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nightspear) wrote2008-03-17 01:00 pm
Finding Home (14/21)
Title: Finding Home (Main Post and Chapter List)
Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly
Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.
Pairings: Gen.
Notes: Yes, a few case facts have been changed. Again, it’s not huge, and again, I’m pulling the “this is AU” card.
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“I thought they were extinct. I thought Elkins and others had wiped them out. I was wrong.”
(“Dead Man’s Blood”)
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It was a year after Dean pulled Sam from his dormitory at Stanford, and things were...fine. Kinda. And kinda, you know, not. Something was going on with Sam.
Most of the time, nothing seemed wrong. Sam bitched at him to focus on the case; Dean deliberately ogled a passing waitress, just to piss him off. Dean leaned casually against a door to hide Sam’s crouching form until the lock was picked. Sam angsted; Dean rolled his eyes. Dean pinned someone to the ground, squirting holy water; Sam rattled off an exorcism and then gently directed the liberated host to the nearest therapist.
Actually, that last part was getting pretty common. Not the therapy; the exorcisms, and if the Devil’s Trap that Bobby had taught them negated the need to restrain the demon during the ritual, well, it made the taunting easier and a lot more fun. Half their nights were spent replenishing stores of holy water and studying rituals. Dean never asked his brother about that day in church at Stanford, when Sam had panicked about being unable to bless the water—faith wasn’t something he wanted to talk out, and besides, Sam didn’t seem to have that same problem anymore.
And it wasn’t that Dean had anything against sending demonic sons of bitches to hell. But it was weird to be finding so many all of a sudden. And that brought him back around to Sam and whatever was going on in his freaky head.
The text-message coordinates they’d gotten at first had stopped altogether; they were both thinking it, but, thank hell, even Sam seemed leery of trying to broach that topic most days. Sam had been finding most of the hunts recently, faster than Dean in flipping to the right page of the newspaper or catching the odd nuances in some news anchor’s story that anyone else would have missed the first time around. It sort of stung, but, to be fair, Sam had always liked piecing a story together, and he was still having occasional freaky vision-nightmares, clearer than they had been before, which pretty much sucked. Dean figured he’d just be happy as long as he got the kill the thing. Except killing usually wasn’t allowed with demons, especially with Sam giving him those wide show-a-little-sympathy-here eyes. Dean did have sympathy. He just thought it was better to knock a person out than to tussle with a struggling body throughout an exorcism, as if it hurt the host any less.
And these days...while day-to-day life was normal, it felt like Sam was hiding something. Dean got the feeling the visions were coming more often than he thought; his brother was certainly less forthcoming about those. He suspected that was probably how Sam always seemed to know where to start digging through the obits, and it explained the headaches that were still a little too frequent to account for otherwise. But that was...not okay, but not horrible, either. At least Sam wasn’t talking about trying to encourage all the psychic stuff, anymore, and even the headaches were manageable.
But recently, Sam on a hunt was a little...intense. Not scary, exactly. Not a lot qualified as scary intense after having hunted with John Winchester.Maybe that was what was weird. He had a hard time thinking of Sam—who loved homework more than bow hunting—being so adamant about this business. When they were on the job, his brother was more confident hunter now than sullen geek—so much more like Dad than like Sammy that Dean found himself having to give orders less and trusting easily when Sam barked at him to 'move, Dean, it’s right there' or to 'crush that, that’s the source of its power.'
That was what they’d hoped for, right, him and Dad? He and Sam had been a good team even when they’d been younger and Sam unwilling. Now, the two of them together could give most hunters a run for their money. If he was handing the reins over to his little brother once in a while, well, they both had their strengths, and knowing without doubt that his partner had his back was pretty awesome.
So, yeah. It was what he’d always wanted. It was fine. Great. Really.
Sam was still waiting in the passenger seat when Dean walked back to the car with take-out breakfast.
“When did you start drinking this crap?” Dean asked, wrinkling his nose at Sam’s drink, something that sounded and smelled like it had more sugar and cream than coffee.
“Shut up,” Sam said without heat but didn’t answer. “I got a call just now. From Isaac King; we met him at Harvelle’s, remember?”
“Him and Tamara, right,” Dean said warily. Not that he’d disliked the couple (he still couldn’t get over the husband/wife hunting deal—he wasn’t sure if it’d be awesome or terrifying to do the job side by side with a spouse), but he was always a little antsy in the Roadhouse. Too many people with concealed weapons and the know-how to use them. And too many seemed to know more about him and Sam than the reverse. “What’d they want? And hey, why’re they calling you?”
“They called me because they like me better than you. And they heard about some suspicious deaths in
“Why us?” Dean asked.
“They know about the demon we took care of back in early October, and they heard about that one on the plane, too.” Dean grimaced at the thought of that one, covering by tossing an empty bag into the back seat. “I don’t know why you’re so suspicious of them.”
“You don’t trust them either—I can tell.”
Sam glanced at him. “I don’t actively distrust them. It might do us some good to know other people who could teach us a few things.”
“Dad taught us more than they know, Sam, before you even started high school.”
“Everyone misses a trick or two. I didn’t know about holy wood, and I know you didn’t either.”
Dean thought that not making a comment about holy wood was a pretty admirable feat.
“Yeah, well. We don’t need anyone else sniffing around our business. We’ve survived without them on our own our whole lives.”
“Not on our own,” Sam said tightly. “Until now, we’ve had Dad.”
Dean took a quick gulp of his coffee. It turned out that that was pretty stupid considering how hot it was, but choking on the heat while trying not to spill the coffee took long enough for him to be able to avoid answering Sam without fumbling for a distraction. “Well, we can’t be the only demon hunters they know.”
“But we are the closest ones, and we’ve got a good reputation.” Dean knew he wasn’t imagining the pride infusing those words. “You’re being irrational.”
Dean set down the coffee, swallowed the last mouthful of his breakfast, and started the engine. “Your face is irrational,” he replied lamely, making Sam snort in amused disdain..
“So are we going or not?”
“Yeah, yeah, we’re going.”
Sam liked to surround himself with friends; always had as a kid, every time they’d moved somewhere new. This was probably just his attempt at fitting in. Dean knew he should be glad, since it meant Sam was starting to think of himself as one of them, but there was something subtly forced in his interactions with other hunters; it was the same way he talked to witnesses when they were on a case, gaining their confidence but holding back.
Well, good. There was a lot about them—and about Sam—that they had to hold back. Hunters talked. If their brief visits to the Roadhouse had taught them anything, it was that, and he sure as hell didn’t want them talking about Sam. And besides, sometimes Dean wished his brother didn’t have to feel like he belonged in a roomful of trackers and killers.
“You know what would make us move faster, Dean?”
“Shut up,” he said, shifting into gear and taking his baby and his baby brother toward
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They spent a few hours chatting casually and hustling pool at a bar in Manning,
“You did look into this after Isaac called you, right?” Dean said, flopping heavily onto his bed. “We’re not just here on hearsay?”
“Well...”
Dean groaned. “Sam...”
Sam held his hands in the air. “I looked up some local news stories. There’s definitely something here. Just...” He frowned, dropping more slowly into a chair. “I’m not sure it’s a demon, like Isaac thought.”
“Then what?”
He shook his head. “The man who was murdered...it sounds like he was ripped apart by an animal. Or animals.”
Dean glanced up automatically at the night sky, where the full moon was partially obscured by clouds. “This happened a week and a half ago...so, not a werewolf.”
“Yeah, that was my first guess, too. Whatever did it tore out his heart, though. Along with some limbs and...you get the idea.”
Interest peaked, Dean thought that over. “So some creature with a similar M.O.?”
“Or,” Sam ventured hesitantly, “something that wanted it to look like a werewolf attack to anyone investigating.”
He furrowed his brow. “That’s...the stupidest thing you’ve ever said, since at least this morning,” he said bluntly. “The cops don’t usually work the werewolf angle, dumbass.”
“Not the cops,” Sam said, rolling his eyes. “But we both jumped to that conclusion pretty fast.”
“Because we’re hunters and more awesome than the cops,” Dean said. And then, “You think it was expecting hunters.” Sam raised an eyebrow. “They did a shitty job of it, then. It wasn’t even full moon.”
“It was kind of close.”
“Not close enough. Anyone with a handful of brain cells would see through it.”
“Did it fool you, then?”
Dean scowled. “Cute. Don't quit your day job.”
"Why not? I don't get paid for it."
"Yeah, which makes my poker skills your main source of income, which you'd lose if you quit your day job."
“Whatever,” Sam said. “Anyway, the rest of the attack was clumsy, too. Supposedly, the attacker got in through a broken window, but the security system never went off—it was disarmed first, by someone with tools. And opposable thumbs. And...I got into the police records—look at these pictures.”
Dean reluctantly heaved himself up to look at the grisly image on the laptop. An old man—around 70 years old, he estimated, maybe 80—stared back with eyes wide and glazed in death. Passing a practiced eye over the picture, he suddenly frowned and bent closer. “The chest wound—it's too messy, even for a werewolf. Usually they only take one swipe to open the chest,” he said.
“Exactly. Whatever did this didn’t have quite that level of brute strength but definitely took the ‘ripping’ idea pretty seriously.” Sam grimaced. "There aren't really any bite marks, either--a few puncture wounds, but that's it."
Dean straightened. “What the hell, man?”
“It’s not just a mindless creature, that’s for sure. I guess that’s why Isaac and Tamara thought about demons.”
“There are other things that I’d classify as intelligent besides demons,” Dean pointed out. Sometimes he even put humans in that category. “This isn’t enough evidence to make that leap.”
“Isaac and Tamara are always thinking about demons.”
That was true enough, and with the way people whispered about how they got into hunting, it was understandable. It didn’t mean they shouldn’t consider all the possibilities. “A demon could have done this,” he admitted. “But it seems almost too inept. And strength isn’t usually an issue for them.” Dean paced a few steps, then shook his head. “No. You know what I think? I don’t think they were trying to fool anyone. I think they were just confusing their trail with whatever bullshit evidence was easiest to place.”
Sam considered. “Maybe. It’s working.”
“Yeah, we know it’s not a werewolf, but there’s nothing to tell us what it is.”
“But why would they even think about hunters finding them? They could’ve just made it look like a normal murder scene.”
“Yeah. What was the name of this guy, the victim?”
“Someone...uh, Elkins, I think.”
Dean stopped short. “Seriously?”
“Uh...” Sam minimized a few windows to reveal the article he’d mentioned. “Yeah, Daniel Elkins. Why?”
Dean was already pulling out Dad’s journal and flipping through to that page...there. He looked at Sam over the top of the book. “Dad knew a D. Elkins.”
Sam walked over to read over his shoulder. “Huh,” he said. “You think it’s the same guy?”
Dean shrugged. “One way to find out.”
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“This guy was definitely a serious player,” Sam conceded as they took in the salt on the floor and the weapons scattered around. “I think he was Dad’s Elkins.”
“Still doesn’t explain what the hell did this,” Dean returned, rifling through the scattered items on a desk. A box sat on top, and he lifted the lid to find it empty of the revolver it must have held once. Other papers were spread around, several sheets having spilled to the floor. Dean recognized a few of the symbols scribbled on them, but the unfamiliarity of others reminded him of how much they still didn’t know.
“Yeah,” Sam said, eyes eerily alert in the dim beams of light. He moved his flashlight along the bookshelves, pulling a few out to peer at the titles, then picked up a bound book, flipping through quickly. “It’s a journal. Like Dad’s, but going back a lot further to...geez. This guy’s been hunting since the ‘60s, at least.” His head jerked up suddenly, and he cocked his head.
“Sam?”
“Dean, down!”
Trusting instinctively, Dean ducked low and found cover behind a desk, peering out through the door they’d left ajar and listening intently. He couldn’t hear anything, but a few seconds later he saw the headlights of a truck moving away. Sam stood. “Sorry. I thought someone...never mind. Just...sounded familiar. False alarm,” he said, turning back to Elkins’ belongings. Dean rolled his eyes and did the same.
“Your ESP acting up again?” he quipped.Sam only looked at him and shrugged, his focus already returning to Elkins’ belongings. Dean moved back to the spot where Elkins’ body had been found, looking for clues to what the were dealing with. “Huh,” he said when his light caught on marks on the hardwood floor
“What? You found something?”
Squatting low, he studied the indentations. “Scratches,” he said. “This is where the body was found, right?”
“Death throes, maybe?”
Dean ran a careful finger over the marks. “No, they look like they were carved in with a knife.”
Sam had stepped over now, too, his movements careful to avoid disturbing anything or standing in Dean’s limited light. “You think he was trying to die here? So someone would find it?”
“I don’t think the guy was trying to die, Sam.”
“You know what I mean.”
He reached up. “Here, give me a paper and a pencil.”
It didn’t take long to see what Elkins had left behind. “A mail drop,” Sam said, holding the pencil rubbing. “You think we should...?”
Dean pushed himself upright and snatched the paper back from his brother. “I think we should.”
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“J.W.,” Sam read. “You don’t think...John Winchester?”
Both of them jumped at a sharp tapping on Dean’s window. Sam’s knife was in his hand and he was reaching for the spare pistol under the seat. Dean raised one hand to the ignition while his other scrabbled for his own weapon.
The figure outside the window was mostly hidden in shadow, but the stance was unmistakable. Dean recognized him even as Sam whispered, “Dad?”
Without a word, John Winchester opened a door and slipped in the backseat. And with the protective symbols and Devil’s Traps Sam had placed strategically around the car—to keep things in, granted, but it would work the other way, too—they both knew for certain it was really their father.
Dean finally found his voice again. “Dad? What are... Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, son,” John said, and Dean would never admit how much he wanted to close his eyes and sag in relief at the sound.
Sam, on the other hand, wasn’t moving. He hadn’t even turned—he slouched in his seat, eyes fixed on the envelope in his lap. It would have looked like he was ignoring them, except that Dean could see two fingers of his right hand hooked around the grip of his pistol, as if he’d simply frozen halfway through the motion and then stopped completely.
A year ago, they’d driven away from Stanford with Sam’s absence larger than either of them was willing to acknowledge. John had watched Dean walk out of the dormitory building and get in the car alone, tightened his jaw, and driven away. He’d given Dean the keys to the Impala just a few days later and left. Disobedience, from both of them, simultaneously. And the fallout—part of Dean had been waiting for it since then.
But they’d been looking for him for months—for over a year. And now, the three of them, together at last... That had to be worth something.
“Dad, where have you... I mean, how d'you find us?”
“Not now, Dean. It’s not safe out here.”
With those words, Dean remembered they were on a case—that their dad knew the man who’d been killed. That their dad would know what to do next. “Dad, Daniel Elkins...he was—”
“I know,” John interrupted. “That’s why I’m here. I’ve been watching you two since you broke into his house.”
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
“You know why. I had to make sure you were covering your tracks. Making sure you weren’t followed. Now, I should look at that letter.” John held out his hand, and when neither of them moved, he said, more sharply, “Sam!”
Sam jumped, a “Yessir” stumbling out of his mouth, and he fumbled for a moment before freeing his hands enough to pick up the Elkins’ envelope. Dean watched him closely, noting how he twisted around to pass it back but never lifted his face, turning back quickly and sinking low in the seat. John quickly extracted the letter and began to skim through it. Sam’s eyes were wide and uncertain and fixed on Dean’s, his muscles tense. Dean schooled his own features and looked back, giving a quick nod. As if that were the signal he’d been waiting for, Sam took a deep breath and opened his clenched fists, looking away before nodding back.
“Sonuvabitch,” John breathed from the backseat. “He had it the whole time. Dean”—Sam twitched—“did you see an old gun in there? A Colt revolver. It would have looked like an antique.”
“There was a case,” Dean remembered, “but it was empty.”
John slammed a hand lightly into the door next to him. “They must have taken it.”
“Who?” Dean asked, feeling completely lost. “Whatever killed Elkins? What are they? And what’s with the gun?”
The back door opened and their father stepped out. “Not now. We need to get somewhere secure to talk.”
“We’ve got a room,” Sam spoke up, surprising them both.
John paused for a few seconds, staring past Dean at his youngest son. Finally, he nodded and said, his voice gruff, “We’ll meet there.”
There was a moment, as his father made his way back to his truck, when Dean thought he understood why Sam always complained about being left in the dark.
He killed that thought quickly.
Dad had his reasons. They’d trusted him for a year; they wouldn’t stop now.
“You gonna be okay, Sam?” he asked before starting off toward the motel, their father’s truck a short distance behind them.
“Yeah,” Sam replied softly. “I can’t believe we’ve... Just...”
“Hey,” he interrupted. “I know.”
“He didn’t say anything about...Dean, what if he’s still mad?”
“He’s not mad,” Dean said, glad that his voice came out more certain than he felt. “It’ll all be fine. You’ll see.”
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