Fifty Percent: Part Three-b
Jun. 26th, 2008 06:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwendolyngraceFic title: Fifty Percent
Author name:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
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 tosazzlette 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 Three-a
~*~THEN~*~
Beverly expected to see the boys back at the library the next day, after she’d taken them for supper and then dropped them at home. But they didn’t come in after school that day or the next—but that was Halloween, so the library barely had traffic that day, what with kids out trick-or-treating. John didn’t call, either.
When they did come in, almost at the end of the week, she asked Dean how late their dad had gotten home that night. “I only ask because my route home from your apartment took me past the garage where he works.”
Dean eyed her suspiciously. “How do you know he works at a garage?”
“Oh, I take my car there, so I’ve seen him,” she said quickly.
“Oh. Well, he wasn’t too long.”
“Must not have been. His car wasn’t in the lot when I drove by. We must have just missed each other. It’s funny I didn’t notice the car going in the other direction.”
“Maybe he took another route,” Dean said. For a ten-year-old, he sounded very cagey.
Beverly considered letting it go. After all, she didn’t object to John leaving the boys alone while they were sleeping. But for some reason, this felt different. “Dean…if there’s something going on at home, you know, with your dad? You know you can tell a teacher, or even me.”
Dean slid his eyes left and right. “Nothing’s going on. My dad takes care of us just fine,” he said. It was defensive, but Beverly hadn’t expected anything less.
“I’m sure he does his best,” Beverly said painfully. She hated doing this, not just because it was always hard to come between kids and parents. She couldn’t believe John would do anything to endanger his kids, but she knew that being a single parent often presented him with tough choices. Still, even though it wasn’t easy, there were right and wrong ways to proceed.
She didn’t wish to alienate Dean, however, and she could tell that pushing the issue would undo the trust she’d built up so far. She could take it up with John when they spoke next.
It was getting dark when he came for them. Dean sprang into action as soon as John appeared in the entryway. “C’mon, Sam, let’s go. Dad’ll be tired.” He shot Beverly a rebellious look as he settled his bag on his shoulder. He and Sam hustled toward their father, closing the gap so that it would be awkward for John to come to her. But John seemed happy enough to wait for them. He nodded a hello to her, let the boys cross in front of him, and turned on his heel to escort them back out. It seemed to Beverly that he was limping a little.
She wasn’t surprised when her phone rang later that evening, just as she was turning out the downstairs lights.
“Dean tells me you’re checking up on me,” he said without a greeting.
“I’ve been worried about you,” Beverly explained honestly.
“Bullshit. You’re suspicious. I don’t blame you. I shouldn’t have asked Dean to come to you.”
“No, you should,” Beverly told him. “I know it’s not easy, and you said that you’re low man on the totem pole at work. It’s okay to ask for help, John.”
She heard him sigh. “I…usually I can arrange someone to look after them, but the sitter fell through,” he offered. “You didn’t have to get them supper.”
“They were hungry,” Beverly answered. “Did you hurt yourself? You were limping this afternoon.”
“I’m fine,” John said, both reassuringly and in a way that made it clear he wasn’t going to talk about what happened. “I’m sorry I haven’t…been in touch.”
“That’s all right. Sounds like you had a lot going on.” She closed her eyes. When would she stop thinking the worst of him? Of course, he knew how to engage a babysitter. “John, hang on a second, will you? Let me switch to the upstairs phone.”
“Upstairs? Does that mean you’re taking me to bed with you?” John purred.
“You’ll have to wait and find out,” she flirted back. She went upstairs and took the cordless phone off its cradle. “I’m back,” she said, and padded back down the stairs to hang up the other phone.
“And I’m waiting. What’s next?” He was teasing her.
But she and Tom had lived apart for two years, and long-distance telephone games were no stranger to her. She took the phone to the bathroom. “Now…I’ve had a hard day, and I think I’ll run a bath,” she told him, making it a clear shot across the bow.
John laughed, low and sexy. “Don’t let me stop you,” he said.
“I don’t intend to,” she replied. “So, has work been running you ragged?” she asked, mostly to keep conversation going.
“Work, yes,” John said softly. “It’s been a rough week. And it didn’t get any easier with you giving Dean the third degree,” he pointed out sourly.
“I know…I’m sorry,” Beverly said. She meant it, but she did find it curious how he’d put her on the defensive so quickly.
“He was pretty upset by the questions. He’s convinced you were trying to find an excuse to turn me in to Social Services.”
“Really?” Beverly said, feeling her temper rise. “Is that because he’s got an active imagination, or is that because it’s happened before? We never have talked about why you move around so much, John. Why is that?”
John’s voice hardened. “Where is this coming from?”
“It’s coming from…dammit, John, you and your brick walls!” Beverly gritted her teeth. She was breaking her own terms, and she knew it, but suddenly the dribs and drabs of information he was willing to share seemed too little. “Every time I think I know what’s going on with you, something convinces me I have it all wrong. Maybe it’s just my training—we’re taught to watch for signs that a family is in distress. I can’t ignore it when something doesn’t add up.”
“You could try trusting me, Beverly. I know what I’m doing,” John said angrily.
“Given Dean’s insecurities, I’m not so sure,” she shot back.
John said nothing for so long that Beverly thought he’d hung up.
“John?”
“Yeah,” he said through a frog in his throat.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“No?” he asked sarcastically. But the irony sounded directed at himself. “I’m not saying I’m the best father in the world, but dammit, I’m doing this the only way I fucking can, Beverly. Believe me.”
“I want to, and I don’t want to interfere—”
“Then don’t,” John quipped.
She sighed. “It’s just….” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “It would be easier to trust you if I knew more about you. About what you’re doing when you’re not working at Garry’s, for example.”
John modulated his voice, too, but it was still somewhat cold. “I told you, it’s just a research project. It’s no big deal.”
“Okay. But if it’s no big deal, why not tell me more about it?” Beverly pressed. Her stomach and chest felt tight. She hadn’t realized until they began arguing how much their relationship had come to mean to her. She saw the whole rest of the conversation play out before her: John would dig in; she would try to reason with him; John would get defensive and block her efforts to break through; he would tell her to mind her own business and slam down the phone. She told herself she’d have to navigate the conversation carefully if she didn’t want that conclusion to come true.
But to her surprise, John told her that he’d been researching the Johnson House and found a connection to a Mennonite community west of town, out route 161. He talked for a few minutes about Mennonite and Amish building techniques, specifically their superstitions about hex marks. “Actually, I’m thinking I might get some time off to go to a lecture in Springfield, in a couple weeks.”
“Alone?” she asked.
“I haven’t decided yet. I probably can’t get a sitter, not if I’m gone overnight. But Dean’s made a couple friends at school; maybe I can arrange a sleepover or something. Don’t know if that would work for Sammy,” he continued, almost to himself. “Or I might be able to take the boys with me.”
“Won’t they get underfoot?” Beverly wondered aloud.
“They’re used to staying out of the way. I’m sure you’ve noticed,” John said. His humor was restored in the ironic way he pointed out his sons’ behavior. She let him tell her their latest exploits—mainly involving an incident in which Dean had decided to fill Sam’s sneaker with shaving cream, and Sam retaliated with the clever replacement of pickle juice for Dean’s mouthwash—while she ran her bath. By the time she sank into it, offering John a bit of play-by-play, she was once again reassured that all was as well as could be expected with the Winchester household.
~*~NOW~*~
The Ashtabula Arms had fairly good food, considering how much of a dive it was. Dean occupied himself with a few games of pool, not running a hustle on purpose, but winning anyway. They waited around, interviewing people when the opportunity arose, but learned nothing of significance before closing time. Barker was a no-show.
Sam wished they’d found a room before hitting the bar, but Dean drove toward the interstate and they pulled in to the first lot with a vacancy sign they saw (not an easy thing at 2:30 AM). Dean also reluctantly parted with some of his new-earned cash so there wouldn’t be a credit trail. Feeling like this case was getting away from him, but not even sure why, Sam collapsed into one of the beds and was asleep before Dean turned out the light.
Sunlight streamed into the room several hours later. It burned through Sam’s eyelids. They had neglected to close the curtains. He rolled onto his stomach in protest. In the next bed, he heard Dean groan and snuffle deeper into his pillow, as well. Sleep returned within a minute. The sharp knock of the housekeeper woke them both up next. Sam came awake more quickly this time. He snapped to consciousness the way he had done since Stanford, whenever he was awakened by noise or touch other than a recognizable (Dean’s, Jess’s, even Dad’s) voice or tap on foot or shoulder. Sometime last year, after he started hunting again, he realized that Dad had done that, too—no groan of protest or bleary glances around to orient himself—just boom, awake. Dean, on the other hand, was trying the groaning protestation route.
Sam pulled himself out of the bed and lurched to the door. He unlatched it and shook his head bashfully at the little plump woman with her towel cart. “We forgot the sign, sorry,” he said, and reached around to hang it out on the knob.
“Sorry! Sorry!” she said over and over, in a thick accent (Latvian? Sam wondered), laughing a little to cover her embarrassment at disturbing Sam, or maybe it was the sight of his t-shirt and boxer briefs.
“Wazzat room service?” Dean groused as Sam shut and locked the door.
“No. Hey, did you lay out salt?” He only just realized that he hadn’t stepped through any at the doorway.
“Mph,” Dean said, which could have been a yes or a no. But a second later, he breathed, “Thought you said you had it.”
“Yeah, I brought it in, but….” Sam waved away the rest of his statement. Lucky nothing showed up, he thought. He went to the duffel and poured out lines before falling back onto his bed. Sleep wasn’t going to come back now, but he didn’t want to be awake, either, so he relaxed, stretched out almost diagonally, and closed his eyes to figure out what had been bugging him about the case since before last night.
Okay, he thought, start with the timeline. David Owen goes missing (Day Zero), turns up five days later, about 150 miles away. Two days after that (Day Seven), Lauren takes off from school and reverses the trip, gets arrested on Day Twelve. Then sometime on Day Fourteen, Barker (we think) disappears. So that means, he tapped his fingers on his chest to count, today is day five for Barker, Day Nineteen overall. What the heck is it with five? And why the pattern? It’s like one per week or something.
Then there’s the travel between Columbus and Cleveland. Seriously, that’s jacked. What’s he doing with the extra time? Why aren’t there any omens—
He opened his eyes. That’s what had bugged him. No omens. There were no demonic predecessors at all—no electrical storms, no cattle deaths—nothing to indicate demonic activity. Whereas the once-per-week pattern felt much more like a ritual…something a human (or humans) would devise.
“Shit, Dean,” he said aloud.
“What?” In contrast to his incoherence before, Dean’s voice across the table from Sam’s head sounded alert, concerned even. Sam could tell that Dean’s immediate thought was for Sam’s distress. Which, given the month he’d had, rabbit’s foot and all, was a little comforting, despite how annoying his brother could be when it came to worrying about his own predicament.
“Sam, what?” Dean demanded sharply. He pulled back the covers and swung his legs out of bed. Sam mirrored him.
“I don’t think this is a demon at all,” Sam explained. “What’s been missing from every disappearance and every criminal incident so far?”
Dean thought about it, his eyes casting around the room’s crown molding for the answer. “Waldo?” he quipped, deadpan. Then it hit him, too. He snapped his fingers and segued to wag one finger at his brother. “Omens,” he concluded smarmily.
“Right,” Sam said happily. He ignored Dean’s self-congratulatory, smug nod. “Not a single precursory event. And the timing—every week, like clockwork. Dean, this feels more like ritual stuff.”
“Wait—what about the sulfur in Barker’s apartment?” Dean pointed out.
Sam lurched over to the table. “I dunno, maybe….” He pushed through the files. “Dean. Barker’s a chemist. He probably had sulfur residue from his lab.”
Dean grimaced. “Oh, man,” he whined, “does that mean we’re dealing with humans?”
Sam nodded and grunted his sympathy. Dean hated the hunts involving human culprits, and Sam couldn’t blame him. They were tougher, less predictable, and less straightforward. Dean’s own morality was pretty fluid about a lot of things, but his sense of cosmic Right and Wrong came straight out of the old westerns, war movies, and comics he loved so much. Human ambiguity, human complication, made their job a lot trickier to do. It also usually meant less guns blazing, and a more open-ended distribution of judgment, which made Dean feel like the hunts were unresolved. In short, it meant he couldn’t kill things.
“So, what do we do now?” Dean complained. “We still think Barker’s gonna show up in Cleveland, right? Today?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Sam reasoned. “Just because it’s not a demon doesn’t mean there’s nothing to fix.”
Dean scrubbed his brushcut. “Okay. Well, let’s clean ourselves up, get breakfast, see what else we can find out.”
“Good—we should hit someplace with Wi-Fi so I can check the police reports, recent rap sheets and so on.”
“What’s wrong with a newspaper?” Dean asked gruffly. Sam laughed. The comment had been delivered in Dean’s imitation of Dad’s voice, evoking an old conversation and a debate that had lasted, as far as Sam knew, the rest of their father’s life.
“God, remember when I tried to get him to open an Amazon account?”
“Too easy to track,” Dean replied, still in Dad’s authoritative bark. “Though I kind of agree with him there.”
“Nah, you’d be amazed at the false trail you can lay online.” Sam smiled at his brother. It seemed like it had been ages since they were so at ease together. Joking—about Dad’s autocratic and often antiquated methods, no less—felt a little like the “normal” that so constantly eluded Sam.
“Yeah, well, the point is I’ll scan the papers while you check last night’s booking logs.”
“Deal.”
They made themselves presentable in short order and Dean, like a pointer on the scent of a mallard, found an IHOP right next to a coffee house with Wi-Fi. Sam started working on breaking into the Cleveland PD’s system, his pancakes still settling heavily in his stomach. Dean got himself another cup of coffee, even though he’d had three fill-ups with his western omelette, and flopped down in an easy chair with that morning’s issues of the Cleveland Plain Dealer, the Akron Beacon Journal, the Columbus Dispatch, and just to be thorough, the Erie Times News.
For some reason, Sam was having trouble accessing the police records. He tried switching to the public areas of the site, just to check whether there were any APB’s or alerts out on anyone matching Barker’s description. “I got nothin’,” he admitted after half an hour.
“Okay well, he’s only due to show himself today, right?” Dean said mildly. “Let’s not give—Son of a bitch!” He sat up, staring at the paper.
“J-Lo still not rescinding that restraining order?” Sam teased.
“No, she’s in the bag, Sammy, already told you,” Dean riposted without missing a beat. He turned the newspaper article so Sam could see it. He pointed to the bottom of the page.
Dean had been reading the Crime Beat section. There was no picture, and the item was on the inner column. It took up at most three column inches. But the tiny headline read, Missing Man from Columbus Kills Two in Toledo. Sam sat up and read further.
Gareth Barker, 27, of Steelton, Ohio, was shot while resisting officers outside a 24-hour Krispy Kreme Donuts in East Toledo. Moments before police arrived on the scene, Barker had allegedly robbed the shop and shot its two employees. Said Officer Daniel Clayburn, “It was a clear case of death-by-cop. He just charged at us when we told him to drop his weapon.” Barker had been reported missing four days ago by his sister, Lucy Barker. Ms. Barker declined to comment.
“Whoa,” Sam said.
“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “I thought this thing was leaving people to take the fall for its crimes.”
“Well, I guess he couldn’t live with what had happened.”
“Or maybe it’s changing its MO.”
“Maybe. But—Toledo?” Sam crinkled his nose.
“Yeah.”
“Didn’t see that coming.”
Dean gestured at their surroundings. “No shit, Sherlock.”
“Yeah, but all this time, the demon’s been going back and forth between Columbus and Cleveland. Why the heck would the demon take someone to Toledo all of a sudden?”
“I dunno. Cedar Point?”
Sam didn’t just roll his eyes at Dean; he rolled his whole head. Dean had been hinting about the roller coasters since Sam had suggested coming to Ohio, but he knew as well as Sam that they had better things to do than goof off at the theme park. Aside from the fact that it was nowhere near on the way from Columbus to Toledo, Sam was determined not to let Dean wind him up over the case again. Rather than make an issue of the ridiculous suggestion, he observed, “You know, we could probably get to Toledo in about two hours.” He flipped down the laptop screen and unplugged the charger.
“Try 90 minutes,” Dean boasted, already heading for the door.
Continued....
Author name:
gwendolyngraceArtist name:
sazzletteGenre: (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 Three-a
~*~THEN~*~
Beverly expected to see the boys back at the library the next day, after she’d taken them for supper and then dropped them at home. But they didn’t come in after school that day or the next—but that was Halloween, so the library barely had traffic that day, what with kids out trick-or-treating. John didn’t call, either.
When they did come in, almost at the end of the week, she asked Dean how late their dad had gotten home that night. “I only ask because my route home from your apartment took me past the garage where he works.”
Dean eyed her suspiciously. “How do you know he works at a garage?”
“Oh, I take my car there, so I’ve seen him,” she said quickly.
“Oh. Well, he wasn’t too long.”
“Must not have been. His car wasn’t in the lot when I drove by. We must have just missed each other. It’s funny I didn’t notice the car going in the other direction.”
“Maybe he took another route,” Dean said. For a ten-year-old, he sounded very cagey.
Beverly considered letting it go. After all, she didn’t object to John leaving the boys alone while they were sleeping. But for some reason, this felt different. “Dean…if there’s something going on at home, you know, with your dad? You know you can tell a teacher, or even me.”
Dean slid his eyes left and right. “Nothing’s going on. My dad takes care of us just fine,” he said. It was defensive, but Beverly hadn’t expected anything less.
“I’m sure he does his best,” Beverly said painfully. She hated doing this, not just because it was always hard to come between kids and parents. She couldn’t believe John would do anything to endanger his kids, but she knew that being a single parent often presented him with tough choices. Still, even though it wasn’t easy, there were right and wrong ways to proceed.
She didn’t wish to alienate Dean, however, and she could tell that pushing the issue would undo the trust she’d built up so far. She could take it up with John when they spoke next.
It was getting dark when he came for them. Dean sprang into action as soon as John appeared in the entryway. “C’mon, Sam, let’s go. Dad’ll be tired.” He shot Beverly a rebellious look as he settled his bag on his shoulder. He and Sam hustled toward their father, closing the gap so that it would be awkward for John to come to her. But John seemed happy enough to wait for them. He nodded a hello to her, let the boys cross in front of him, and turned on his heel to escort them back out. It seemed to Beverly that he was limping a little.
She wasn’t surprised when her phone rang later that evening, just as she was turning out the downstairs lights.
“Dean tells me you’re checking up on me,” he said without a greeting.
“I’ve been worried about you,” Beverly explained honestly.
“Bullshit. You’re suspicious. I don’t blame you. I shouldn’t have asked Dean to come to you.”
“No, you should,” Beverly told him. “I know it’s not easy, and you said that you’re low man on the totem pole at work. It’s okay to ask for help, John.”
She heard him sigh. “I…usually I can arrange someone to look after them, but the sitter fell through,” he offered. “You didn’t have to get them supper.”
“They were hungry,” Beverly answered. “Did you hurt yourself? You were limping this afternoon.”
“I’m fine,” John said, both reassuringly and in a way that made it clear he wasn’t going to talk about what happened. “I’m sorry I haven’t…been in touch.”
“That’s all right. Sounds like you had a lot going on.” She closed her eyes. When would she stop thinking the worst of him? Of course, he knew how to engage a babysitter. “John, hang on a second, will you? Let me switch to the upstairs phone.”
“Upstairs? Does that mean you’re taking me to bed with you?” John purred.
“You’ll have to wait and find out,” she flirted back. She went upstairs and took the cordless phone off its cradle. “I’m back,” she said, and padded back down the stairs to hang up the other phone.
“And I’m waiting. What’s next?” He was teasing her.
But she and Tom had lived apart for two years, and long-distance telephone games were no stranger to her. She took the phone to the bathroom. “Now…I’ve had a hard day, and I think I’ll run a bath,” she told him, making it a clear shot across the bow.
John laughed, low and sexy. “Don’t let me stop you,” he said.
“I don’t intend to,” she replied. “So, has work been running you ragged?” she asked, mostly to keep conversation going.
“Work, yes,” John said softly. “It’s been a rough week. And it didn’t get any easier with you giving Dean the third degree,” he pointed out sourly.
“I know…I’m sorry,” Beverly said. She meant it, but she did find it curious how he’d put her on the defensive so quickly.
“He was pretty upset by the questions. He’s convinced you were trying to find an excuse to turn me in to Social Services.”
“Really?” Beverly said, feeling her temper rise. “Is that because he’s got an active imagination, or is that because it’s happened before? We never have talked about why you move around so much, John. Why is that?”
John’s voice hardened. “Where is this coming from?”
“It’s coming from…dammit, John, you and your brick walls!” Beverly gritted her teeth. She was breaking her own terms, and she knew it, but suddenly the dribs and drabs of information he was willing to share seemed too little. “Every time I think I know what’s going on with you, something convinces me I have it all wrong. Maybe it’s just my training—we’re taught to watch for signs that a family is in distress. I can’t ignore it when something doesn’t add up.”
“You could try trusting me, Beverly. I know what I’m doing,” John said angrily.
“Given Dean’s insecurities, I’m not so sure,” she shot back.
John said nothing for so long that Beverly thought he’d hung up.
“John?”
“Yeah,” he said through a frog in his throat.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“No?” he asked sarcastically. But the irony sounded directed at himself. “I’m not saying I’m the best father in the world, but dammit, I’m doing this the only way I fucking can, Beverly. Believe me.”
“I want to, and I don’t want to interfere—”
“Then don’t,” John quipped.
She sighed. “It’s just….” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “It would be easier to trust you if I knew more about you. About what you’re doing when you’re not working at Garry’s, for example.”
John modulated his voice, too, but it was still somewhat cold. “I told you, it’s just a research project. It’s no big deal.”
“Okay. But if it’s no big deal, why not tell me more about it?” Beverly pressed. Her stomach and chest felt tight. She hadn’t realized until they began arguing how much their relationship had come to mean to her. She saw the whole rest of the conversation play out before her: John would dig in; she would try to reason with him; John would get defensive and block her efforts to break through; he would tell her to mind her own business and slam down the phone. She told herself she’d have to navigate the conversation carefully if she didn’t want that conclusion to come true.
But to her surprise, John told her that he’d been researching the Johnson House and found a connection to a Mennonite community west of town, out route 161. He talked for a few minutes about Mennonite and Amish building techniques, specifically their superstitions about hex marks. “Actually, I’m thinking I might get some time off to go to a lecture in Springfield, in a couple weeks.”
“Alone?” she asked.
“I haven’t decided yet. I probably can’t get a sitter, not if I’m gone overnight. But Dean’s made a couple friends at school; maybe I can arrange a sleepover or something. Don’t know if that would work for Sammy,” he continued, almost to himself. “Or I might be able to take the boys with me.”
“Won’t they get underfoot?” Beverly wondered aloud.
“They’re used to staying out of the way. I’m sure you’ve noticed,” John said. His humor was restored in the ironic way he pointed out his sons’ behavior. She let him tell her their latest exploits—mainly involving an incident in which Dean had decided to fill Sam’s sneaker with shaving cream, and Sam retaliated with the clever replacement of pickle juice for Dean’s mouthwash—while she ran her bath. By the time she sank into it, offering John a bit of play-by-play, she was once again reassured that all was as well as could be expected with the Winchester household.
~*~NOW~*~
The Ashtabula Arms had fairly good food, considering how much of a dive it was. Dean occupied himself with a few games of pool, not running a hustle on purpose, but winning anyway. They waited around, interviewing people when the opportunity arose, but learned nothing of significance before closing time. Barker was a no-show.
Sam wished they’d found a room before hitting the bar, but Dean drove toward the interstate and they pulled in to the first lot with a vacancy sign they saw (not an easy thing at 2:30 AM). Dean also reluctantly parted with some of his new-earned cash so there wouldn’t be a credit trail. Feeling like this case was getting away from him, but not even sure why, Sam collapsed into one of the beds and was asleep before Dean turned out the light.
Sunlight streamed into the room several hours later. It burned through Sam’s eyelids. They had neglected to close the curtains. He rolled onto his stomach in protest. In the next bed, he heard Dean groan and snuffle deeper into his pillow, as well. Sleep returned within a minute. The sharp knock of the housekeeper woke them both up next. Sam came awake more quickly this time. He snapped to consciousness the way he had done since Stanford, whenever he was awakened by noise or touch other than a recognizable (Dean’s, Jess’s, even Dad’s) voice or tap on foot or shoulder. Sometime last year, after he started hunting again, he realized that Dad had done that, too—no groan of protest or bleary glances around to orient himself—just boom, awake. Dean, on the other hand, was trying the groaning protestation route.
Sam pulled himself out of the bed and lurched to the door. He unlatched it and shook his head bashfully at the little plump woman with her towel cart. “We forgot the sign, sorry,” he said, and reached around to hang it out on the knob.
“Sorry! Sorry!” she said over and over, in a thick accent (Latvian? Sam wondered), laughing a little to cover her embarrassment at disturbing Sam, or maybe it was the sight of his t-shirt and boxer briefs.
“Wazzat room service?” Dean groused as Sam shut and locked the door.
“No. Hey, did you lay out salt?” He only just realized that he hadn’t stepped through any at the doorway.
“Mph,” Dean said, which could have been a yes or a no. But a second later, he breathed, “Thought you said you had it.”
“Yeah, I brought it in, but….” Sam waved away the rest of his statement. Lucky nothing showed up, he thought. He went to the duffel and poured out lines before falling back onto his bed. Sleep wasn’t going to come back now, but he didn’t want to be awake, either, so he relaxed, stretched out almost diagonally, and closed his eyes to figure out what had been bugging him about the case since before last night.
Okay, he thought, start with the timeline. David Owen goes missing (Day Zero), turns up five days later, about 150 miles away. Two days after that (Day Seven), Lauren takes off from school and reverses the trip, gets arrested on Day Twelve. Then sometime on Day Fourteen, Barker (we think) disappears. So that means, he tapped his fingers on his chest to count, today is day five for Barker, Day Nineteen overall. What the heck is it with five? And why the pattern? It’s like one per week or something.
Then there’s the travel between Columbus and Cleveland. Seriously, that’s jacked. What’s he doing with the extra time? Why aren’t there any omens—
He opened his eyes. That’s what had bugged him. No omens. There were no demonic predecessors at all—no electrical storms, no cattle deaths—nothing to indicate demonic activity. Whereas the once-per-week pattern felt much more like a ritual…something a human (or humans) would devise.
“Shit, Dean,” he said aloud.
“What?” In contrast to his incoherence before, Dean’s voice across the table from Sam’s head sounded alert, concerned even. Sam could tell that Dean’s immediate thought was for Sam’s distress. Which, given the month he’d had, rabbit’s foot and all, was a little comforting, despite how annoying his brother could be when it came to worrying about his own predicament.
“Sam, what?” Dean demanded sharply. He pulled back the covers and swung his legs out of bed. Sam mirrored him.
“I don’t think this is a demon at all,” Sam explained. “What’s been missing from every disappearance and every criminal incident so far?”
Dean thought about it, his eyes casting around the room’s crown molding for the answer. “Waldo?” he quipped, deadpan. Then it hit him, too. He snapped his fingers and segued to wag one finger at his brother. “Omens,” he concluded smarmily.
“Right,” Sam said happily. He ignored Dean’s self-congratulatory, smug nod. “Not a single precursory event. And the timing—every week, like clockwork. Dean, this feels more like ritual stuff.”
“Wait—what about the sulfur in Barker’s apartment?” Dean pointed out.
Sam lurched over to the table. “I dunno, maybe….” He pushed through the files. “Dean. Barker’s a chemist. He probably had sulfur residue from his lab.”
Dean grimaced. “Oh, man,” he whined, “does that mean we’re dealing with humans?”
Sam nodded and grunted his sympathy. Dean hated the hunts involving human culprits, and Sam couldn’t blame him. They were tougher, less predictable, and less straightforward. Dean’s own morality was pretty fluid about a lot of things, but his sense of cosmic Right and Wrong came straight out of the old westerns, war movies, and comics he loved so much. Human ambiguity, human complication, made their job a lot trickier to do. It also usually meant less guns blazing, and a more open-ended distribution of judgment, which made Dean feel like the hunts were unresolved. In short, it meant he couldn’t kill things.
“So, what do we do now?” Dean complained. “We still think Barker’s gonna show up in Cleveland, right? Today?”
“Yeah, I think so,” Sam reasoned. “Just because it’s not a demon doesn’t mean there’s nothing to fix.”
Dean scrubbed his brushcut. “Okay. Well, let’s clean ourselves up, get breakfast, see what else we can find out.”
“Good—we should hit someplace with Wi-Fi so I can check the police reports, recent rap sheets and so on.”
“What’s wrong with a newspaper?” Dean asked gruffly. Sam laughed. The comment had been delivered in Dean’s imitation of Dad’s voice, evoking an old conversation and a debate that had lasted, as far as Sam knew, the rest of their father’s life.
“God, remember when I tried to get him to open an Amazon account?”
“Too easy to track,” Dean replied, still in Dad’s authoritative bark. “Though I kind of agree with him there.”
“Nah, you’d be amazed at the false trail you can lay online.” Sam smiled at his brother. It seemed like it had been ages since they were so at ease together. Joking—about Dad’s autocratic and often antiquated methods, no less—felt a little like the “normal” that so constantly eluded Sam.
“Yeah, well, the point is I’ll scan the papers while you check last night’s booking logs.”
“Deal.”
They made themselves presentable in short order and Dean, like a pointer on the scent of a mallard, found an IHOP right next to a coffee house with Wi-Fi. Sam started working on breaking into the Cleveland PD’s system, his pancakes still settling heavily in his stomach. Dean got himself another cup of coffee, even though he’d had three fill-ups with his western omelette, and flopped down in an easy chair with that morning’s issues of the Cleveland Plain Dealer, the Akron Beacon Journal, the Columbus Dispatch, and just to be thorough, the Erie Times News.
For some reason, Sam was having trouble accessing the police records. He tried switching to the public areas of the site, just to check whether there were any APB’s or alerts out on anyone matching Barker’s description. “I got nothin’,” he admitted after half an hour.
“Okay well, he’s only due to show himself today, right?” Dean said mildly. “Let’s not give—Son of a bitch!” He sat up, staring at the paper.
“J-Lo still not rescinding that restraining order?” Sam teased.
“No, she’s in the bag, Sammy, already told you,” Dean riposted without missing a beat. He turned the newspaper article so Sam could see it. He pointed to the bottom of the page.
Dean had been reading the Crime Beat section. There was no picture, and the item was on the inner column. It took up at most three column inches. But the tiny headline read, Missing Man from Columbus Kills Two in Toledo. Sam sat up and read further.
Gareth Barker, 27, of Steelton, Ohio, was shot while resisting officers outside a 24-hour Krispy Kreme Donuts in East Toledo. Moments before police arrived on the scene, Barker had allegedly robbed the shop and shot its two employees. Said Officer Daniel Clayburn, “It was a clear case of death-by-cop. He just charged at us when we told him to drop his weapon.” Barker had been reported missing four days ago by his sister, Lucy Barker. Ms. Barker declined to comment.
“Whoa,” Sam said.
“Yeah,” Dean agreed. “I thought this thing was leaving people to take the fall for its crimes.”
“Well, I guess he couldn’t live with what had happened.”
“Or maybe it’s changing its MO.”
“Maybe. But—Toledo?” Sam crinkled his nose.
“Yeah.”
“Didn’t see that coming.”
Dean gestured at their surroundings. “No shit, Sherlock.”
“Yeah, but all this time, the demon’s been going back and forth between Columbus and Cleveland. Why the heck would the demon take someone to Toledo all of a sudden?”
“I dunno. Cedar Point?”
Sam didn’t just roll his eyes at Dean; he rolled his whole head. Dean had been hinting about the roller coasters since Sam had suggested coming to Ohio, but he knew as well as Sam that they had better things to do than goof off at the theme park. Aside from the fact that it was nowhere near on the way from Columbus to Toledo, Sam was determined not to let Dean wind him up over the case again. Rather than make an issue of the ridiculous suggestion, he observed, “You know, we could probably get to Toledo in about two hours.” He flipped down the laptop screen and unplugged the charger.
“Try 90 minutes,” Dean boasted, already heading for the door.
Continued....
