tried to ignore it, for Sammy’s sake. The guy was already a walking chick flick—he didn’t need it advertised. Besides, it was always a good idea to keep the best mocking material as an ace for a later date. You never knew when you had to humiliate your little brother. “What I really want to know is what kind of pie you’ve got here.”
Phyllis gave him a look that was both a little amused and a little exasperated, and tapped her pen against her note pad. “We have just about any that you can think of, honey.”
“You got strawberry rhubarb?” Dean asked hopefully, and kicked Sam in the shin beneath the table when Sam mouthed strawberry rhubarb? at him disbelievingly.
Phyllis laughed. “Sure do.” She didn’t bother to write down his order and turned to Sam. “What about you?”
Sam gave her a grin. “Coffee’s fine for me, thanks.” Phyllis nodded briskly and turned to go into the kitchen to get their order in. Dean took a minute to look around the diner, trying to scope out the regulars. It was a little more difficult (or perhaps easier) than he’d anticipated, because in a town this small, they were all regulars. Sam and Dean seemed to be the only strangers in the place, if the curious looks being cast their way were any indication.
Phyllis slid Dean’s pie and their coffee onto the table in a practiced move and then dropped a handful of creamer containers next to their cups. “Sugar’s over there.” She gestured next to the napkin holder and the salt and pepper shakers, to a small ceramic container that contained a full complement of sugar packets. Dean gave her another smile in thanks and turned to Sam as Phyllis walked back over to her place at the corner of the counter.
Dean turned the grin onto Sam and lounged in his seat, swinging an arm over the back of the booth. “You’d think we were movie stars, the way that people are looking at us,” he said, jerking his head to indicate the stares that were starting to lose their subtlety. That was being kind, of course, by assuming that there had been some sort of subtlety in the first place.
A man in jeans and a plaid shirt stalked through the door; this wouldn’t have been really all that interesting by itself, but the way that the attention shifted from Sam and Dean to the newcomer piqued their interest.
Phyllis caught sight of the guy as he sat at the bar, and her expression morphed from boredom to an achy sort of sympathy, and she brought him a mug and filled his coffee without hesitation. “You’re back here again, honey?”
The man jerked a short nod and wrapped his hands around the cup. “Yeah.”
Phyllis shook her head, a slow, sad movement, and patted him on the shoulder. “I wish we knew about that lady you keep talking about. It was horrible, what happened. I think Aoife still has nightmares about it, poor woman.”
Dean paused his shameless eavesdropping to shoot Sam a look, and nodded toward the pair, the hair on the back of his neck prickling in the same way it did whenever there was a clue to a hunt. Sam nodded in silent agreement, eyes narrow with curiosity. “It’s probably nothing,” Sam said in undertone. “With our luck, he’s probably the town drunk.”
Dean shrugged. “Hey, she said it was a lady, right? It’s as good a place to start as any.”
They laid low for a little while, savoring the coffee and the small town atmosphere that was so very easy to get used to in this job, left money for the food and a hefty tip and headed out of the diner.
Sam frowned thoughtfully as they headed back to the Impala, but didn’t say anything until they were safely in the car. “I wonder if there are any local legends around here. I didn’t see anything on the internet, but Ainsworth is small enough that it might not catch the attention of … well, anyone.”
“I don't think there’s going to be a library with all of the local stories conveniently wrapped up for you, Sammy.” Dean shook his head regretfully. “We’re just going to have to do some good old, stakeout stalking until we catch a break. Or—there’s really nothing here that we can do, and we go along our merry way in a couple of days with a little more sleep. Either way sounds good to me.”
Sam remained silent, frowning as he tried to wrack his brain. Dean maneuvered the Impala out of the diner parking lot and drove down the road, looking around for a hotel where they could set up their base of operations. He only found one—the Shamrock Inn. It was just on this side of shabby, white paint flaking a little to reveal the plaster beneath, the shingles of the roof a little worn. Dean went to check in as Sam gathered their bags.
The woman behind the counter was small, old and delicate—the kind of lady that Dean always imagined probably had to cling to something in order to avoid being blown away in a stiff wind—with a kind smile. “How are you doing today, my boy?” she asked, and Dean couldn’t help but give her an answering smile, surprised by the pleasantness of her Irish accent.
“Not much—me and my brother are taking a road trip. You know, travel the back roads and see the real U.S. before another semester of college,” he rambled cheerfully, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“That’s nice. It’s always good to see the world, I think. So, do you need one room or two?” She was already flipping open her guestbook and running a finger down the list of available rooms. From what Dean could see, there were an awful lot of them.
“Just the one. Two queens.” Dean allowed himself a self-deprecating smirk at the memory of Michael, that snarky little boy in Wisconsin, but the joke flew over the head of the old woman, who just nodded briskly and tapped her book.
“I have just the one,” she said, and went over to her register, punching each number with a methodical thunk. “It’ll be fifty-one eighteen.”
“Sure,” Dean said easily. “Do you take credit cards?” He reached into his wallet.
“We sure do!” She took it and stared at the name, pushing up her thick glasses as she squinted at the card. “Gregory Papadopolos?” she asked, her voice hesitant as she spoke the last few syllables.
Dean shot her a beaming smile. “That’s me!” He pulled out the fake ID that went with the card and slid it across the counter toward her. “My granddad was Greek.” He tossed his head at Sam as Sam came through the door, probably to see what was holding him up. That kid was so impatient sometimes. “We take after our mother.”
“That’s nice, dear,” she said sweetly, and ran the card before handing it back to him and turning away to find the keys to their room.
“So, can I get the name of our wonderful hostess?” Dean asked, turning on a ridiculous amount of flattery in his tone. He could practically feel the weird look that Sam was leveling at the back of his head, but ignored it, leaning against the counter as the woman turned back with their keys.
“Aoife McAllister, at your service,” she said, and tugged his receipt out of the machine and slid it over with a pen for his signature. “So what are you boys doing in Iowa? I’d have thought that college students like you would have gone to Florida for the beaches and the sun.”
Dean opened his mouth to answer, but Sam beat him. “That’s our final destination, ma’am. Truth is, genius here,” Sam patted Dean’s shoulder, “got us lost. And this seems like a nice enough place, so we thought we’d take a break.”
“Well, I can't say I’m unhappy about that, since lost tourists make up most of my business,” Aoife laughed. She took the receipt and handed Dean the keys to their room. “I hope you boys enjoy your stay. Small towns have their own kind of charm.”
“I’m sure we will,” Dean said with a final grin. “You guys have great pie.”
~*~
“Laying it on a bit thick in there, weren’t you?” Sam asked once they were back in the Impala.
“I got her name, didn’t I? That little old thing is the same woman they were talking about earlier, who still has nightmares, right?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “We could have gotten that just by asking her, you know.”
“It’s not nearly as much fun though, is it Sammy?”
They coasted along the side of the building keeping an eye out for their number. Sam shook his head as they pulled into the parking space in front of their room (or what would have been the front of their room if they hadn’t been on the second floor) and got out as Dean killed the ignition, tugging the two duffle bags he had stuffed full of their things from the back seat. They climbed the stairs to their room and slid automatically into their normal routine, checking the windows and various little openings that all hotels had, for weaknesses. Dean came out of the bathroom (no windows there, would quite possibly be the most defensible room in the place if necessary) to find that Sam had claimed the bed closest to the door.
At least, that’s what it looked like. Sam had left the room, probably to scope some more of the town quickly, but he’d tossed a duffle bag on that bed (Dean checked it quickly—sure enough, it was Sam’s stuff) and placed Dean’s things on the bed secured by the wall. It was both a little sweet and a little annoying that Sam felt like he had to be the first line of defense now, but Dean was going to do his best to break him of the habit. Yeah, he’d died, but he hadn’t been the first to actually do that (and Dean very carefully kept his mind off of what it felt like when Sam had died in his arms) and he was back, with his own special guardian angel, even.
Dean grabbed Sam’s stuff and tossed it onto the other bed, switching their positions, and settled down with a sigh, propping himself up with pillows as he pulled out his favorite guns and double-checked their condition.
Sam came through the door and stopped just inside the threshold, closing the door behind him quietly as he took in the backward bed arrangements. Dean gave him a challenging look, and Sam shrugged, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. He grabbed his laptop from the table where he’d left it, sliding it to a more comfortable position as he took a chair. He flipped it open, and Dean looked back down at his weapons, testing the edge of one of his knives as the comforting sound of Sam’s typing filled the room as background noise.
After about a half an hour of waiting, Dean quirked an eyebrow in Sam’s direction. “So, anything interesting?”
Sam shook his head, tapping a button slowly as he read. “Like I said before, there have been a couple of murders, but nothing that’s really unusual. Maybe it’s not a Woman in White.”
“What is it then?”
Sam shot Dean an annoyed look. “If I knew that, we’d already be out of here, hunting the thing.”
Dean gave Sam an unrepentant grin, and grabbed the remote control, turning the television on and flipping through a couple of channels.
Sam closed his laptop with a sigh and stretched——his spine popped loudly enough that Dean could hear it from the bed, and he winced in sympathy. “I have to go to Washington,” Sam finally said, and Dean frowned.
“The state?” Although he’d meant that seriously, it was a lot of fun to watch Sam’s face squinch up into Pissy Bitchface Number Three.
“No, Dean.” And wow, he’d gotten the whiny voice, too. He was batting a thousand tonight. “Washington, Iowa. The city we passed on the way here. Their records might be more comprehensive.” He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it viciously. Dean swallowed a laugh as it puffed up, messier and goofier than ever. “I’m taking the—” At Dean’s look, he stopped his sentence and began again, his face squinching into Pissy Bitchface Number Two. “May I please take the Impala, you car-obsessed freak?”
Dean made a face at him, but dug the car keys out of his pocket to throw at Sam’s head. “Be back by curfew,” he griped, and then shouted at Sam’s back as he left the room, “And treat her like a lady!”
After Sam was gone, the desire to slack off evaporated, and he tossed the remote control from hand to hand as he considered his options. Nothing unusual had happened recently, so it would be weird for him to be asking about local murders—of course, he was supposed to be a tourist, and it was freaky anyway in context. He didn't really want to take a nap, because only god knew what his dreams would be like when he did, and there really was nothing on television during the day time. Even Oprah was in the afternoon. He indulged in a stretch and turned the television off, and got to his feet. At worst, he should go and mingle with the everyday folk of the town, see if anyone acted suspiciously at best, or just become a familiar face around the place, which might make it easier in the long run if he and Sam did need to ask questions later.
Dean went outside into the sunlight, squinting at the light, and looked around. What was there to do in a place like this, really? They'd already gone to the diner, which seemed to be a pretty good hanging out place, but he didn't want to pull the sleazy card, which is what he would seem like without Sam there.
Dean sauntered carelessly down the streets, noting the lack of people. Then again, with a population under a thousand, most of the residents probably worked at one of the larger neighboring cities. There was a park, a couple of stores, a little corner grocery, a school, a couple of restaurants. Maybe he should have gone with Sam after all——he could have goofed off at the movies or something while Sam was researching.
But then he turned a corner, and there it was. A woman with wild, white hair; her mouth opened in a scream, and a second later it was piercing into his ears, sharp and almost as painful as the sound of Castiel's voice; she lifted a trembling finger to point at him as she screamed. Dean fell to his knees, clapping his hands over his ears, and just as soon as it began, the shrieking stopped. He felt more than heard the footsteps pounding the pavement behind him, his ears ringing, and someone placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
Dean blinked up to find the man that he'd seen earlier in the diner, the man's brown eyes wide and hopeful. "What?" he croaked, and wasn't even sure if he'd spoken out loud.
"You did see that, right? I'm not the only one?" the man babbled hopefully, his fingers digging into Dean's shoulder. "Oh god, please tell me I'm not the only one. You saw it; it was pointing at you!"
"Dude, shut up!" Dean tried vainly to shake the ringing out of his ears. "Stop grabbing at me unless you have some aspirin!" Weirdly, the guy actually let him go to pat himself down, as if he were trying to see if he had painkillers on him. Dean staggered up to his feet and brushed off the knees of his jeans, checking to make sure he hadn't torn anything or that he hadn’t accidentally gotten more dirt than necessary on his new jacket. "What is up with you?"
The man had the decency to look embarrassed, and yanked a hand through his scruffy brown hair. "I'm sorry if I freaked you out. My name's Jeff Wilson. And I've seen that thing," he pointed a thumb in the direction of where the ghostly-looking woman had been standing, "before."
"Great," Dean sighed, and then flipped open his cell phone, jabbing at the speed dial with his thumb. When Sam answered, Dean scowled at the ground and said, "You don't have to go to Washington. It's not a Woman in White."
~*~
Once Sam had made his way back, the three of them went to a different restaurant from the one Dean had originally picked, just for the convenience of a little anonymity, and the boys found themselves staring at Jeff Wilson, who was looking at them with a vibrant, undisguised hope in his eyes.
"So, what's your story, Jeff?" Dean asked, lounging comfortably back into his seat. Sam decided to lean his elbows on the table in front of them, fixing Jeff with an intent look.
"It's pretty simple," Jeff started, toying with the straw paper from his drink. His eyes remained fixed on the warped wooden table between them. "I was a tourist, like you guys—"
"We're not actually tourists," Sam revealed softly, keeping his eyes on Jeff.
If possible, Jeff got even more hopeful. "Are you—-are you those kinds of people?"
Dean shared a confused look with Sam. "What kind of people, Jeff?"
Jeff waved a hand. "You know."
"Gay?" Sam ventured. Dean rolled his eyes and kicked Sam in the back of the leg.
Jeff's forehead creased in confusion, and he made another hand gesture. "You know. Hunters."
Dean gave him a disbelieving look. "You know about hunters?"
Jeff looked a little sheepish. "Well, I don't really know—I've never met any before, but I've heard of people who help in this kind of situation, people who have been helped have mentioned things here and there. And he," Jeff jerked his head in Dean's direction, "he didn't react like anyone who's never seen this kind of thing before." Sam nodded, and Jeff continued quietly. "Anyway, I was passing through here a couple of years ago with my wife, Melanie. And we saw this … thing. The same thing that you saw, a little north of here. I did a U turn and came back here because she was so freaked, got a room here at the hotel in town. It's not the same one that's there now—the original one was torn down two years ago, to make way for the Shamrock that Aoife runs now. And Melanie, she," Jeff swallowed. "She had an accident in the bathroom. She fell. And I've never been able to shake the feeling that that thing was somehow responsible."
Sam looked between Dean and Jeff, waiting for more information, but Dean just shrugged, and Jeff seemed exhausted by the little he'd said about his wife. "So what did it look like?"
"It was a woman wearing really pale, tattered clothing," Jeff said.
"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Her hair was really light, too. She screamed at me." He closed his eyes, forehead furrowed in concentration as he tried to bring back the details. "Her hands were really bony. Her voice sounded like … like nails on a chalkboard times a thousand."
"Does it really?" Jeff asked, sounding almost unwilling to ask that but doing it anyway. "I've never heard it myself."
"Yeah," Dean said, and nodded his head firmly. "It sounded like—" Like angels, he wanted to finish, but just shook his head instead.
"It was a screaming spirit," Sam said slowly, his voice flat, and Dean shot him a narrow look.
"Yeah. You got any ideas swimming in that brain of yours, Sammy?"
"It sounds like a banshee," Sam said, and rolled his eyes when both Dean and Jeff gave him a blank look.
"Like the drink?" Dean said with a grin.
Sam snorted. "And you think you're the smart one? No, Dean. A banshee is an Irish fairy that foretells the—" Sam stopped and turned in the booth so that he was looking at Dean head on. "It screamed at you?"
Dean nodded. "No doubt about it. Jeff and I were the only ones that saw it, but I heard it scream. It was definitely pointing at me."
"Dean," Sam said urgently, "a banshee only shows up when someone is going to die."
Dean dropped his head against the top slope of the booth and stared up at the ceiling. "So, I'm going to die? It must be Tuesday."
"What are we going to do about it, then?" Jeff asked.
Dean scratched the back of his head and looked at Sam. "Yeah, Sam. What are we going to do about it?"
"I don't know," Sam admitted, and gestured for the journal.
Dean reached into his jacket, and then paused, looking pointedly at Jeff.
"What?" Jeff asked, bewildered.
"I don't wanna say I don't trust you," Dean drawled, "but I don't trust you. Unless you've got something else to add, this is a two man gig."
"But——" Jeff protested. "My wife was killed by one of those things! I want to get in on this. I want to help!"
"Listen," Dean said, "I understand. I get it, I really do. But this stuff is dangerous. We can't watch out for you and do our job at the same time."
"I was in the Army," Jeff said mulishly. "It's not like I'm dead weight."
"That's cool," Sam said before Dean could open his mouth again. "And if you can help us, believe me, we'll let you know. Here, give me your cell number." Sam made a show of typing the numbers in carefully, and saved it under Jeff's name, then turned the phone towards Jeff to show him that he was officially in the list of contacts. "If we need your help, we'll call. Seriously. The best thing that you can do for us is go to Washington and look up banshees for us. Anything you can find. I'll be looking online, but sometimes the best information you can get is in the books. Okay?"
Jeff still looked like he wanted to argue, but he nodded instead, and slid out of his side of the booth. "I guess I better get on it, then."
"Thanks," Sam said, and he and Dean also got ready to leave, following Jeff out into the parking lot of the restaurant. They parted ways, Jeff going to his Honda, when the banshee's scream cut through the air again, louder, more insistent than before, and Dean's knees gave out almost instantly. He would have fallen if not for Sam's quick reflexes, and he trembled in Sam's grip. When it finally stopped, Dean opened bleary eyes that he hadn't even realized that he closed to see a dozen blurry figures by the Impala. He blinked, trying to raise a hand to rub at his eyes, and when his vision cleared, the banshee had already vanished.
"Holy crap," Jeff said.
"What happened? Did you see it, Sam?" Dean asked, trying to get his balance back. He felt a handkerchief press against the side of his face, and Sam sighed.
"I saw them."
Dean took the handkerchief from Sam's hand and wiped the side of his face himself, pulling the cloth back to see blood staining the fabric. Damned supernatural freaks and his damned rupturing eardrums. He wouldn't be surprised if he ended up deaf. Once his head stopped ringing, he caught up with what Sam had said.
"What do you mean, them?"
The expression on Sam's face was tight. "There were six, Dean. I saw six."
~*~
Once Jeff was safely out of the way and heading toward the library of Washington, Sam threw himself into his online searching, occasionally snagging the cell phone to make a call to one of their contacts, while Dean lay on the bed and contemplated closing his eyes and going to sleep for once, when he wasn't completely driven to the ground by exhaustion.
Just as he was about to slide under, Sam pointedly cleared his throat, and then didn't make another sound until Dean had opened an eye to see what he wanted. "What?" Dean asked, and propped himself up a little more on his elbows. "Did you find a way to kill it?"
Sam shook his head, but he still looked like he was holding something back, so Dean stared at him, waiting him out. "I did find something interesting, though."
"Yeah?" Dean prompted. "And?"
"And, like I said before, banshees are an Irish fairy … Their duty is to foretell the death of a man or woman with their screams. Actual women have taken up their role as well. They were called keeners."
"Yeah?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"And they don't actually cause anything. They're just messengers."
"So, what are you telling me? Don't hate the player, hate the game?"
"Well, not exactly, but … yeah."
"Great." Dean rubbed his hands together roughly and bounced off the bed. "Well, I better get myself some more pie before it's too late."
"Dean!" Sam snapped, and he ran a hand through his hair.
"Hey," Dean said uneasily, shoving his hands into his jeans. "Sam."
"I just don't get you, Dean," Sam burst out in frustration. "You just came back from hell—you really don't care if you're just going to die again?"
"What do you expect me to do?" Dean asked him. "Do we have a way to stop the banshees? Do we have any way to find out what they're screaming about?"
"I—" Sam swallowed and deflated. "No."
"How about this?" Dean scratched his head. "Do we know why so many of them were screaming at me?"
"Actually—" Sam dragged the journal to his side and flipped it to a page in the back, following their father's scrawl with an impatient finger. "I did read something online that is corroborated by Dad. It seems when someone important, or holy, is about to pass on, the banshees tend to gather around him. Like it's an honor."
"Huh." Dean tilted his head. "So why are they freaking out over me?"
Sam looked like he wanted to hit Dean for a second but took a deep breath instead. "You were pulled from hell by an angel, Dean. Maybe they figure that's holy enough?"
Dean snorted. "Shows how much they know. Stupid fairies." He wandered toward the door, and then turned back to Sam. "If it happens, it happens, Sammy. Maybe it won't even happen here! Maybe it'll happen when we're fighting our next ghost, or our next zombie, or our next whatever the hell goes bump in the night loud enough to get hunted. I'm not scared of it. I've already seen the worst that death could possibly threaten me with." He shrugged, avoiding Sam's eyes. "But fine, I get your other point. I've already had pie today—no need to get greedy. I'm going to go get a coke. Want anything?" Sam opened his mouth, and Dean quickly clarified, "From the vending machine?" Sam shook his head.
"Okay then," Dean sighed, and headed out the door and down the stairs to the first floor vending machine.
When he came back, he heard Sam talking to someone as the door came open, heard something like, "I thought you might know something—it's Dean—fine, whatever. Maybe. It depends. Bye." Dean quirked his eyebrow at Sam curiously, but Sam just shrugged and turned back to his computer.
"Who was that?" Dean asked when it became obvious that Sam wasn't going to offer up any information voluntarily.
Sam shook his head. "Just a source. I was hoping she would have a lead, but it didn't pan out."
"That sucks," Dean said sincerely and turned on the television. It was about time for Oprah, anyway.
~*~
Jeff didn't find anything new at the library, which Dean had expected anyway. If it couldn't be found by Bobby or Sam, there was no way in hell that a newbie banshee hunter was going to find crap, although it was nice enough to know he took the search seriously. But now that he was back in town, he still wanted to be part of the Winchester hunt, and that was driving Dean nuts. Even worse was the fact that they had to convince him that the banshees hadn't been responsible for his wife's death, and that it was a legitimate accident.
He didn't believe them. Dean wasn't surprised by that either.
"Jeff," Sam said, and it was always Sam trying to convince people that they were telling the truth. Most of the time, Dean didn't give a flip. Just do the job and move on, that was his motto. "We've researched every bit of lore we can find about banshees. You were just researching them yourself. There's nothing that says a banshee is directly related to or responsible for the deaths they foretell. There's no way to kill them. They just exist."
Jeff shook his head stubbornly. "That's not the entire truth. They've always managed to defeat the Silver Banshee before!"
Dean frowned, looking at Sam for a translation. Sam looked equally as baffled and shrugged his shoulders in a reply to Dean's silent question. And then Dean got it.
"Dude, that's a comic book!" He couldn't help the snarl that escaped, and Jeff looked at him defiantly. Dean threw up his hands and stalked about the room. "I give up. You're a moron. Comic books are not a valid form of research!"
"You told me to look at anything that had banshees in it!" Jeff protested, and Sam stood quickly at the sight of Dean's murderous expression, placing himself between them and raising his hands to calm Dean down.
Dean turned around and clenched his hands into fists, counting to ten and taking a deep breath. When he had himself back in hand, he turned back. "You're right. We did say that. But I can guarantee that whatever you read in the comics doesn't matter. Sometimes on the independent publishers, you can get really, crazy lucky, but the main publishers, no. Just. No."
Jeff sighed. "I was really counting on you to help me."
"Sometimes," Sam told him, "there's nothing to help with. The banshee was the one trying to help you, by letting you know what was going to happen. It was ignorance and bad luck that killed Melanie, Jeff. I'm sorry."
Jeff shook his head, and when he looked at Dean and Sam, his eyes were dark with pain. "So I was just chasing this thing. That didn't have anything to do with—I can't understand that. I just. I can't." Jeff stood and strode out of the room.
Dean shook his head. "He's going to do something stupid, isn't he?" he asked despite himself, hoping that Sam would give him an answer he wasn't expecting.
"Yeah, I think so," Sam said, and Dean sighed, already heading toward the door to follow Jeff. He moved pretty fast, already almost finished going down the stairs, and Dean pounded after him, taking the stairs two at a time to catch up.
He saw, with the sort of stomach sinking certainty that had always accompanied his flashes of insight when something horrible was about to happen, exactly how it was going to go down. From his slightly higher vantage point, he saw Jeff going down the stairs, and how his car was parked just across the street; also, he could see the truck had pulled out from the gas station gaining speed, and Dean couldn't believe it, how he was going to die again saving a moron that was too much of an idiot to look both ways before crossing the street.
"Jeff!" Dean shouted, trying to warn him as he sped up.
Jeff apparently heard him, stopped where he was and looked back at Dean. That's when he saw the truck barreling toward him, frozen like a deer in the headlights, and then Dean shoved him out of the way, and he heard brakes squealing as the driver realized he'd been going way too fast—and then there was a hand curled around the collar of Dean's jacket; he was yanked backward into the warm circle of someone's arms with barely a second to spare. He felt the wind of the vehicle as it passed an inch from where he was, and there was the smell of burning rubber rising up from the abused tires.
Dean flailed out, nearly falling over, but his rescuer's arms were solid around him, and that stability allowed him to catch his balance again as well as his breath. "Thanks for coming after me—" he began, thinking that it was Sam, and then he noticed the light-colored trench coat swirling about him. He twisted around to stare at Castiel, who just tilted his head and gave him a piercing look, his arms still around Dean in a tight grip.
"Dean!" And there was Sam, scarcely out of breath and skidding to a stop next to them. Then, to Castiel, "Thanks, mister, my brother's crazy—" Castiel turned his head to look at Sam, quiet and stern, and Sam stuttered to a stop.
"This is becoming a habit of yours." Dean grinned, interrupting Sam's confusion and drawing Castiel's gaze back to him. "Is this what you do, now?" Dean stepped away from Castiel, and Castiel obediently dropped his arms.
"The bean sidhe cried a warning for you," Castiel said, his voice faintly disapproving. "Whereas you refused to heed it, I did not."
"Yeah, yeah, judge me later," Dean snapped.
"I did not intend to judge you, Dean Winchester," Castiel said, voice still soft, quiet and firm. "I intended to point out your carelessness."
"Wait. Who are you?" Sam interrupted, eyes darting back and forth between Castiel and Dean, and Dean lowered his head in embarrassment, wondering why he hadn't introduced them in the first place.
"Sam?" Dean's eyes remained firmly on the ground, even as he tilted his head toward Castiel. "This is Castiel."
"Castiel? This is—Dean, is this—?" Sam sputtered, and Dean shot him a look.
Castiel nodded a greeting, either polite enough or disinterested enough to ignore Sam's ridiculous dolphin noises. "Samuel."
"This is amazing—I have so many questions," Sam babbled, and Dean winced, bringing up a hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward off his impending headache.
There was the slamming of a door, and a loud, pissed-off voice shouted, "Can someone tell me what the hell is going on here?" Dean and Sam looked at the angry truck driver, red faced and looking mad enough to spit nails, and when Dean turned back to look at Castiel on instinct, he already knew that Castiel had gone.
"Hey, where'd he go?" Sam asked, like an echo of Dean's thoughts.
Dean shrugged. "He's always like this. Angels are such drama queens. Come on, we better get this thing taken care of before the crazy truck driver rips Jeff a new one."
"At least now he can't say that we couldn't do anything to help him out," Sam agreed. Dean grinned and looked both ways down the street before joining the crowd, trying to diffuse what could have been a much, much worse situation.
~*~
Hooks were ripping into his shoulders, tearing the muscle little by little. It was pain, despair, hopelessness. It went on forever. They stripped his flesh from his bones in long, slow flanks; fire roasted and snow froze and lightning sizzled all around him. It was all pointless. It was all brought on by the choices that he made, and even now he couldn't regret it.
He couldn't regret it.
And they spoke to him, with metaphorically split tongues and too many bitter words to swallow, about how his sacrifice was pathetic, unworthy, unmourned, and even now he had lost his brother to the darkness. Why hope when Sam was even further, even more lost than he had ever been?
Lilith was there sometimes (all the time, never, endlessly) and she took the softest, most sensitive parts of him and pulled them out delicately, like a surgeon, so very adept with her scalpel, pulled him apart strand by strand, heartbeat by heartbeat, until.
Until there was nothing left but hate and pain and betrayal.
Dean bolted up from his bed with a gasp, his heart hammering away in his chest, his forehead slick with a cold sweat. His chest heaved with every breath, and he jammed the heels of his palms against his eyes, as if the aching pressure would drive the images and feelings out of his mind.
He shook his head violently and headed toward the bathroom, splashed cold water everywhere, over his head and the back of his neck. He couldn't resist staring at himself in the mirror, surprised as always that there weren't any marks on him. Any marks but one, and he raised a hand to press over his shoulder, over his shirt, covering Castiel's handprint. It was all so crazy.
Dean didn't realize that he was waiting for Sam to pop up in the doorway, to give him a concerned look and ask how he was feeling until minutes passed and Sam hadn't shown up. Dean went out of the bathroom and back into the darkened hotel room. There was a light on somewhere close by because it illuminated the room just bright enough to note the stark cleanliness of the room itself and the immaculate folds of Sam's bed.
Sam was nowhere to be seen.
Dean rubbed his eyes again, still too shaken from his dream to wonder after it. He dropped his arm with the huff of a sigh, and then inhaled abruptly when he saw Castiel leaning against one of the chairs by the window. The startled mouthful of air erupted into coughing, and Dean bent over, trying to catch his breath.
"Don't do that!" Dean snapped when he felt closer to normal, and he glared at Castiel.
Castiel stared back at him, unperturbed. "The dreams still disturb you." The intonation in his voice made it clear it was a statement, not a question.
"I don't want to talk about it," Dean said and sat down on his bed, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands dangle between his legs. Castiel remained silent, but Dean could feel Castiel’s eyes burning into him. "What did you want?"
"You shouldn't be alone.” Castiel looked out the window.
"So it's better to stalk sleeping people?" Dean demanded. "Is this what you do for fun?"
Castiel looked back at him, eyes dark and probing. "I don't understand."
"Forget it," Dean said, shaking his head.
They remained like that, Castiel silent by the window, Dean unmoving on the bed.
"Aoife McAllister has an heirloom," Castiel finally said.
"Yeah? So?" Dean asked. "What about it? Let me guess—it's a seal, and you want me to take it from the old lady?"
Castiel frowned. "No." He took a couple of steps forward and balanced on the corner of Sam's bed, mirroring Dean's position. "It was a touchstone to her homeland, so that the bean sidhe could find her immigrant family, whenever it was necessary, to announce a time for grief. There are no longer many to keen for."
"Is this a heavy- handed way of telling me something I'm supposed to care about?" Dean quipped. "Or are you just saying that the banshees are lonely, and that's why they're screaming after people?" Castiel didn't bother saying anything else; he sat there on Sam's bed and watched Dean until Dean's skin began to crawl, and he fidgeted in place anxiously. "Wait—that is what you're telling me? So—what? They're just going to continue screaming at people and scaring them out of their wits? Maybe even causing the death they're wailing about?"
Castiel stared at him, and although his expression didn't change, Dean got the feeling he might be disappointed. "The bean sidhe are not evil, Dean. They simply are. Would you deny them their purpose?"
Dean ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. "What am I even supposed to say to that, Cas?" The nickname tumbled out before Dean had realized that he was even going to say it, and he looked at Castiel, refusing to blush.
Castiel tilted his head, his forehead furrowed. "I wasn't aware that you had to say anything." Castiel stood, looking down at Dean contemplatively. "You should rest. You have long days ahead of you."
Dean shuddered, memories of hooks and despair and hatred flickering through his mind, and he shook his head. "No, thanks."
"There is no need to fear," Castiel said, his voice soft and, although Dean would never say it, incredibly reassuring. "Trust me and sleep." Dean stared warily up at Castiel, and then obediently let his eyes flutter closed. Castiel's fingers touched his forehead.
When Dean opened his eyes again, sunlight was streaming through the window of the room. He was covered in his jacket, and when he sat up, he found his shoes placed carefully next to his bed. The door to the room creaked open, and Dean looked to find Sam walking through the door, burdened with a drink holder with two cups of coffee and a bag that smelled really good in that fantastically awful way that terrible breakfast fast food can smell, and Dean's stomach growled, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he had to have it, all of it, and right now.
"Hey, you're awake," Sam said, and Dean lunged off the bed, enviously eyeing the bag of food that Sam was holding.
"Food, Sammy," Dean demanded, and Sam laughed, handing him the coffee as he dug through the bag for their breakfast.
"You're such a freak," Sam said, passing him a paper- wrapped sandwich. "Half an hour ago, you were sleeping like a log."
"I'm awake now," Dean said, annoyingly obvious, and eyed the sandwich in his hands. He wanted to ask where were you last night? but instead, he unwrapped his sandwich and took a large bite, making an appreciative sound as he chewed.
"You're disgusting, you know that, right?" But Sam was laughing still, so Dean swallowed, taking a swig of coffee. Black, with just a touch of sugar. Perfect.
"Shut up before I eat you, bitch," he told Sam affectionately, and jammed another section of sandwich into his mouth.
"You shut up, before I stop bringing you breakfast, you jerk," came Sam's response, and Dean kept his smile to himself. He was just being paranoid and weirded out by his dreams. He trusted Sammy. If there was something important going on, he would tell him. Dean would just have to wait until then.
next
Title: The Narrow Way: Chapter 1/?
Rating: PG-13 for now
Warnings: None for this chapter
Summary: And there it was. A woman with wild, white hair; her mouth opened in a scream, and a second later it was piercing into his ears, sharp and almost as painful as the sound of Castiel's voice.
Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to the CW and Kripke. I'm only borrowing them for a while.
Feedback: I am a junkie, feed my addiction. I especially like constructive criticism. Let me know anything you think.
Author’s notes: All right, there are a lot of notes here. I originally began writing this in November of '08, after two episodes of Supernatural season 4 had aired. So, it is canon until S4 E2 'Are You There, God? It's Me, Dean Winchester.' I did take the parts of show canon that I liked and manipulated it into my story, whenever it already fit my intentions. I tried to be as accurate as possible, but once again, accuracy at times was played with in accordance to my plot. This is my version of Season 4 of Supernatural, my Apocalypse.
I really have to thank
lady_krysis, for her intensive beta and all of her insightful comments that have really helped to make this into something I'm proud to have written. Thanks to dungeonmarm for some additional edits and a sharp eye on some of my smaller details, and thanks to scheherezhad for cheering me on. Thanks to all of those mentioned above, and to sweetnlow for your incredible and immense support, without which this would have died on my laptop without ever seeing the light. I love you guys.Chapter One: Cry Baby Cry
Jeff Wilson knew he was driving too fast, but he was creeped out by the long, silent stretch of road, and the stupid radio had been fussy for the last couple of miles, so he’d turned it off. Melanie was fast asleep in the passenger seat beside him, and he tried to relax, to listen to her breathing and calm down. The trees were passing by him in blurs, outlines dark and fuzzy, and he eased off the gas sheepishly.
Melanie stirred in her seat as he slowed, her eyes cracking open as she yawned and tried to stretch in her seat without hitting him in the side of his head. “Jeff?” she asked quietly, her voice thick with sleep, and he glanced over at her with a smile. “Where are we?”
“We’re taking the scenic route,” he said heartily. “That’s what road trips are for, right?”
Melanie sighed, giving him the look that meant he wasn’t fooling her one bit. “You got lost, didn’t you? We were supposed to be at the hotel hours ago.”
“All right, I admit it. I give in without a fight. I’m lost. I think the directions at that last gas station were wrong,” Jeff said. “There was that stupid little trading post a couple of miles back—as soon as I can find a place, I’ll turn around. Maybe we can get a room there.”
Melanie looked at him, amused. “It wasn’t a trading post, you know. There were actual houses. People live there.”
“It’s close enough,” Jeff said uncharitably. He focused on the road again, keeping an eye out for anywhere that he could use to turn, the shadows still sending a little shiver down his back.
Then Melanie screamed, a high-pitched note of terror that rattled through the car, and Jeff slammed on the breaks, automatically thrusting a hand out to keep Melanie from bolting forward into the windshield. “Oh my god, oh my god!” Melanie shrieked, covering her face in her hands. “Jeff, did you hear—— did you see that? Did you see?”
“What?” Jeff asked frantically. He looked out the window, squinting toward the darkness of the woods around it. He didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but Melanie wasn’t the type of girl to scream like that over nothing. “What was it?”
Melanie dropped her hands from her face, pressing them against the glass of her window instead as she looked out. “There was this—this lady, I think, and she was screaming. She was pointing, and her fingers were—” Melanie shuddered violently. “You really didn’t see it?”
Jeff shook his head. “I didn’t see anything, hon. Just the road. Are you sure it wasn’t a nightmare?”
Melanie was already shaking her head before he even finished his sentence. “No, I was awake. I was talking to you, for God’s sake.”
“You’ve talked to me in your sleep before,” he said gently.
Melanie looked at him skeptically. “After I’ve opened my eyes?”
Jeff didn’t have an answer to that, because the truth was that she never had. He sighed. “At any rate, do you still see it?” Melanie shook her head. “Then it’s gone now, whatever it was. I’m turning here—we’ll get a place to sleep at the trading post town and start again tomorrow morning, okay?”
“Okay.” Melanie nodded and rested back against her seat again, her arms crossed protectively over her chest. “I can't believe you didn’t see it. It scared the hell out of me.”
“Hey, you screaming scared the hell out of me, okay? I think that makes us even.” Jeff stopped the car and looked carefully up and down the empty road before doing a tight U turn. They started down the road again; Melanie carefully avoided looking in the direction where she had apparently seen the woman, huddling into herself anxiously.
“You’re really freaked by whatever you saw, aren’t you?” Jeff asked.
“Yeah,” Melanie agreed immediately. “I feel like somebody’s walked over my grave.”
“Well, that’s just silly,” Jeff said, trying to lighten the atmosphere. “You don't have a grave!”
Melanie rolled her eyes, tension bleeding out of her a little. “Oh, that was so witty it hurt.” Melanie reached over to turn the radio on, switching it to one of her fluffy pop stations, and Jeff let her, hoping it would help her calm down.
It happened in a second as Melanie was leaning over to play with the stations—one blink, and there was a woman by the side of the road, with wild white hair and washed out, pale skin. Her mouth was open in what might have been a scream, but Jeff didn’t hear anything from inside the car. The woman pointed at Melanie until they flew past, mouth open wide and soundless.
Melanie bounced up a little as when she found a song that she liked, and shot him an embarrassed smile. “You’re right. I think I must have just dreamed it. I can't believe I let something stupid like that get to me.”
Jeff nodded, his mouth dry, and stayed silent.
~*~
They made it safely to the little city (and Melanie was right, it was actually more than a trade store, even if not by much) and got a small room at the only hotel. It was quaint, a little rustic, run by a little Irish lady with a thick accent and a warm smile.
By the time they got settled into their room, both Jeff and Melanie were calmer, reassured by the dual comforts of a place to sleep and the promise of a hot shower. Jeff let Melanie go into the bathroom first and kicked off his shoes, flopping onto the bed. It was covered with an actual duvet, and Jeff laughed, patting it a little as he closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, he was surprised to discover that he’d apparently fallen asleep, for an hour and a half or so, if the clock was to be believed. He indulged in a luxurious stretch. “Melanie?” Jeff sat up and looked around the small room, curious when she didn’t respond. The light was on in the bathroom, and there was the sound of the shower running. “Melanie?” He wandered sleepily over to the bathroom, scratching at the itchy line of his pants as he prodded the door. “I have to—” Jeff’s voice stuck stubbornly in his throat as the door swung slowly open, and he closed his eyes, shaking his head once before opening them again.
The water was running, and had been for a while, if one were to judge by the water temperature of the cold beads as they flicked him with their droplets, but Jeff barely felt them, frozen to the spot by the dark pool of crimson staining the tile of the bathroom, Melanie’s eyes staring sightlessly up toward the ceiling.
Jeff began to scream and couldn’t stop.
~*~
The road was nothing but gravel beneath the Impala's tires, and Dean swore at the sound of pebbles striking against the undercarriage, craning his head out the window to stare balefully at the ground.
“I’m sorry, baby,” Dean crooned, stroking the dashboard of the Impala soothingly. “We’ll get this job done, and then we’ll take you in for a full check up, I promise.” Dean saw Sam’s expression squinch up from the corner of his eye and turned a full scowl in his brother’s direction. “You got something to say, Sammy?”
Sam just shook his head, a smile twisting the corners of his mouth. “Nothing, Dean.”
Dean gave him a suspicious look but shrugged after a minute, letting it go. “So, wanna run by me again what’s so weird out here in Nowhere, Iowa?”
It was Sam’s turn to glare at Dean this time, and he settled back more comfortably into his seat. “Weren’t you listening to me oh, I don't know, at any point during this entire trip?”
You were talking?” Dean asked in surprise and shot a mischievous look in his brother’s direction. He tapped the edge of the Impala's window gently, stroking a finger along the rubber sealing of the window.
“Do you guys need a room?” Sam asked pointedly. “Because I can walk, if you need some quality time.”
“Don't listen to him, baby,” Dean whispered. “He’s just jealous because you love me best.” The Impala's engine revved in what could have possibly been agreement, and Dean laughed at Sam’s expression.
“Lighten up on the gas, will you? It’s not cheap,” came Sam’s peevish response, and Dean looked over at him curiously. Sam folded his arms over his chest. “Were you serious when you said you weren’t listening to me at all?”
Dean shook his head. “Nah, I’m just messing with you. Having fun, you know?”
Sam snorted and shook his shaggy head, pulling the journal from the glove compartment and opening it up to flip through the pages, looking for any information he might have missed the first time around.
“Anyway,” Sam said, “I want to say it might be another Woman in White, but it doesn’t seem to fit right.”
“What are you talking about?” Dean asked. “Now you’re having doubts about the case? When you got that call, you seemed pretty serious. According to your friend, there’s been something strange going on. We have sightings of a woman in a white dress—people are dying. It seems like a pretty clear-cut case, right?”
“That’s true, but I’ve been looking at the local history, and it doesn’t seem like there’s any basis for it. There are a couple of suicides, a couple of murders here and there over the years, but nothing tragic enough to warrant the kind of hostility that a Woman in White usually has. Not to mention, the victims don't have anything in common—”
“You’re just looking for a mystery, aren’t you?” Dean asked, his voice just fond enough to take the sting out of his words. “Maybe it’s just going to be a nice and simple salt and burn. A little monster hunting vacation.”
“Maybe.” Sam didn’t sound convinced and continued to flip thoughtfully through the pages of the journal.
“Well,” Dean said, and pulled up to the local diner with a final clink of rock against the underside of the Impala. “First thing’s first. Everywhere has got pie. And where there’s pie, there’s gossip. What’s our cover this time?”
“Reporters?” Sam hazarded, and then shook his head. “No, there’d be no reason for it. With no connection to the victims, this is something that would be on the local paper, not high profile enough for anywhere else.”
“Ah, we’ll just be tourists and play it by ear,” Dean decided and opened the door, swinging his feet out to the ground. He shut the door and looked around, noting the shabby little diner and the four way intersection that made the main street of the town. He’d been up and down the roads of the United States thousands of times, and it never failed to amaze him how many tiny, insignificant little communities were still around. It was both a little awesome and a little creepy, really.
They made their way up to the diner door, and Sam pulled it open, letting Dean slip in before him. It was a diner like a thousand other diners they’d been in before—red padded stools up at the bar, red and white checkered tile floors, a throw back to ‘50s interior complete with a bored blonde waitress in orthopedic shoes leaning against the counter and popping gum loudly.
Dean gave her his brightest smile anyway, out of habit, and eased into the closest booth, looking hungrily at the daily special written on the whiteboard next to the entrance of the kitchen.
The waitress sauntered over to them and gave them a grin, briskly wiping her hands on her apron. “What can I get you boys?” she asked.
Dean looked away from the daily specials (they were all so promising, full of artery-clogging yumminess) and gave her a nod, taking a look at her name tag. “Hi, Phyllis. My buddy here wants some coffee.” He leaned toward her conspiratorially, while Sam looked at him with something that might have been called fondness. Dean tried to ignore it, for Sammy’s sake. The guy was already a walking chick flick—he didn’t need it advertised. Besides, it was always a good idea to keep the best mocking material as an ace for a later date. You never knew when you had to humiliate your little brother. “What I really want to know is what kind of pie you’ve got here.”
Phyllis gave him a look that was both a little amused and a little exasperated, and tapped her pen against her note pad. “We have just about any that you can think of, honey.”
“You got strawberry rhubarb?” Dean asked hopefully, and kicked Sam in the shin beneath the table when Sam mouthed strawberry rhubarb? at him disbelievingly.
Phyllis laughed. “Sure do.” She didn’t bother to write down his order and turned to Sam. “What about you?”
Sam gave her a grin. “Coffee’s fine for me, thanks.” Phyllis nodded briskly and turned to go into the kitchen to get their order in. Dean took a minute to look around the diner, trying to scope out the regulars. It was a little more difficult (or perhaps easier) than he’d anticipated, because in a town this small, they were all regulars. Sam and Dean seemed to be the only strangers in the place, if the curious looks being cast their way were any indication.
Phyllis slid Dean’s pie and their coffee onto the table in a practiced move and then dropped a handful of creamer containers next to their cups. “Sugar’s over there.” She gestured next to the napkin holder and the salt and pepper shakers, to a small ceramic container that contained a full complement of sugar packets. Dean gave her another smile in thanks and turned to Sam as Phyllis walked back over to her place at the corner of the counter.
Dean turned the grin onto Sam and lounged in his seat, swinging an arm over the back of the booth. “You’d think we were movie stars, the way that people are looking at us,” he said, jerking his head to indicate the stares that were starting to lose their subtlety. That was being kind, of course, by assuming that there had been some sort of subtlety in the first place.
A man in jeans and a plaid shirt stalked through the door; this wouldn’t have been really all that interesting by itself, but the way that the attention shifted from Sam and Dean to the newcomer piqued their interest.
Phyllis caught sight of the guy as he sat at the bar, and her expression morphed from boredom to an achy sort of sympathy, and she brought him a mug and filled his coffee without hesitation. “You’re back here again, honey?”
The man jerked a short nod and wrapped his hands around the cup. “Yeah.”
Phyllis shook her head, a slow, sad movement, and patted him on the shoulder. “I wish we knew about that lady you keep talking about. It was horrible, what happened. I think Aoife still has nightmares about it, poor woman.”
Dean paused his shameless eavesdropping to shoot Sam a look, and nodded toward the pair, the hair on the back of his neck prickling in the same way it did whenever there was a clue to a hunt. Sam nodded in silent agreement, eyes narrow with curiosity. “It’s probably nothing,” Sam said in undertone. “With our luck, he’s probably the town drunk.”
Dean shrugged. “Hey, she said it was a lady, right? It’s as good a place to start as any.”
They laid low for a little while, savoring the coffee and the small town atmosphere that was so very easy to get used to in this job, left money for the food and a hefty tip and headed out of the diner.
Sam frowned thoughtfully as they headed back to the Impala, but didn’t say anything until they were safely in the car. “I wonder if there are any local legends around here. I didn’t see anything on the internet, but Ainsworth is small enough that it might not catch the attention of … well, anyone.”
“I don't think there’s going to be a library with all of the local stories conveniently wrapped up for you, Sammy.” Dean shook his head regretfully. “We’re just going to have to do some good old, stakeout stalking until we catch a break. Or—there’s really nothing here that we can do, and we go along our merry way in a couple of days with a little more sleep. Either way sounds good to me.”
Sam remained silent, frowning as he tried to wrack his brain. Dean maneuvered the Impala out of the diner parking lot and drove down the road, looking around for a hotel where they could set up their base of operations. He only found one—the Shamrock Inn. It was just on this side of shabby, white paint flaking a little to reveal the plaster beneath, the shingles of the roof a little worn. Dean went to check in as Sam gathered their bags.
The woman behind the counter was small, old and delicate—the kind of lady that Dean always imagined probably had to cling to something in order to avoid being blown away in a stiff wind—with a kind smile. “How are you doing today, my boy?” she asked, and Dean couldn’t help but give her an answering smile, surprised by the pleasantness of her Irish accent.
“Not much—me and my brother are taking a road trip. You know, travel the back roads and see the real U.S. before another semester of college,” he rambled cheerfully, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
“That’s nice. It’s always good to see the world, I think. So, do you need one room or two?” She was already flipping open her guestbook and running a finger down the list of available rooms. From what Dean could see, there were an awful lot of them.
“Just the one. Two queens.” Dean allowed himself a self-deprecating smirk at the memory of Michael, that snarky little boy in Wisconsin, but the joke flew over the head of the old woman, who just nodded briskly and tapped her book.
“I have just the one,” she said, and went over to her register, punching each number with a methodical thunk. “It’ll be fifty-one eighteen.”
“Sure,” Dean said easily. “Do you take credit cards?” He reached into his wallet.
“We sure do!” She took it and stared at the name, pushing up her thick glasses as she squinted at the card. “Gregory Papadopolos?” she asked, her voice hesitant as she spoke the last few syllables.
Dean shot her a beaming smile. “That’s me!” He pulled out the fake ID that went with the card and slid it across the counter toward her. “My granddad was Greek.” He tossed his head at Sam as Sam came through the door, probably to see what was holding him up. That kid was so impatient sometimes. “We take after our mother.”
“That’s nice, dear,” she said sweetly, and ran the card before handing it back to him and turning away to find the keys to their room.
“So, can I get the name of our wonderful hostess?” Dean asked, turning on a ridiculous amount of flattery in his tone. He could practically feel the weird look that Sam was leveling at the back of his head, but ignored it, leaning against the counter as the woman turned back with their keys.
“Aoife McAllister, at your service,” she said, and tugged his receipt out of the machine and slid it over with a pen for his signature. “So what are you boys doing in Iowa? I’d have thought that college students like you would have gone to Florida for the beaches and the sun.”
Dean opened his mouth to answer, but Sam beat him. “That’s our final destination, ma’am. Truth is, genius here,” Sam patted Dean’s shoulder, “got us lost. And this seems like a nice enough place, so we thought we’d take a break.”
“Well, I can't say I’m unhappy about that, since lost tourists make up most of my business,” Aoife laughed. She took the receipt and handed Dean the keys to their room. “I hope you boys enjoy your stay. Small towns have their own kind of charm.”
“I’m sure we will,” Dean said with a final grin. “You guys have great pie.”
~*~
“Laying it on a bit thick in there, weren’t you?” Sam asked once they were back in the Impala.
“I got her name, didn’t I? That little old thing is the same woman they were talking about earlier, who still has nightmares, right?”
Sam rolled his eyes. “We could have gotten that just by asking her, you know.”
“It’s not nearly as much fun though, is it Sammy?”
They coasted along the side of the building keeping an eye out for their number. Sam shook his head as they pulled into the parking space in front of their room (or what would have been the front of their room if they hadn’t been on the second floor) and got out as Dean killed the ignition, tugging the two duffle bags he had stuffed full of their things from the back seat. They climbed the stairs to their room and slid automatically into their normal routine, checking the windows and various little openings that all hotels had, for weaknesses. Dean came out of the bathroom (no windows there, would quite possibly be the most defensible room in the place if necessary) to find that Sam had claimed the bed closest to the door.
At least, that’s what it looked like. Sam had left the room, probably to scope some more of the town quickly, but he’d tossed a duffle bag on that bed (Dean checked it quickly—sure enough, it was Sam’s stuff) and placed Dean’s things on the bed secured by the wall. It was both a little sweet and a little annoying that Sam felt like he had to be the first line of defense now, but Dean was going to do his best to break him of the habit. Yeah, he’d died, but he hadn’t been the first to actually do that (and Dean very carefully kept his mind off of what it felt like when Sam had died in his arms) and he was back, with his own special guardian angel, even.
Dean grabbed Sam’s stuff and tossed it onto the other bed, switching their positions, and settled down with a sigh, propping himself up with pillows as he pulled out his favorite guns and double-checked their condition.
Sam came through the door and stopped just inside the threshold, closing the door behind him quietly as he took in the backward bed arrangements. Dean gave him a challenging look, and Sam shrugged, raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture. He grabbed his laptop from the table where he’d left it, sliding it to a more comfortable position as he took a chair. He flipped it open, and Dean looked back down at his weapons, testing the edge of one of his knives as the comforting sound of Sam’s typing filled the room as background noise.
After about a half an hour of waiting, Dean quirked an eyebrow in Sam’s direction. “So, anything interesting?”
Sam shook his head, tapping a button slowly as he read. “Like I said before, there have been a couple of murders, but nothing that’s really unusual. Maybe it’s not a Woman in White.”
“What is it then?”
Sam shot Dean an annoyed look. “If I knew that, we’d already be out of here, hunting the thing.”
Dean gave Sam an unrepentant grin, and grabbed the remote control, turning the television on and flipping through a couple of channels.
Sam closed his laptop with a sigh and stretched——his spine popped loudly enough that Dean could hear it from the bed, and he winced in sympathy. “I have to go to Washington,” Sam finally said, and Dean frowned.
“The state?” Although he’d meant that seriously, it was a lot of fun to watch Sam’s face squinch up into Pissy Bitchface Number Three.
“No, Dean.” And wow, he’d gotten the whiny voice, too. He was batting a thousand tonight. “Washington, Iowa. The city we passed on the way here. Their records might be more comprehensive.” He ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it viciously. Dean swallowed a laugh as it puffed up, messier and goofier than ever. “I’m taking the—” At Dean’s look, he stopped his sentence and began again, his face squinching into Pissy Bitchface Number Two. “May I please take the Impala, you car-obsessed freak?”
Dean made a face at him, but dug the car keys out of his pocket to throw at Sam’s head. “Be back by curfew,” he griped, and then shouted at Sam’s back as he left the room, “And treat her like a lady!”
After Sam was gone, the desire to slack off evaporated, and he tossed the remote control from hand to hand as he considered his options. Nothing unusual had happened recently, so it would be weird for him to be asking about local murders—of course, he was supposed to be a tourist, and it was freaky anyway in context. He didn't really want to take a nap, because only god knew what his dreams would be like when he did, and there really was nothing on television during the day time. Even Oprah was in the afternoon. He indulged in a stretch and turned the television off, and got to his feet. At worst, he should go and mingle with the everyday folk of the town, see if anyone acted suspiciously at best, or just become a familiar face around the place, which might make it easier in the long run if he and Sam did need to ask questions later.
Dean went outside into the sunlight, squinting at the light, and looked around. What was there to do in a place like this, really? They'd already gone to the diner, which seemed to be a pretty good hanging out place, but he didn't want to pull the sleazy card, which is what he would seem like without Sam there.
Dean sauntered carelessly down the streets, noting the lack of people. Then again, with a population under a thousand, most of the residents probably worked at one of the larger neighboring cities. There was a park, a couple of stores, a little corner grocery, a school, a couple of restaurants. Maybe he should have gone with Sam after all——he could have goofed off at the movies or something while Sam was researching.
But then he turned a corner, and there it was. A woman with wild, white hair; her mouth opened in a scream, and a second later it was piercing into his ears, sharp and almost as painful as the sound of Castiel's voice; she lifted a trembling finger to point at him as she screamed. Dean fell to his knees, clapping his hands over his ears, and just as soon as it began, the shrieking stopped. He felt more than heard the footsteps pounding the pavement behind him, his ears ringing, and someone placed a heavy hand on his shoulder.
Dean blinked up to find the man that he'd seen earlier in the diner, the man's brown eyes wide and hopeful. "What?" he croaked, and wasn't even sure if he'd spoken out loud.
"You did see that, right? I'm not the only one?" the man babbled hopefully, his fingers digging into Dean's shoulder. "Oh god, please tell me I'm not the only one. You saw it; it was pointing at you!"
"Dude, shut up!" Dean tried vainly to shake the ringing out of his ears. "Stop grabbing at me unless you have some aspirin!" Weirdly, the guy actually let him go to pat himself down, as if he were trying to see if he had painkillers on him. Dean staggered up to his feet and brushed off the knees of his jeans, checking to make sure he hadn't torn anything or that he hadn’t accidentally gotten more dirt than necessary on his new jacket. "What is up with you?"
The man had the decency to look embarrassed, and yanked a hand through his scruffy brown hair. "I'm sorry if I freaked you out. My name's Jeff Wilson. And I've seen that thing," he pointed a thumb in the direction of where the ghostly-looking woman had been standing, "before."
"Great," Dean sighed, and then flipped open his cell phone, jabbing at the speed dial with his thumb. When Sam answered, Dean scowled at the ground and said, "You don't have to go to Washington. It's not a Woman in White."
~*~
Once Sam had made his way back, the three of them went to a different restaurant from the one Dean had originally picked, just for the convenience of a little anonymity, and the boys found themselves staring at Jeff Wilson, who was looking at them with a vibrant, undisguised hope in his eyes.
"So, what's your story, Jeff?" Dean asked, lounging comfortably back into his seat. Sam decided to lean his elbows on the table in front of them, fixing Jeff with an intent look.
"It's pretty simple," Jeff started, toying with the straw paper from his drink. His eyes remained fixed on the warped wooden table between them. "I was a tourist, like you guys—"
"We're not actually tourists," Sam revealed softly, keeping his eyes on Jeff.
If possible, Jeff got even more hopeful. "Are you—-are you those kinds of people?"
Dean shared a confused look with Sam. "What kind of people, Jeff?"
Jeff waved a hand. "You know."
"Gay?" Sam ventured. Dean rolled his eyes and kicked Sam in the back of the leg.
Jeff's forehead creased in confusion, and he made another hand gesture. "You know. Hunters."
Dean gave him a disbelieving look. "You know about hunters?"
Jeff looked a little sheepish. "Well, I don't really know—I've never met any before, but I've heard of people who help in this kind of situation, people who have been helped have mentioned things here and there. And he," Jeff jerked his head in Dean's direction, "he didn't react like anyone who's never seen this kind of thing before." Sam nodded, and Jeff continued quietly. "Anyway, I was passing through here a couple of years ago with my wife, Melanie. And we saw this … thing. The same thing that you saw, a little north of here. I did a U turn and came back here because she was so freaked, got a room here at the hotel in town. It's not the same one that's there now—the original one was torn down two years ago, to make way for the Shamrock that Aoife runs now. And Melanie, she," Jeff swallowed. "She had an accident in the bathroom. She fell. And I've never been able to shake the feeling that that thing was somehow responsible."
Sam looked between Dean and Jeff, waiting for more information, but Dean just shrugged, and Jeff seemed exhausted by the little he'd said about his wife. "So what did it look like?"
"It was a woman wearing really pale, tattered clothing," Jeff said.
"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Her hair was really light, too. She screamed at me." He closed his eyes, forehead furrowed in concentration as he tried to bring back the details. "Her hands were really bony. Her voice sounded like … like nails on a chalkboard times a thousand."
"Does it really?" Jeff asked, sounding almost unwilling to ask that but doing it anyway. "I've never heard it myself."
"Yeah," Dean said, and nodded his head firmly. "It sounded like—" Like angels, he wanted to finish, but just shook his head instead.
"It was a screaming spirit," Sam said slowly, his voice flat, and Dean shot him a narrow look.
"Yeah. You got any ideas swimming in that brain of yours, Sammy?"
"It sounds like a banshee," Sam said, and rolled his eyes when both Dean and Jeff gave him a blank look.
"Like the drink?" Dean said with a grin.
Sam snorted. "And you think you're the smart one? No, Dean. A banshee is an Irish fairy that foretells the—" Sam stopped and turned in the booth so that he was looking at Dean head on. "It screamed at you?"
Dean nodded. "No doubt about it. Jeff and I were the only ones that saw it, but I heard it scream. It was definitely pointing at me."
"Dean," Sam said urgently, "a banshee only shows up when someone is going to die."
Dean dropped his head against the top slope of the booth and stared up at the ceiling. "So, I'm going to die? It must be Tuesday."
"What are we going to do about it, then?" Jeff asked.
Dean scratched the back of his head and looked at Sam. "Yeah, Sam. What are we going to do about it?"
"I don't know," Sam admitted, and gestured for the journal.
Dean reached into his jacket, and then paused, looking pointedly at Jeff.
"What?" Jeff asked, bewildered.
"I don't wanna say I don't trust you," Dean drawled, "but I don't trust you. Unless you've got something else to add, this is a two man gig."
"But——" Jeff protested. "My wife was killed by one of those things! I want to get in on this. I want to help!"
"Listen," Dean said, "I understand. I get it, I really do. But this stuff is dangerous. We can't watch out for you and do our job at the same time."
"I was in the Army," Jeff said mulishly. "It's not like I'm dead weight."
"That's cool," Sam said before Dean could open his mouth again. "And if you can help us, believe me, we'll let you know. Here, give me your cell number." Sam made a show of typing the numbers in carefully, and saved it under Jeff's name, then turned the phone towards Jeff to show him that he was officially in the list of contacts. "If we need your help, we'll call. Seriously. The best thing that you can do for us is go to Washington and look up banshees for us. Anything you can find. I'll be looking online, but sometimes the best information you can get is in the books. Okay?"
Jeff still looked like he wanted to argue, but he nodded instead, and slid out of his side of the booth. "I guess I better get on it, then."
"Thanks," Sam said, and he and Dean also got ready to leave, following Jeff out into the parking lot of the restaurant. They parted ways, Jeff going to his Honda, when the banshee's scream cut through the air again, louder, more insistent than before, and Dean's knees gave out almost instantly. He would have fallen if not for Sam's quick reflexes, and he trembled in Sam's grip. When it finally stopped, Dean opened bleary eyes that he hadn't even realized that he closed to see a dozen blurry figures by the Impala. He blinked, trying to raise a hand to rub at his eyes, and when his vision cleared, the banshee had already vanished.
"Holy crap," Jeff said.
"What happened? Did you see it, Sam?" Dean asked, trying to get his balance back. He felt a handkerchief press against the side of his face, and Sam sighed.
"I saw them."
Dean took the handkerchief from Sam's hand and wiped the side of his face himself, pulling the cloth back to see blood staining the fabric. Damned supernatural freaks and his damned rupturing eardrums. He wouldn't be surprised if he ended up deaf. Once his head stopped ringing, he caught up with what Sam had said.
"What do you mean, them?"
The expression on Sam's face was tight. "There were six, Dean. I saw six."
~*~
Once Jeff was safely out of the way and heading toward the library of Washington, Sam threw himself into his online searching, occasionally snagging the cell phone to make a call to one of their contacts, while Dean lay on the bed and contemplated closing his eyes and going to sleep for once, when he wasn't completely driven to the ground by exhaustion.
Just as he was about to slide under, Sam pointedly cleared his throat, and then didn't make another sound until Dean had opened an eye to see what he wanted. "What?" Dean asked, and propped himself up a little more on his elbows. "Did you find a way to kill it?"
Sam shook his head, but he still looked like he was holding something back, so Dean stared at him, waiting him out. "I did find something interesting, though."
"Yeah?" Dean prompted. "And?"
"And, like I said before, banshees are an Irish fairy … Their duty is to foretell the death of a man or woman with their screams. Actual women have taken up their role as well. They were called keeners."
"Yeah?" Dean raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"And they don't actually cause anything. They're just messengers."
"So, what are you telling me? Don't hate the player, hate the game?"
"Well, not exactly, but … yeah."
"Great." Dean rubbed his hands together roughly and bounced off the bed. "Well, I better get myself some more pie before it's too late."
"Dean!" Sam snapped, and he ran a hand through his hair.
"Hey," Dean said uneasily, shoving his hands into his jeans. "Sam."
"I just don't get you, Dean," Sam burst out in frustration. "You just came back from hell—you really don't care if you're just going to die again?"
"What do you expect me to do?" Dean asked him. "Do we have a way to stop the banshees? Do we have any way to find out what they're screaming about?"
"I—" Sam swallowed and deflated. "No."
"How about this?" Dean scratched his head. "Do we know why so many of them were screaming at me?"
"Actually—" Sam dragged the journal to his side and flipped it to a page in the back, following their father's scrawl with an impatient finger. "I did read something online that is corroborated by Dad. It seems when someone important, or holy, is about to pass on, the banshees tend to gather around him. Like it's an honor."
"Huh." Dean tilted his head. "So why are they freaking out over me?"
Sam looked like he wanted to hit Dean for a second but took a deep breath instead. "You were pulled from hell by an angel, Dean. Maybe they figure that's holy enough?"
Dean snorted. "Shows how much they know. Stupid fairies." He wandered toward the door, and then turned back to Sam. "If it happens, it happens, Sammy. Maybe it won't even happen here! Maybe it'll happen when we're fighting our next ghost, or our next zombie, or our next whatever the hell goes bump in the night loud enough to get hunted. I'm not scared of it. I've already seen the worst that death could possibly threaten me with." He shrugged, avoiding Sam's eyes. "But fine, I get your other point. I've already had pie today—no need to get greedy. I'm going to go get a coke. Want anything?" Sam opened his mouth, and Dean quickly clarified, "From the vending machine?" Sam shook his head.
"Okay then," Dean sighed, and headed out the door and down the stairs to the first floor vending machine.
When he came back, he heard Sam talking to someone as the door came open, heard something like, "I thought you might know something—it's Dean—fine, whatever. Maybe. It depends. Bye." Dean quirked his eyebrow at Sam curiously, but Sam just shrugged and turned back to his computer.
"Who was that?" Dean asked when it became obvious that Sam wasn't going to offer up any information voluntarily.
Sam shook his head. "Just a source. I was hoping she would have a lead, but it didn't pan out."
"That sucks," Dean said sincerely and turned on the television. It was about time for Oprah, anyway.
~*~
Jeff didn't find anything new at the library, which Dean had expected anyway. If it couldn't be found by Bobby or Sam, there was no way in hell that a newbie banshee hunter was going to find crap, although it was nice enough to know he took the search seriously. But now that he was back in town, he still wanted to be part of the Winchester hunt, and that was driving Dean nuts. Even worse was the fact that they had to convince him that the banshees hadn't been responsible for his wife's death, and that it was a legitimate accident.
He didn't believe them. Dean wasn't surprised by that either.
"Jeff," Sam said, and it was always Sam trying to convince people that they were telling the truth. Most of the time, Dean didn't give a flip. Just do the job and move on, that was his motto. "We've researched every bit of lore we can find about banshees. You were just researching them yourself. There's nothing that says a banshee is directly related to or responsible for the deaths they foretell. There's no way to kill them. They just exist."
Jeff shook his head stubbornly. "That's not the entire truth. They've always managed to defeat the Silver Banshee before!"
Dean frowned, looking at Sam for a translation. Sam looked equally as baffled and shrugged his shoulders in a reply to Dean's silent question. And then Dean got it.
"Dude, that's a comic book!" He couldn't help the snarl that escaped, and Jeff looked at him defiantly. Dean threw up his hands and stalked about the room. "I give up. You're a moron. Comic books are not a valid form of research!"
"You told me to look at anything that had banshees in it!" Jeff protested, and Sam stood quickly at the sight of Dean's murderous expression, placing himself between them and raising his hands to calm Dean down.
Dean turned around and clenched his hands into fists, counting to ten and taking a deep breath. When he had himself back in hand, he turned back. "You're right. We did say that. But I can guarantee that whatever you read in the comics doesn't matter. Sometimes on the independent publishers, you can get really, crazy lucky, but the main publishers, no. Just. No."
Jeff sighed. "I was really counting on you to help me."
"Sometimes," Sam told him, "there's nothing to help with. The banshee was the one trying to help you, by letting you know what was going to happen. It was ignorance and bad luck that killed Melanie, Jeff. I'm sorry."
Jeff shook his head, and when he looked at Dean and Sam, his eyes were dark with pain. "So I was just chasing this thing. That didn't have anything to do with—I can't understand that. I just. I can't." Jeff stood and strode out of the room.
Dean shook his head. "He's going to do something stupid, isn't he?" he asked despite himself, hoping that Sam would give him an answer he wasn't expecting.
"Yeah, I think so," Sam said, and Dean sighed, already heading toward the door to follow Jeff. He moved pretty fast, already almost finished going down the stairs, and Dean pounded after him, taking the stairs two at a time to catch up.
He saw, with the sort of stomach sinking certainty that had always accompanied his flashes of insight when something horrible was about to happen, exactly how it was going to go down. From his slightly higher vantage point, he saw Jeff going down the stairs, and how his car was parked just across the street; also, he could see the truck had pulled out from the gas station gaining speed, and Dean couldn't believe it, how he was going to die again saving a moron that was too much of an idiot to look both ways before crossing the street.
"Jeff!" Dean shouted, trying to warn him as he sped up.
Jeff apparently heard him, stopped where he was and looked back at Dean. That's when he saw the truck barreling toward him, frozen like a deer in the headlights, and then Dean shoved him out of the way, and he heard brakes squealing as the driver realized he'd been going way too fast—and then there was a hand curled around the collar of Dean's jacket; he was yanked backward into the warm circle of someone's arms with barely a second to spare. He felt the wind of the vehicle as it passed an inch from where he was, and there was the smell of burning rubber rising up from the abused tires.
Dean flailed out, nearly falling over, but his rescuer's arms were solid around him, and that stability allowed him to catch his balance again as well as his breath. "Thanks for coming after me—" he began, thinking that it was Sam, and then he noticed the light-colored trench coat swirling about him. He twisted around to stare at Castiel, who just tilted his head and gave him a piercing look, his arms still around Dean in a tight grip.
"Dean!" And there was Sam, scarcely out of breath and skidding to a stop next to them. Then, to Castiel, "Thanks, mister, my brother's crazy—" Castiel turned his head to look at Sam, quiet and stern, and Sam stuttered to a stop.
"This is becoming a habit of yours." Dean grinned, interrupting Sam's confusion and drawing Castiel's gaze back to him. "Is this what you do, now?" Dean stepped away from Castiel, and Castiel obediently dropped his arms.
"The bean sidhe cried a warning for you," Castiel said, his voice faintly disapproving. "Whereas you refused to heed it, I did not."
"Yeah, yeah, judge me later," Dean snapped.
"I did not intend to judge you, Dean Winchester," Castiel said, voice still soft, quiet and firm. "I intended to point out your carelessness."
"Wait. Who are you?" Sam interrupted, eyes darting back and forth between Castiel and Dean, and Dean lowered his head in embarrassment, wondering why he hadn't introduced them in the first place.
"Sam?" Dean's eyes remained firmly on the ground, even as he tilted his head toward Castiel. "This is Castiel."
"Castiel? This is—Dean, is this—?" Sam sputtered, and Dean shot him a look.
Castiel nodded a greeting, either polite enough or disinterested enough to ignore Sam's ridiculous dolphin noises. "Samuel."
"This is amazing—I have so many questions," Sam babbled, and Dean winced, bringing up a hand to squeeze the bridge of his nose in an attempt to ward off his impending headache.
There was the slamming of a door, and a loud, pissed-off voice shouted, "Can someone tell me what the hell is going on here?" Dean and Sam looked at the angry truck driver, red faced and looking mad enough to spit nails, and when Dean turned back to look at Castiel on instinct, he already knew that Castiel had gone.
"Hey, where'd he go?" Sam asked, like an echo of Dean's thoughts.
Dean shrugged. "He's always like this. Angels are such drama queens. Come on, we better get this thing taken care of before the crazy truck driver rips Jeff a new one."
"At least now he can't say that we couldn't do anything to help him out," Sam agreed. Dean grinned and looked both ways down the street before joining the crowd, trying to diffuse what could have been a much, much worse situation.
~*~
Hooks were ripping into his shoulders, tearing the muscle little by little. It was pain, despair, hopelessness. It went on forever. They stripped his flesh from his bones in long, slow flanks; fire roasted and snow froze and lightning sizzled all around him. It was all pointless. It was all brought on by the choices that he made, and even now he couldn't regret it.
He couldn't regret it.
And they spoke to him, with metaphorically split tongues and too many bitter words to swallow, about how his sacrifice was pathetic, unworthy, unmourned, and even now he had lost his brother to the darkness. Why hope when Sam was even further, even more lost than he had ever been?
Lilith was there sometimes (all the time, never, endlessly) and she took the softest, most sensitive parts of him and pulled them out delicately, like a surgeon, so very adept with her scalpel, pulled him apart strand by strand, heartbeat by heartbeat, until.
Until there was nothing left but hate and pain and betrayal.
Dean bolted up from his bed with a gasp, his heart hammering away in his chest, his forehead slick with a cold sweat. His chest heaved with every breath, and he jammed the heels of his palms against his eyes, as if the aching pressure would drive the images and feelings out of his mind.
He shook his head violently and headed toward the bathroom, splashed cold water everywhere, over his head and the back of his neck. He couldn't resist staring at himself in the mirror, surprised as always that there weren't any marks on him. Any marks but one, and he raised a hand to press over his shoulder, over his shirt, covering Castiel's handprint. It was all so crazy.
Dean didn't realize that he was waiting for Sam to pop up in the doorway, to give him a concerned look and ask how he was feeling until minutes passed and Sam hadn't shown up. Dean went out of the bathroom and back into the darkened hotel room. There was a light on somewhere close by because it illuminated the room just bright enough to note the stark cleanliness of the room itself and the immaculate folds of Sam's bed.
Sam was nowhere to be seen.
Dean rubbed his eyes again, still too shaken from his dream to wonder after it. He dropped his arm with the huff of a sigh, and then inhaled abruptly when he saw Castiel leaning against one of the chairs by the window. The startled mouthful of air erupted into coughing, and Dean bent over, trying to catch his breath.
"Don't do that!" Dean snapped when he felt closer to normal, and he glared at Castiel.
Castiel stared back at him, unperturbed. "The dreams still disturb you." The intonation in his voice made it clear it was a statement, not a question.
"I don't want to talk about it," Dean said and sat down on his bed, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his hands dangle between his legs. Castiel remained silent, but Dean could feel Castiel’s eyes burning into him. "What did you want?"
"You shouldn't be alone.” Castiel looked out the window.
"So it's better to stalk sleeping people?" Dean demanded. "Is this what you do for fun?"
Castiel looked back at him, eyes dark and probing. "I don't understand."
"Forget it," Dean said, shaking his head.
They remained like that, Castiel silent by the window, Dean unmoving on the bed.
"Aoife McAllister has an heirloom," Castiel finally said.
"Yeah? So?" Dean asked. "What about it? Let me guess—it's a seal, and you want me to take it from the old lady?"
Castiel frowned. "No." He took a couple of steps forward and balanced on the corner of Sam's bed, mirroring Dean's position. "It was a touchstone to her homeland, so that the bean sidhe could find her immigrant family, whenever it was necessary, to announce a time for grief. There are no longer many to keen for."
"Is this a heavy- handed way of telling me something I'm supposed to care about?" Dean quipped. "Or are you just saying that the banshees are lonely, and that's why they're screaming after people?" Castiel didn't bother saying anything else; he sat there on Sam's bed and watched Dean until Dean's skin began to crawl, and he fidgeted in place anxiously. "Wait—that is what you're telling me? So—what? They're just going to continue screaming at people and scaring them out of their wits? Maybe even causing the death they're wailing about?"
Castiel stared at him, and although his expression didn't change, Dean got the feeling he might be disappointed. "The bean sidhe are not evil, Dean. They simply are. Would you deny them their purpose?"
Dean ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. "What am I even supposed to say to that, Cas?" The nickname tumbled out before Dean had realized that he was even going to say it, and he looked at Castiel, refusing to blush.
Castiel tilted his head, his forehead furrowed. "I wasn't aware that you had to say anything." Castiel stood, looking down at Dean contemplatively. "You should rest. You have long days ahead of you."
Dean shuddered, memories of hooks and despair and hatred flickering through his mind, and he shook his head. "No, thanks."
"There is no need to fear," Castiel said, his voice soft and, although Dean would never say it, incredibly reassuring. "Trust me and sleep." Dean stared warily up at Castiel, and then obediently let his eyes flutter closed. Castiel's fingers touched his forehead.
When Dean opened his eyes again, sunlight was streaming through the window of the room. He was covered in his jacket, and when he sat up, he found his shoes placed carefully next to his bed. The door to the room creaked open, and Dean looked to find Sam walking through the door, burdened with a drink holder with two cups of coffee and a bag that smelled really good in that fantastically awful way that terrible breakfast fast food can smell, and Dean's stomach growled, letting him know in no uncertain terms that he had to have it, all of it, and right now.
"Hey, you're awake," Sam said, and Dean lunged off the bed, enviously eyeing the bag of food that Sam was holding.
"Food, Sammy," Dean demanded, and Sam laughed, handing him the coffee as he dug through the bag for their breakfast.
"You're such a freak," Sam said, passing him a paper- wrapped sandwich. "Half an hour ago, you were sleeping like a log."
"I'm awake now," Dean said, annoyingly obvious, and eyed the sandwich in his hands. He wanted to ask where were you last night? but instead, he unwrapped his sandwich and took a large bite, making an appreciative sound as he chewed.
"You're disgusting, you know that, right?" But Sam was laughing still, so Dean swallowed, taking a swig of coffee. Black, with just a touch of sugar. Perfect.
"Shut up before I eat you, bitch," he told Sam affectionately, and jammed another section of sandwich into his mouth.
"You shut up, before I stop bringing you breakfast, you jerk," came Sam's response, and Dean kept his smile to himself. He was just being paranoid and weirded out by his dreams. He trusted Sammy. If there was something important going on, he would tell him. Dean would just have to wait until then.
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OMG I STILL LOVE THIS LIKE WHOA AND AM SO, SO EXCITED THAT YOU FINALLY STARTED POSTING THIS. YOU MUST FINISH SO I CAN HAVE MY APOCALYPSE WITH SUBSTANCE. HEE!
(I decided to visually spare you the exclamation points.)
Hmmm. I guess this means that I should work on beta'ing Chapter 2 at some point. :D
And I get to use my Dean icon! Deeeaaannn.
I'm so ridiculous. *facepalms*
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Still, I'm glad posting it made you so happy. :D
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You Posted It!!!
You know this means you *must* write more, because this is truly epic and wonderful and makes my head buzz with happy and awesome.
And I was mentioned in the Author's Notes! That was unexpected, especially since all I did was bug you about it and didn't do anything remotely to help you. :P
*LUVS YOU*
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Oh. I thought you sent it back to me, but I guess not. Go through the edits, so I can get Chapter 2 back! *makes grabby hands*
Also, WRITE MOAR!
♥
(And I raise you a Castiel icon. *is dork*)