Fifty Percent: Part Two

[gwendolyngrace]

Fic title: Fifty Percent
Author name: gwendolyngrace
Artist name: sazzlette
Genre: (rps, wincest, het, gen) Gen / Het
Pairing: John/OFC
Rating: R
Word Count: 46,450, Posted in 5 1/2 parts
Warnings/Spoilers: (if applicable) Told in two eras: 2007 and 1989. The 2007 storyline is set between “Bad Day at Black Rock” and “Sin City”; the flashback sequence references “Something Wicked.”
Summary: While cleaning out John’s storage locker, Sam finds an envelope from his father addressed to someone from their past. Dean objects to delivering it, but Sam happens upon a hunt that takes them practically to her doorstep. Could they be demons released when the Gate opened? In 1989, shortly after the shtriga hunt, the Winchesters settle in small-town Ohio while John figures out whether or not he can keep hunting. Beverly Kirkland, the children’s librarian, meets the boys and their father. After a chance encounter with John, she reluctantly grows closer to him, all the while wondering what it is about the family that doesn’t quite add up….
Author’s Notes: So many things about this, but I don’t want to give stuff away. Right. Well, first off, I had this in my head long before “Supernatural: Rising Son” came out, and before I found out that Jeffrey Dean Morgan and Mary-Louise Parker were a couple (and then they broke up before I finished drafting this). The idea came up while I was writing Trost und Freude for a holiday exchange - but takes place *before* that in the Wee!chester timeline. I’m very grateful to sazzlette for her art of awesome (10 sketches, count'em OMG! - AND a music mix!), etakyma for her unfailing willingness to read what I’ve written and tell me how to fix it, july_july_july for her incredibly insightful beta-reading, and Wikipedia for lots of helpful information, ranging from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles collectibles to the names of Kansas Governors to facts (and missing information) about our MOTW.
Link to fic: Part One, Part Two, Part Three-A, Part Three-B, Part Four, Part Five

Back to Part One



~*~THEN~*~

Three days after her first real conversation with John Winchester, Beverly was last out of the library. Lisa, the circulation clerk, had asked if Beverly could close, because her mother had been moved into the ICU again. Beverly had agreed readily. She turned off the computer and the lights and let herself out through the back door. Her car—Tom’s old, decrepit, impractical ragtop Ford LTD roadster—looked lonely under the single parking lot streetlamp.

Ordinarily, Beverly didn’t feel nervous or scared of the dark. Crime wasn’t that big a concern out here, though it seemed every year there was some warning that the Columbus and Cincinnati gangs and druglords had “set their sights” on Dublin. But there was no moon that night, and Beverly suppressed a sudden urge to crouch down and check under her car for a prowler.

There wasn’t any prowler, no bogeyman waiting for her to snatch her by the throat or take her purse, her keys, or her body. She laughed away the fear while she unlocked her car door and climbed in. Naturally, she would be more nervous on a night when she’d worn a dress and heels instead of slacks.

The engine didn’t turn over. “Come on, Tom,” she coaxed. “Let’s not do this tonight.” She tried again. On her third keytwist, there was an awful gargling clunk sound and the engine died again. “Shit.”

She opened the hood, got out, and looked at the engine just long enough to see that there was smoke coming off the block, and that she hadn’t the faintest idea how to fix it. She closed the hood with a sigh and walked back to the library door. It took two minutes to let herself in to the employees’ lounge and use the phone.

Triple-A said they’d issue a call to a local garage and someone would be there within 45 minutes. Beverly’s stomach grumbled. She remembered there was an apple in her desk, so she opened the door to the main floor and crossed. Her pumps clicked and clacked in the empty chamber.

She brought the apple back to the lounge and waited. About fifteen minutes later, they called to tell her the tow truck would be coming from her own garage. Which probably meant Jimmy—a twenty-two-year-old with rotten taste in music and even worse taste in girls. He was always running little extra trips to try to patch things up with whatever girlfriend of the week he was seeing.

She tried not to think about what time she might actually get home, but that allowed worry about the car to flood into her brain. Speculation was no good—she had no idea what it might be, or how much it might cost—but that didn’t stop her overactive brain from supplying a litany of problems up to and including the death of the car, as well as the choice application of words she couldn’t use around her regular clientele.

The phone rang again, this time to tell her that the truck was on its way. There was no window in the back, so Beverly gathered up her purse, switched off the lights again, and went outside to wait. She wished she had worn a warmer sweater over her sleeveless dress. She was shivering by the time the tow truck pulled in. It tucked expertly back against her car, with just enough room to work separating the two.

Jimmy wasn’t driving. John Winchester hopped out with an all-business expression. “Cab’s nice and warm,” he offered. “Keys?”

She dug through her purse. The keys weren’t there. “Oh, shit,” she realized, she’d left them in the steering column, and then automatically locked the door when she exited. They were on a different ring than her work keys, so she hadn’t even noticed. “Dammit!”

“Not a problem,” John said, hands out to calm her. He opened the cab door and pulled a slim tool out from behind the seat. In about twenty seconds, he’d slid the snake in through the window and popped the driver’s door lock. He sank sideways into the bucket seat.

“Won’t turn over at all?” he asked, since Beverly was still standing there dumbly.

“I tried a couple times,” she said, aware that her voice sounded higher and squeakier than normal, “and the third time, something went clunk.”

John’s eyebrows twitched up, but he grimaced back at her sympathetically. “Let’s take a look. Why don’t you go around and climb in the truck?” he repeated. “It’s warm.”

Beverly recognized that he was trying to give himself space to work without her hovering, but patronizing her wasn’t helping her calm down any. She was tired, hungry, flustered, and getting crankier by the second. To top it off, she couldn’t afford a big repair or—God forbid—a new car right now, to say nothing of the fact that Tom had been Tom’s. It was stupid to get so attached to a car. The worst part was getting upset with herself for letting it all get to her. But standing here and shivering while John triaged wasn’t going to help, either. She nodded and steered herself to the passenger side of the cab.

It was toasty. John had the radio turned to classic rock—not particularly her style, but certainly typical for their generation—and it looked like he’d cleaned up Jimmy’s usual mess of old coffee cups and junk food wrappers. She twisted in the seat to watch while John poked under Tom’s hood. It didn’t take very long before he was throwing the chains under the wheels to lift them with the crane. With the car secured, he climbed back into the truck. Beverly half-stood in the cab to untwist the skirt of her dress and face front.

“Well, you want the good news or the bad news?” he asked, pulling out the clipboard with his call sheet on it and filling out the paperwork.

“I’ll be able to play the violin again in no time?” Beverly quipped.

John grinned. “Only if you could before,” he returned, modifying the punch line.

“Bad news,” Beverly insisted. “And no sugar-coating, please.”

“All right,” John said, nodding in something like approval. “Well, the engine block cracked. And my bet would be the alternator has a short.”

“Jesus,” Beverly felt her face expand as it all hit. “How—”

“You get your car serviced at Garry’s?” he asked. He was observant; she hadn’t said anything, but Tom’s key chain had one of their fobs.

“Yes. Regularly. I mean—isn’t that something they should have noticed?”

“Not necessarily,” John said mildly. “When was your last road check?”

“Every spring,” she said defiantly. “When they inspect it.”

John sniffed. “Eh, coulda developed since then. Been having trouble starting her when it’s cold?”

Yes. She remembered now, the trouble she’d had a few days ago, how she’d forgotten about the car after running into John in the restaurant. “I meant to get it in to Garry this week…dammit,” she said again. An engine block and an alternator did not sound like minor repairs.

John smiled sympathetically. “Well, the good news is, I’m working tomorrow.”

The little flirtatious lilt had crept back into his voice. He was trying to lighten the mood for her. She let it affect her. She returned it, feeling like a teenager by the lockers. “Why is that good news?”

“Because I can look at it for you personally. Make sure it gets fixed right.”

She grinned impishly. “And why is that good news?”

He laughed. He had a good laugh—deep and honest without any jerking barks or wheezing, just a full and rich blanket of mirth.

“Seriously,” he told her, pulling out of the lot, “I’m a good mechanic. I’ll even check your repair history to make sure Garry isn’t stiffing you, if you want.”

“Why? I mean, not why would Garry want to rob me blind, why would you—”

John watched the road diligently. “The boys…they like you. You’ve got Dean halfway interested in English class and that’s an accomplishment.”

“So, strictly as a thank-you for doing my job?”

He smiled. Sammy was in that smile, all little boy and bashful. “Not…strictly.”

Nowhere in Dublin was that far from anywhere else. John pulled the truck in to Garry’s. “Just sit tight,” he said as he unbuckled his seat belt. “I’ll drive you home.” She stared out the window, thinking again about how bad the repair bill would be, even if John found something to hold over Garry. Which he wouldn’t, because Tom had been bringing their cars to Garry for years and Garry had always treated Beverly like royalty when she kept coming after Tom died.

An engine turned over. Beverly jumped, thinking somehow John had performed a miracle and fixed her car then and there. Instead, he was crossing the lot from a big black classic. Tom would have known what kind—she just knew it was American and looked like a late sixties model. He opened the driver’s door, leaned in, and shut off the engine. “Just cause I’m stuck with the tow truck don’t mean I gotta drive it around everywhere,” he told her. “Have you had dinner yet?”

“Don’t you…I mean, are Sam and Dean…alone?”

“They’re asleep. Or they better be,” he added with a frown. “Dean’s okay to babysit himself and his brother, though,” he continued, as if assuring her that there was no rush.

“Are you sure?” Beverly asked. “I’m starving.”

“I’m sure,” John said. He didn’t sound convinced, so much as uncompromising, as if Dean knew better than to dare otherwise. Beverly was about to back out, but John looked at her piercingly. “Where to?”

There were few options that time of night. Beverly wound up directing him to MacArthur’s Bar, just outside of Dublin. John ordered a longneck and Beverly decided to indulge in some red wine.

“You always drink when you’re on call?” she teased, though there was an edge to it she tried to eliminate.

John snorted. “One beer ain’t gonna touch me,” he said confidently. “Now, when I reach for the JD, that’s a bad night.” He seemed to realize he’d said something incriminating, because he looked at the ceiling behind her for a second. “Not that I’m…I mean, I’m not an alcoholic, or anything.”

Beverly nodded. He didn’t sound too defensive, more embarrassed, but she wasn’t sure whether or not to believe him. “You can stop anytime you want to?” she surmised.

John recognized the quote, but shook his head to deny the suggestion. “No, there are times I definitely should have stopped. Mostly when I was a lot younger, though.”

Beverly laughed, releasing some of the tension from the conversation. “Oh, I hear that,” she agreed. “I remember this one time in college when we got so drunk we decided to move the statue of William Henry Harrison from the library to the President’s lawn.”

John sniggered with her. “When I turned 18, my buddies decided to get me my first legal drink—like there was a drinking age in Ho Chi Minh—and they got me so blasted,” he sawed his hand sideways for emphasis. “They poured me back into the barracks, but I must have got up in the middle of the night. I dunno, I think—well, they told me I said—I was looking for the latrine. I wound up in our CO’s hut.” He paused, remembering. “Lucky for me, he was a pretty understanding guy. And he wasn’t in bed at the time.”

Beverly’s eyes widened. “Oh, my—you didn’t—”

“Nope. A friend in my platoon, he heard me and woke up a couple of the guys. They caught up with me just as I was about to climb in.”

“So—no actual damage, then?”

“Well…the CO wasn’t in bed,” John said with an impish wink. “Doesn’t mean there wasn’t anyone else in it at the time.”

Beverly swallowed quickly before she choked. “Oh, shit!”

“Yeah, exactly. CO had a little action going with a local girl. She didn’t even wake up when I came in, wasn’t until the others arrived she even realized I wasn’t Capt. Nelson crawling in beside her.”

“So…what did he do? When he found out?”

John grimaced. “Oh, he saw us crossing the compound on the way back. The guys ‘fessed up on the double—which was a good thing. All I got was perimeter and mine patrol for about the next month. But I heard from my pal Artie that Cap told our Lieu that even drunk off my ass, I had balls for days.”

Beverly went back to something he’d said earlier. “So…if you turned 18 in Vietnam, then you enlisted? You weren’t drafted?”

John swigged his beer and swallowed, sucking foam off the inside of his teeth. “Sure did. Before I saw for myself how fucked up the whole thing was.”

“What made you support it—do you mind if I ask?”

“I don’t mind,” John said with a shrug. “Guess I didn’t know any better. I mean, my old man was a dyed-in-the-wool Republican, y’know? He was so proud that he’d voted for every Governor of Kansas since ‘37, except Huxman and Docking. Man supported Dewey, Eisenhower, Nixon—so what if their policies did nothing for small farmers?” He shrugged again. “I’m sure you see it all the time: ignorant parents; ignorant kids.”

“But you changed your mind?” Beverly asked, leaving the accusation alone.

“Marines changed my mind, first. Then ‘Nam. Then Mary.” His eyes hooded over as he studied the table. But really, he wasn’t looking at anything so close as the wooden surface. Beverly waited while John composed himself. He sighed. “Anyway, yeah. Dad was always talking about Korea and how important it was to free the world from Communism—so okay, I figured I’d sign up for the GI bill and finish when I got home.”

“Which is why you’re a mechanic.”

John’s eyes flicked back up to her. Nothing else about him moved. Beverly shivered and felt flushed at the same time. There was dangerous, raw energy in those brown depths.

“Nah,” he said after a couple seconds. He shook his head and with the motion, the intensity faded, as if he had decided to let her remark roll off instead of penetrate. “Nope. Mary’s why I’m a mechanic.”

“How does that work?” Beverly leaned forward, fascinated.

“Got back, spent some time on base in California. Re-acclimating, you know.” She nodded. “I met Mary at a dance or a social…I don’t remember. But I decided pretty soon after that that I’d better get some money together quick, if I wanted to have…something to offer her.”

“How old-fashioned,” Beverly said. She made no attempt to hide how charming she found it, either.

John snorted. “Practical, more like it. She’d gone to UCLA and was trying to break into films, so she didn’t have anything herself—just an elderly uncle and aunt—and my old man died in debt while I was deployed. Didn’t see the point wasting what little I’d saved up on a degree. I got in touch with one of my dad’s old buddies, had a garage back home.”

“And you brought…Mary back with you?”

John nodded, looking through the walls all the way to whatever Kansas farm had been his cradle. “I didn’t mean to, right away. But when I laid out the plan, asked her to wait—”

“She was impatient,” Beverly concluded. “I kinda know the feeling. Tom and I spent almost two years apart, waiting for each other.”

“How’d that happen?”

“Oh, it was back in school,” she explained. “He was finishing up his degree at OSU and my MLS program was in Chicago. It sucked.” She decided not to mention that the “degree” was Tom’s doctorate in Civil Engineering and that he’d already completed a master’s in Architecture at the time. She didn’t think he’d be intimidated, but it seemed unnecessary to throw it in John’s face. John may not have had the opportunities Tom had had, but they shared a practical view of life, a ruggedness and grit, and a similar sense of humor. John wasn’t educated, but he was sharp as a knife and twice as dangerous.

“Do you ever—” John started to say, but drifted from the question. “Well, anyway. My mother died right after Dean was born. Sneaky old bat had squirreled away about $20,000 in cash—never told anyone. We found it all cleaning out their house. And right about that time, my boss was looking to retire. One of the other guys and I, we went in together to buy him out.”

“And then came Sam?” Beverly asked. She thought she knew where this was going. John didn’t look like the kind of man to talk about himself much, which made her wonder how soon he would shut down again. She meant to find out as much as she could before that happened.

“Then came Sam,” John verified. And as if Beverly thinking it precipitated the event, he pulled himself back in, like shrugging into the leather coat he wore, like putting his armor back on. “Sorry. I’ve been talking too much. Aren’t we men supposed to be strong, silent, and let the women do all the talking?”

Rather than call him for hiding, or being sexist, Beverly played into the flirtation. “Ah, I was wondering when you’d remember to be curious about me,” she said with a wink.

“It’s not that I’m not curious,” John answered through a disarming laugh, “it’s…well, our landlady is, uh, Pamela Ryan?”

Beverly couldn’t contain her eyeroll and “Ah” of understanding. “So you already know more or less my life story.”

John grinned. “Well, not the early years—before you could talk or crawl.”

They both laughed.

“Seriously,” John continued. “She did say you’ve lived here since 1983, you’ve single-handedly transformed the children’s program at the library, and that you…lost your husband a couple years ago. I’m sorry.”

Beverly blinked back the mist in her eyes, keeping it from turning to real tears. “Me, too. Tom was a pretty awesome guy. You’d think an architect would be predictable and safe, but he was….” She shrugged, unable to put it into words.

“Sudden?”

“Congenital heart defect,” she said evenly. “He was jogging and—boom. They said it was pretty painless—as if that’s supposed to be a consolation.”

“It can be,” John murmured. Though his voice was soft, the words came out as a rebuke.

“Oh, God…I’m…I’m sorry,” Beverly said quickly. “I mean…I don’t know what happened to M—to your wife,” she amended. “I didn’t mean to—”

“It’s okay,” John said gruffly. Clearly, it was anything but.

“It’s not the pain or the lack of it,” Beverly explained. “It’s that we lose them too soon. Too young.”

John bit his lip. Shifting in his seat, he said, “I’ll drink to that.” He motioned to the waitress for another round.

They stuck to safer topics after that while they ate. Beverly didn’t worry about the second beer—somehow she had a feeling it would take a lot more than that to impair John. After the waitress cleared their plates and left the bill, they both reached for their wallets at the same time.

“I got it,” John told her.

“No, really—”

“I asked you to have dinner with me. And like you said, I’m old-fashioned.”

Beverly recognized being teased. “Oh, all right. Let me cover the tip, at least?”

“Deal.”

Beverly debated with herself all the way back to her house. In between providing directions to the two-story Georgian she and Tom had bought long before they could really afford it, she reminded herself that he needed to get home to his kids, that she still suspected he was an alcoholic or a neglectful parent—but no, she didn’t, really, not after talking to him for over an hour, not after getting to know Dean and Sam a little better, and learning that what was missing was their mother—and that probably neither of them needed something that might turn complicated. But it had been a long time since her last liaison and John was close enough that she could smell the leather of his jacket, the soap on his skin, and beneath that, the musk of man….

“You probably have to get home,” she said when he pulled into her driveway.

John shrugged. “They’re okay. They’re fine.”

Beverly swallowed. “In that case, would you like to…come in for a bit?”

His voice was grainy and barely audible. “Yes.”


~*~NOW~*~

With Dean AWOL, Sam soon threw himself back into his other research—the kind he couldn’t do with his brother around. Dean’s tough guy act was tiresome, but that didn’t mean Sam had lost his enthusiasm—more like his desperation—to find a loophole, a dealbreaker, or some way to extend Dean’s expiration date, at least. He was so engrossed by the multiple windows and tabs on his laptop that he jumped when his phone rang.

It wasn’t Dean, but then he hadn’t expected to be drunk-dialed. The call itself wasn’t unexpected, though.

“Bobby?”

“Hey, kid. How ya doing?” Bobby said affectionately.

Sam sighed in exasperation. “Fine, I guess. Thanks for calling back, man.”

“No problem. I guess I’m a little confused, though. Your daddy had a lot of stuff in that locker. What exactly did you find?”

Sam reached beyond his laptop for the folder on the table. He’d stored the little package in his duffel, where Dean was less likely to come across it. As he explained to Bobby, he dug in his bag for the box.

“So I found a box of our old school stuff, mostly, but there were these two items—a sealed envelope, and a small box. They’re both addressed to this woman—she was a librarian in Ohio, but I thought maybe—she might have been a specialist, or something.”

“What’s her name?” Bobby asked immediately.

“Mrs.—I mean, Beverly Kirkland,” Sam told him.

Bobby chewed the name under his breath for a minute. “Kirkland—no, I never heard of a—wait. Did you say Ohio? You’re in Columbus?”

“Yeah, we’re in Plain City. She lives in Dublin—which, I know, it’s a hunt in her backyard, but—”

“Kid. She’s not a hunter,” Bobby pronounced apologetically.

“No, Bobby, I know—I thought maybe she did research, analysis—”

“Sam,” Bobby said, sounding tired and regretful, “I’m sorry, Sam, but she doesn’t have anything to do with hunting. Fact is, John—” he broke off, cleared his throat. “I dunno if you want to hear this.”

“Bobby, it’s okay,” Sam said with a little laugh. “I know they were, uh, close,” he finished, feeling his face get a little red. “You’re not gonna shock me with that one.”

Bobby grunted. “Ain’t what I meant. Okay, sorta. No. The fact is, when you and your brother were little, there was a hunt that scared your daddy real bad. Bad enough…he thought about quitting.”

It took a moment for Bobby’s meaning to sink in. “Quit hunting? Our dad?” Sam said, incredulously. Dean had said the shtriga had freaked Dad out, but Sam didn’t think even Dean suspected it had almost ended their father’s hunting days.

Bobby sighed. “Yeah. Tell ya the truth, times I wish he had. You ‘n’ Dean mighta…. Well, anyway,” he continued, leaving whatever he was going to say, possibly out of respect for the dead, or maybe for Sam’s sensibilities. “He cut way back for, oh, I reckon about six months. Just taking stock, seemed like.”

“But Mrs. Kirkland—she had something to do with it, too?” Sam pressed. Now that Bobby had admitted knowing more of John’s secrets, Sam was thirsty to find out more about them.

“Indirectly, I think, yeah. Sure didn’t hurt.”

Sam blinked. The confirmation came as a surprise. “Well, uh, I mean…were they…serious?”

Bobby made a grumpy noise between disgust and laughter. “Boy, what makes you think your daddy and I were girlfriends? Why would he tell me his intentions? What was I gonna do about it—pass a note to her in class?”

Sam ducked his head as if Bobby had taken a swat at him, from 1,300 miles away. “Yeah, Dad never was one for baring his soul.”

“You can say that again. Besides, y’all hit the road again, didn’t you? That ought to tell you what you need to know.”

Sam laughed. “Right. Sorry. Yeah, I remember it, kinda. Dad left right around New Year’s and then pulled us out after Dean’s birthday.”

“Sounds right.”

“Bobby. I mean…d’you think Dean’s…. D’you think we should take this stuff to her?”

Bobby didn’t answer right away. Sam chewed his lip, waiting. It was odd how talking to Bobby always made him feel about ten, no matter that Bobby had never talked down to either him or Dean in all Sam’s recollection. He was as close to their dad as they had left—in many ways, as close to a father as they’d ever had—and while he knew he could bring anything to Bobby, any problem, and they’d face it like men together, talking to Bobby made him feel…safe. Protected, like he’d been when they were kids. It was like having Bobby meant neither he nor Dean had to make all the tough decisions alone, or even at all. Like…they could do what he always accused Dean of doing, just following orders.

Only from Bobby, it felt more like advice, guidance, than the Law of Winchester.

Finally, Bobby drew breath. “Sam…what’s really goin’ on, son?”

He hadn’t realized until the words left Bobby’s mouth, how much he’d wanted to hear something like them. Hear the invitation, hear the concern, hell, hear the love that John had been so sparing with Sam’s whole life “I told you, Dean—he’s dead set against going to give this stuff to her. To Mrs. Kirkland.”

“You could drop it in the mail, y’know,” Bobby said, but even he sounded like he could tell all the ways that was a bad notion.

“Yeah, we could, but…it was nearly 20 years ago. No explanation, no word about where Dad is now, or why…why he never came back.”

“I’m just sayin’, you want her to get the stuff, no reason you gotta announce yourselves, either.”

Sam grunted noncommittally. Bobby had a point; they’d questioned Dad’s old partner, Mike Geunther, without telling him who they were. “Gotta admit, I’m curious, though. Like you said, Dad wasn’t big on telling anyone his game plan.”

Bobby said nothing.

Sam sighed. “Yeah, you’re right. Fish or cut bait, right?”

“Sam, I can’t tell you what to do.”

“I know, Bobby. Believe me,” Sam said, though really he’d wanted exactly that. “I just dunno why Dean is so opposed to meeting up with her again.”

Bobby sucked his teeth. “Only one way to find out, kid,” he said. “And God help you. That brother of yours is almost as tight-lipped as your daddy was.”

“Yeah. Hey, Bobby—the deal—”

He heard Bobby shift position on the other side of the phone. “Sam, I told you before, I got nuthin’. Wish I did.”

“I know—that’s not what I was gonna ask.”

“Okay,” Bobby said, waiting for the suckerpunch.

“Has he…was there anything else to it, that you know of? Ever since it…. Ever since he killed the demon, he keeps asking me if I’m all right.”

“Well, Sam, you did die. I hate to burst your bubble, but you were—”

“I know, I know,” Sam said quickly to spare them both the memory. “There’s something else, though. It doesn’t feel like he’s just worried that I’m okay physically. It’s like he’s worried that I’m…not okay.” Sam suppressed a shudder. His visions were gone, and good riddance. He hadn’t tried bending spoons, but then, the demon’s powers had never worked that way in the first place. Ruby seemed certain it was still in him, but he hadn’t made up his mind about believing her yet. He wasn’t even sure he believed her about saving Dean, and Dean sure wasn’t going to let him use her like he wanted to. It was a tricky enough prospect in the first place, but getting information out of Ruby without revealing anything to Dean about their mother and all her family…that was going to be next to impossible, anyway. But if Dean wouldn’t believe that the “Boy king” had lost his crown—thrown it away, really—Sam didn’t think he could convince him just by doing nothing. And he wasn’t sure that Dean’s doubts, as much as his fear of dying, wouldn’t drive a wedge between them for what little time they had remaining.

Bobby’s answer, when it came, sounded careful and calculated. “But you are feeling okay, right? I mean all that psychic stuff, it’s gone?” he asked first.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” Sam replied, trying not to sound annoyed.

“Well…give him a while to get that you’re not gonna go darkside on him. Sam, he’s spent most of his life worrying about you. Ain’t gonna stop overnight because the demon’s gone.”

Sam nodded, then remembered Bobby couldn’t see him. “You’re right.”

“Gotta admit, Sam, I was about ready to kill him myself for making that deal, even if I was glad to have you back. But when you consider what he’s looking in the face—”

“That’s just it, Bobby—he’s not looking it in the face—”

“Lemme finish, Sam.”

“Sorry.”

“I was gonna say, worrying about you? That’s his way of not worrying about himself.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed with growing agitation, “and that’s what bothers me, Bobby. He’s not worrying about himself.

“Oh, Sammy,” Bobby said, sounding tired and sad again, and what was more: old. “Son, you know that just ain’t true.”

“Well, he’s not worrying enough to do anything,” Sam complained, aware that he sounded like a whiny kid.

“Like what, Sam? What’s your brother supposed to do? Didn’t you say he told you that he can’t try to save himself or you die?”

Sam’s fire tamped down, doused by despondency. “Yeah.”

“So…I don’t see that he has too many options, son.”

“I know. Still, I wish….” He rolled his eyes. Wishing for Dean to treat himself with as much merit as anyone else was futile. Wishing for him to at least act normal, instead of the caricature version of himself where he always retreated when he couldn’t deal, that might happen, but whining about it to Bobby wasn’t going change anything. “Nevermind. I’m not done looking.”

“Neither am I, kid. But…it don’t look good.”

“Yeah.”

“Tell me about the job you boys are workin’,” Bobby said, both to change the subject and to refocus Sam.

Gratefully, Sam pulled out his papers and leafed through them. “Okay, so Lauren Kennedy disappeared from Cleveland, showed up five days later here in Plain City, outside of Columbus. She incited a bar fight and assaulted four truckers.”

“Five days? Cleveland and Columbus are only a couple hours apart,” Bobby observed.

“Yeah. Just before she went missing, a guy named David Owen, goes missing here in Columbus, winds up just outside of Cleveland, apprehended in the act of committing arson.”

“Someone’s making these people travel between Columbus and Cleveland and…commit crimes?” Bobby summarized. “Yeah, sure sounds like a demon to me. Was this guy also AWOL for about five days?”

“Yep. And the demon, if it is a demon, seems to be picking up his next victim right where he leaves the other, then going back and forth. So, we’ve got a suspect that Dean checked out this afternoon, Gareth Barker, reported missing yesterday.”

“Well, he’s gonna show up in Cleveland, maybe you two better head up there in the next day or so and see if you can find him. Why’s it taking him so long to be caught, though? I mean…it’s only about 100 miles, isn’t it?”

“Hundred and fifty, yeah,” Sam confirmed. “Thing is, I’m not so sure we can get ahead of this thing.”

“He’s giving you a heck of a lead time,” Bobby pointed out. “Where’s he going with all that extra time?”

“Dunno. Dean thinks we might be able to pick up a trail between one place and the other. But…well, maybe we just don’t have enough of a pattern yet. But Dean found sulfur in this guy’s place, so I think he’s probably our next victim.”

“Okay. Well, you know what to do. If you need anything else, call me.”

“Yeah. Will do. Thanks, Bobby.” Sam hung up. He stood and stretched, moving to the bed with the remote, in search of something to watch that wouldn’t make him think about where Dean was, or who he might have hooked up with that night.


~*~THEN~*~

John came up behind Beverly while she was splashing some whiskey into two tumblers. His breath, hot on her neck, was followed quickly by his arms circling her waist. She slammed the bottle onto the bar so she could fold her hands over his, leaned her head back in search of his shoulder. He bent his head to claim her lips and tongue with his.

Beverly twisted in his grip, turning to press herself into his chest, a knee finding its way between his legs. With an animalistic growl, John ground against her hip, gripped her tighter, kissed harder.

“I have…” Beverly murmured breathlessly, “um…stuff…bedroom.” It felt stupid to be embarrassed about it. “Condoms,” she forced out between kisses aimed under his jawline.

John nodded, smiling as if he expected something similar. He smoothed her hair with one hand, cupping the base of her skull to pull her in for another kiss. Then he stepped aside to let her lead him upstairs.

Beverly had dated a couple of men since Tom had died. She’d even indulged in a rather forgettable one-night-stand at a conference last year, which had left her guilty and crying at her own vulnerability. But that experience, anemic as it was, had at least shaken things loose a bit. She loved Tom no less for satisfying a primal need, and she didn’t regret the occasional liaison one bit. She hoped John would feel the same way about his Mary.

Certainly, he held nothing back in the bed department. Their coupling was more desperate than languorous, but no less passionate for that. Afterward, he stroked her hair absently while she lay in the crook of his shoulder. She could tell the moment his brain booted itself back up. Like the computer system they were just beginning to use to build the library’s catalog, his thoughts vibrated with a virtual hum. She decided to give him a graceful exit, if that’s what he wanted.

“John,” she said gently, as one would talk to a skittish horse, “I think you’ve left your boys alone long enough. Even if they’re asleep.”

He drew a long breath, and Beverly could feel his body along hers tense up again, a stretch that also had the effect of putting up his shields. Again, Beverly was reminded of a medieval knight donning his armor. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely on the exhale. “I should get going…. Morning soon.”

“Morning now,” Beverly pointed out in a light banter, “but it’ll be light shortly.” She shifted onto her side, lifting off his arm so that he could rise. Though the room was dark, his skin picked up what little light came through the window shades. She watched his muscular back and arms as he withdrew his heat to sit up on the edge of the bed.

He found his clothes piecemeal—a sock, his t-shirt, one shoe, the plaid workshirt he’d been wearing over the tee, the other sock and shoe, jeans, and his briefs last, typically. He sat back down and started to dress.

Beverly could sense him slipping into guilt.

“John. You’re thinking too much,” she told him directly.

He flinched and looked at her like he’d forgotten she was awake. “Hm?”

“Stop thinking about it. Well,” she smiled impishly, “think about it, if you like, but—” she ran a hand down his arm, smoothing his t-shirt sleeve over his corps tattoo—”don’t work yourself into a tailspin over it.”

John’s eyes shone as they swept up to the corner where wall met ceiling in thought. “‘S that what I’m doing?”

Beverly nodded. “Mm-hmm. You’re having second thoughts, now that it’s too late to change your mind.” She sat up against the headboard, reaching for a nightshirt to keep warm.

John said nothing until he finished dressing. Again, Beverly was struck by how his actions seemed to clothe his emotions as well, how he seemed to prepare for battle as much as to go home. Boots laced and tied, shirt in place, he twisted toward her. One knee bent and flopped on the mattress; the other foot stayed anchored to the floor.

“You’re right. This…this was probably a mistake.”

“I don’t think so,” Beverly assured him with a shake of her head. “Look, I don’t expect to hold a candle to your wife. No offense, but you’re nothing like my Tom, either.” Which was not, strictly speaking, true—but true enough. Tom had been thin where John was beefy, taller than John, but not as filled out, but they’d shared a certain wit and passion. In Tom’s case, it had been covered by kindness; in John’s, by a rough exterior and a fierce magnetism almost like obsession.

“But the way I see it,” she continued, “we can be lonely and alone or lonely together.” She drew her knees up, crossed her arms across them. “I don’t know about you, but for me, it’s easier to get through the night when you can hold on to someone else now and then.”

John’s eyes closed. He took a cleansing breath and when he opened his eyes again, he nodded. His lips duck-billed in a frown. “Yeah. It is, but—”

“Don’t worry about it. Did you have fun?”

John smiled engagingly. “Sure did,” he purred.

“So did I,” Beverly told him warmly. “So we’re good. Go on home. I’ll see you at the library.”

John laughed once and shook his head.

“I won’t see you at the library?”

“No, you will,” John answered. “But I’ll call you before that.”

Beverly shrugged. “Look, don’t think I expect—”

“Your car,” he reminded her. “I’ll call you to tell you what’s wrong with your car.”

Beverly laughed. “I completely forgot!”


~*~NOW~*~

Dean stumbled back in sometime before dawn. Sam heard him, but kept his back turned away from the bathroom light and the sound of Dean undressing.

The next morning, Dean looked like crap, but he said he was hungry, so they found breakfast. Sam said, “The five day gap thing, it’s bothering me.”

“Yeah, got any ideas?” Dean muttered, leaning back in the booth until the waitress came back with coffee.

“Besides running up to Cleveland and waiting, yeah. I think we should see if we can get in to the police databases and see if anyone fitting Gareth Barker’s description has committed any crimes in the last couple days, anywhere between here and Cleveland.”

“Sounds good,” Dean said. “What do you figure…hit the library?”

“Yeah.” He eyed the way Dean was holding his head. “I’ll drive.”

But Sam didn’t bring them to the local branch. Instead, he drove north, taking advantage of Dean’s continued lethargy in the passenger seat to follow his instincts. The Dublin Library looked much as he remembered it.

He briefly debated letting Dean sleep in the car while he went inside, but he wasn’t sure how long he’d be, and he was a little worried that if Dean woke and realized where they were, he’d drive back into Columbus and leave Sam stranded.

“Dean,” he said, tapping Dean’s arm lightly to wake him up.

Dean snuffled, but opened his eyes unwillingly. “Huh?”

“Figured we should use a computer that’s not nearby,” Sam said. He knew Dean wouldn’t buy it for a second, but it gave him an opportunity to not get in a snit if he didn’t want to.

It didn’t work. Dean took one look at the building and his jaw tightened. “Sam, goddammit, I told you we’re not doing this.”

“Dean. Seriously, man. What is your problem?”

Dean clenched his fist, pounded it on his knee, but said nothing. He opened his door and got out. Sam climbed out on his side. “What, Dean?” he demanded. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“It’s none of our business, Sam!” Dean exploded. “Whatever was going on here, it’s over. It’s buried. You’re not going to do her any good opening it up. And it’s sure not going to get us anywhere.”

“You think that’s why I want to do this?” Sam said quietly. “Dean, that’s not what this is.”

“Well then, what?” Dean asked angrily.

“What’s in that letter, or not in it…Dad wanted her to have it. I mean, yeah, I’m curious, but you’re right, man. It’s none of our business. But it is our business to give her whatever it is. I just don’t know why it bothers you so much.”

Dean folded his hands on the roof of the car, thinking. Sam waited. “I just can’t imagine she’d ever want to see us again,” he said after a minute, sadly. “I mean…whatever was between her and Dad, it’s over. Was over a long time ago, Sam. Besides, it’s….” He trailed off. “Whatever. We’re here now; let’s just…just give it to her. But we don’t say who we are. We just deliver the note, tell her he left it to her, and we leave. Then let’s get back to the case.”

Sam sighed. Even if Dean was telling him the whole truth, which he suspected not, he recognized that his brother was offering a temporary cease-fire on the matter. “Okay,” he agreed.

They went inside. Sam was hit by a wave of memory; the library had barely changed. The circulation desk was still in the same spot, and aside from a bank of public access computers and online catalog stations, the stacks were in the same places, the reference section to the left of the entrance, the children’s section in the back on the right. Dean headed off to Reference, muttering about what a waste of time Sam’s errand was.

Sam wandered to the right, toward the small round table and the activity room beyond it. He recognized her immediately. She barely looked any older, just a little around the eyes and the jaw, and her hair had a few grey strands. Beverly Kirkland was sitting at the table with a preteen girl and a stack of books.

“Cornelia Funke, Holly Black…” she was saying to the young lady. “Here. Try War for the Oaks by Emma Bull.” She handed over a thick paperback.

Sam loitered by the desk. Beverly’s customer accepted her recommendation and took it over to circulation (apparently that much had changed), and Beverly smiled at him with a familiar expression. “Can I help you?” she asked. Though she appeared completely willing to provide customer service, it was also clear that she was bemused by the presence of a single man in her section.

“Oh, no,” Sam said to dispel the notion that he was in the wrong place, “I’m not looking for a book. But…you are Beverly Kirkland, right?” he asked, assuming a professional air.

“Yes…Do I know you?” she asked. Her brown eyes shone with mirth.

“No. I—”

“Wait. I do know you…. Oh my God. Sam? Sam Winchester?” she said, eyes widening. “It is, it is you, isn’t it?”

Sam was caught too off-guard to stick with the cover story he’d prepared. “Yes,” he admitted.

Beverly shook her head at him. “God, I never thought I’d see you boys again. How’s Dean?”

“He’s…fine,” Sam supplied noncommittally. He didn’t volunteer that he was in the library. Or that he was about as far from fine as it was possible to get.

“And your father?” she asked, much more cautiously.

Sam swallowed. He shook his head slightly. It was way harder to tell her than he’d anticipated. “He…he, uh….” He clenched his jaw, shook his head again.

“Oh.” Beverly sank heavily into her chair. “Oh, Sam. I’m…I’m sorry, Sam. When? How?”

“Uh, about a year ago. He uh…he had a heart attack,” Sam continued softly. “We were…Dean and I were cleaning out some of his stuff and I found this.” He reached into his satchel for the envelope and the box. “He addressed them to you.”

He held out the parcels. Beverly’s hand trembled as she reached out to accept them. She stared at her name in Dad’s writing, but made no move to open the envelope. She looked up at him with a loud intake of breath.

“I’m sorry…I’m forgetting my manners completely. What are you doing these days? Did you settle around here?”

“Oh, no, but I had some business in Plain City, so—”

“And you’re staying there? Do you have a hotel?”

“Uh, yeah. Just for a couple days.”

Beverly sniffed. “Nonsense. If you came all this way to bring this to me, the least I can do is give you a home cooked dinner.”

Sam glanced over to the reference section. Dean was going to go ballistic. “No, really, that’s—”

“I insist. That is, if you’re free?”

Sam considered taking the excuse she offered and flat-out refusing to spend more time with her. Dean had a point about maintaining distance: She might ask too many difficult questions; she could pose a threat if she decided to report them to the authorities; she could even interfere (unintentionally) with the case. On the other hand, she represented a significant source of information about their father, and a period in their lives that Sam couldn’t access any other way. He looked across the library again for a visual on Dean.

This time, Beverly noticed his scan, and she turned to follow his eyes. “Are you…here with someone?”

“Uh…” Sam tried to think of a suitable cover story. But just then, Dean appeared. He’d been chatting up a young lady, predictably, and as he came out from the newspaper racks, he caught sight of Sam and waved.

The movement drew Mrs. Kirkland’s attention. “Is…is that Dean?” she asked, pointing in astonishment. “You’re both here?”

Sam nodded, helpless, while Dean strode toward them. “Yeah.”

“Well that settles it—”

“Scuse me, ma’am,” Dean said, using his voice of authority, variation four: charming, “I need to steal Special Agent Skinner away for—”

“Dean!” Mrs. Kirkland exclaimed with a bit of a laugh. “My God, it’s good to see you both. I was just trying to convince Sam to let me cook you a dinner. Now I’m not going to take ‘No’ for an answer.”

Sam was prepared for Dean’s look of betrayal. He answered it with one that he hoped said, “Don’t blame me, it’s not my fault.” Aloud, he said, “I was just telling her that we have…business in Plain City, so as kind,” he continued, smiling at her, “as your offer is, we really do have to—”

“Your business,” she said, looking from Sam to Dean and back again. “What business brings you both to town?”

Sam began to stammer an answer, but Dean jumped in quickly. “Research, like Dad used to do. We’re following up on the book he was writing.”

“Ah. The book about local ghosts?”

Dean looked around shiftily. “About what?”

“Your father…his research. It was all on supposedly haunted houses.”

Dean smiled, then his smile faltered. Sam stepped back in. “Mrs. Kirkland…how much did our dad tell you about what he did?”

“Next to nothing,” Mrs. Kirkland said cheerily, “but I did notice that he profiled and visited the Johnson House, the old Gabriel farm, and even Franklin Castle up in Cleveland.”

Sam shrugged ever so slightly at Dean. He’d been the most concerned with being discovered by Mrs. Kirkland; it was up to him to decide how to play it now that she had not only recognized them, but she was brushing up against their real vocation.

But the moment’s distraction was all Dean needed to build up a cover story. “Yeah, Dad was fascinated by that stuff. But…we’re more interested in, uh, in true crime, stuff like that.”

“Oh,” Mrs. Kirkland said. “I didn’t think the hauntings had a criminal history.”

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Dean said through a confident wink. “Anyway. We were in the neighborhood, like Sam said, but we should—”

“Use the library, like we came here to do,” Sam said impulsively. “But maybe tomorrow, we could…come back.”

Dean looked over to him sharply. Before he could protest, Mrs. Kirkland said, “Great! How long are you in the area?”

“Probably a couple days….” Sam heard himself saying, while Dean looked at him as if to will him to lie.

“Okay, well, no sense staying in a hotel. I have guest rooms just waiting to be used.”

Dean looked horrified. The thought of having to play houseguest to a woman they hadn’t seen in nearly twenty years, and of whom Dean was apparently petrified, spelled some fairly easy torture for him. It was an opportunity to find out more about their dad, but more importantly, it was a chance to pay Dean back for some of the crap he’d been pulling lately since the deal went down with the demon.

It was probably that, more than any other reason, that made Sam say, “That’d be great, Mrs. Kirkland.”


~*~THEN~*~

John didn’t call, and Beverly didn’t see him again right away. Garry called her instead, to tell her that her car was fixed, and sent Jimmy to bring her to the shop. John’s car wasn’t in the lot.

“Winchester?” Garry said when she asked. “Yeah, he fixed your car, but then he had to go get his kids or somethin’. Why—he give you any trouble, Mrs. Kirkland?”

“No—he was great,” Beverly replied, suppressing her blush. “Very professional,” she added coolly.

“Good,” Garry said, luckily oblivious to her embarrassment. “Never know with new guys….”

Beverly was pleased to see that the bill was fairly affordable.

The next day, Dean and Sam came to the library, but John didn’t come in; Dean made Sam come with him to wait by the front door for their father. It wasn’t until the following day, Thursday, that she laid eyes on John again.

Sammy had been going through the library stacks as if he had a time limit in which to read as much as possible. While he went after the Guinness Book record for “most books read in a month,” Dean flipped through magazines and rarely allowed himself to browse the novel racks. That Thursday, he had spread out his homework at the table when Sam came up to him with an armful of books. Dean looked at the pile dismissively.

“You can’t get that many at once, Sammy,” he said with a snort.

“I know. There’s five for me and five for you. You can get a card, Dean.”

“Dude, we’re here all the time. Get the others when you bring the first bunch back.”

“But Dad said to get enough for the whole weekend—”

“Yeah. And you know you’re not gonna have that much time to read over the weekend. Three or four ought to be plenty.”

“In the car, I will!” Sam said petulantly.

Dean rolled his eyes. Beverly stepped in before he could escalate. “Quiet in the library, please,” she said sweetly. “Did I hear you’re going somewhere this weekend?”

Dean shook his head no, but Sam nodded. His bangs fell over his eyes with the motion.

“Anyplace fun?”

Both of them shrugged. “Dad wants to take us shooting,” Sammy said proudly. “Target practice inna woods.”

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean muttered, jaw clenched.

Sam crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. He pouted at Dean, but clammed up.

“Well,” Beverly said, still concerned more with the peace of her library than John’s parenting choices, “why don’t you take some of the longer books you’ve got here—that way you maximize your page count.”

Dean snorted. “Maximize.”

Beverly laughed, too. “It’s the law of diminishing returns. It means looking for ways to get the most bang for your buck.”

Dean grinned. “We’re gonna get bucks with bangs, all right,” he said. Then he and Sam both giggled.

“Thought libraries were quiet zones,” a gravelly voice behind them observed dryly.

Beverly startled, but luckily the boys didn’t notice her reaction because they were too busy jumping out of their seats.

“Dad!”

“Hey, boys,” John greeted them back. Over their heads, he nodded at Beverly with amusement in his eyes.

She smiled, but quickly tempered her expression. “Mr. Winchester,” she said evenly. “I was just going to recommend that Sam take out a couple longer books, particularly if you’re going on a road trip this weekend.”

“Road trip?” John put his hand on Sam’s shoulder.

“Sam told her we’re going shooting,” Dean tattled.

“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “Yeah, we’re heading to a buddy’s cabin for a couple days.” He glanced down at Dean sternly. “Look alive, bud—we got some work to do still tonight. I want you to take your brother to the men’s room, come straight back here, and get your stuff together.”

Sam pointed to his books, but before he could say anything, John said, “I’ll take care of these, Sam.” He reached into his back pocket for his wallet and pulled out his library card.

Dean tugged on Sam’s arm to drag him away from his pile of treasure. When the boys had moved off a few paces, John turned to Beverly.

“Look, I’m sorry I haven’t called,” he said without any prompting.

“It’s okay,” Beverly told him earnestly.

“Car running all right?” he asked, his eyes sliding to the center of the library and the two small figures heading for the men’s room.

“Yes. Fine. And Garry only charged me a leg—I take it you used some form of extortion on my behalf?”

John grinned, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “Didn’t need to. A lot of the labor charge on older cars is from the diagnostic. I already figured out what was wrong, so.” He shrugged. “Plus your alternator turned out just to need the belt tightened and a little bit of tuning. The rest didn’t take long.”

Beverly nodded, finding herself smiling stupidly. “Well, thanks. So, big weekend planned?”

John drew a breath and twisted back to the table for Sam’s books. “Yeah, I thought I’d get the boys their hunting licenses this year,’ he said lightly, “but I want to make sure they have a little more experience in the woods before we go out with a lot of other people around. Safety.”

Beverly pulled her lips in between her teeth. She had learned that with the Appalachian/Ozark populations around the town, many of her clientele’s families had a much more intimate relationship with firearms than made her comfortable—and many of them passed it on early, especially to their boys.

“I guess the terrain here’s a lot different from Oklahoma,” she offered instead, by way of small talk.

But John’s head snapped up; walls slammed in place. He squinted at her suspiciously. “How did you know—”

“Dean was doing a project for school; he said that’s where you spent part of the summer.”

“Did he say anything else? About the rest of the summer or anything?” John asked brusquely.

“Well…no,” Beverly said cautiously. She wasn’t sure why John was angry with Dean over telling her what they’d done on vacation, but he was. Probably it fed back into the reasons they’d moved here in the first place. She didn’t elaborate, waiting to see what he would do.

She could see John go through the stages of forcing himself to relax. He breathed in and slouched a little, seemed to remember the books in his hand, offered them to her without even looking at them. Beverly accepted them for a gesture of peace, unsure why there had been any need for it. John stood a little too close to the desk for her to go between to get to her checkout setup. Rather than back away to the other side, or go the long way around the table, she pushed into his space. She pressed herself against the desk, leading with the books, making it clear that she was just doing her job.

“Will there be anything else?” she asked primly, eyes flashing a dare.

John grunted in the negative and backed up half a step, just enough to let her squeeze by. As she cleared him, he muttered very softly, “I’d like to see you again, though. Without the books.”

His voice had that gravelly, half-whispered, low frequency that went right to her gut. Beverly shuddered. “When you get back,” she told him. “Call me.”

Continued....