Disclaimer: Don't own them. That would be Dr. Kripke and the gang at the CW. Just enjoyment purposes only. Any lyrics to any songs – also don't own them.
A/N: Okay, before you read this you should know the following, this loosely follows two of my previous stories, Lost and Found and Incognito. However, it is not necessary to read either of the other two prior to this. It's self explanatory. It also follows the 3rd Season after Mystery Spot and Jus In Bello.
The Villisca House is a real haunted house in Villisca, Iowa. The story of the axe murders are, unfortunately true, and the house is one of the most haunted places in Iowa. I had the opportunity to go through the house one evening by candlelight and it was quite spooky. The other events that happen after the axes in my story are fictional. No other killings occurred in the house after the first murders.
I have also created a character who has a filthy mouth, so if you don't like the language, you may want to imagine he is saying something else.
Lastly, this is the last thing I am writing for a long time. Well, at least until Season 4 gets going. I'm tired. Hope you enjoy.
Oh, and Maz - if you're reading this, your email bounced back to me a couple of times so I edited it myself. Pick it apart, babe, let me know what I missed.
The blue minivan's brakes came to a screeching halt as it pulled up to the STOP sign. It needed a paint job and new upholstery inside, but it got her where she needed to go. The young mother pushed her dirty blonde hair out of her brown eyes and caught a quick glimpse of herself in the rearview mirror. She needed new highlights. She'd have to call when she got home and make an appointment for herself. It was a luxury she allowed herself only twice a year. Money was tight all over. She started to shift her right foot off the brake and to the gas pedal when a scream startled her from behind her.
"Cheerios!" The three-year-old girl's leg bobbed up and down. "Mommy! More Cheerios!"
It was a small town and they were on a quiet street. She glanced around. No cars behind her honking as she made anyone late to anything. Just the old minivan rumbling at the four way stop. She looked over to the right automatically. Everyone looked to the right at that STOP sign even though no one really ever looked. She knew what was there, just as everyone in the town knew. It was the old murder house. She hated that place.
It was a very old house. The white paint was brittle against the wood. The windows were long and narrow, oddly shaped, haunting in their own right. Amityville-style. The yard was small, the grass not well kept in the summer and in the winter, the snow melted into hidden mud puddles scattered across the lawn. The house was deceivingly much bigger on the outside than on the inside, so she had been told.
She and her best friend had once dared each other to run into the house for fun at their first boy/girl party. She was fourteen-years-old and made it to the front porch. Her friend Amanda Brewer had looked in through one of the windows and yelled back that there was something already inside. But after Amanda's boyfriend had looked, too, he reassured the girls there was nothing in that old house. It was empty and safe.
The odd thing that the blonde recalled about that night, standing on that porch, was the kiss. She stole it from her best friend's unsuspecting and astonished boyfriend. Not to forget the shock on Amanda's face, either. Pulled the rug right out of that perfect want-to-be-cheerleader and robbed her of her first crush. He deserved better, anyway. But it didn't matter because Amanda Brewer lost more that night than just her boyfriend. She was one of the only two who actually went through with the dare and made it into the house.
But only one made it out.
And now it was only ghost hunters who ventured in. Skeptics would bring camera crews and spend the night. But the residences of Villisca, Iowa just chose not to see it. But they did discuss it. A lot. Town meetings gone bad. Trying, hoping, wishing the owners of the rundown haunt would have it bulldozed to the ground.
Things just had a way of happening there.
The mother smiled over her shoulder and reached down to the passenger side floorboard. She brought out a zip-loc baggie and handed it back.
The young lady sighed and fumbled in her large purse until she felt the familiar smooth plastic. She brought out the pink Hello Kitty cup and gave it a jiggle.
"There's a little left," she commented as she passed that back as well. "Mommy doesn't have any more until we get home."
The toddler seemed to be content with that, her big pink lips wrapping around the spout of the cup, her blue eyes widening as she sucked. The mother turned her attention back to the road. Her foot lifted and she pressed on the accelerator. Old reliable made a hearty attempt to advance through the STOP sign and then chugged to a teetering halt.
"What the…" the mother's hands released the wheel and she put the gearshift in park. Turning the ignition, she tried again to get the minivan going. It rattled and irked in response, but refused to turn over. Damned car. The highlights would have to wait. The dark blonde grabbed for her oversized purse.
She flashed a sweet smile over her shoulder for the second time. "The car's sick, honey. Mommy needs to call Daddy."
She started to fish through the large bag, searching for the tiny phone. Her fingers slinked around the hard fake chrome and pulled it out. Flipping the phone on, her fingers knowingly flew to dial her husband at work when something caught her eye. She looked up to see an older man with graying hair and a large face running from around the back of the murder house. Blood was streaming from his head, running down his face. His big arms were raised above his head, his hands waving frantically as he fled.
The mother startled a second, her fingers freezing over the cell phone buttons as she watched him clear the corner of the lot and stream through the snow onto the front lawn. He was shouting and howling, cursing and pleading. As his face came into the light, she could see past the blood and thought there was something she recognized.
The young mother instantly scrambled in her seat, unlatching the safety belt and pulling on the door handle. She nervously peeked into the car seat behind her. "Mommy'll be right back," she promised to innocent ears.
She closed her phone and then flipped it back open. "Sir!" she called to the man as he ran in her direction.
His eyes narrowed at her. "Go!" He shrieked back to her. "Go away!"
She stopped at his words, her foot just resting on the snowy curb of the lawn. Her fingers quickly dialed 911. She pushed send and waited. "I'm calling for help!" she hollered.
The man suddenly collapsed to his knees his hands stretched out, palms towards her, motioning her to stop. He had made it three quarters of the way through the yard, the snow melting away as his thick body hit it. His eyes locked on her and he grabbed hold of his shirt over his chest. "Emily," he whispered and then his hands rose to pull at the small hairs gracing his head. His voice rose to a wailing moan. "The noise!" The snow quickly altered, turning into slush surrounding him.
The woman stilled. Her heart skipped a beat and she felt the white Earth around her start to shift. Move. An eerie feeling crept around her, like when she had once walked across a cemetery at midnight and the time she touched her Grandmother's cold dead cheeks. And then there was the time...
A hollow whisper resonated, mummified to her left eardrum and then her right. Her hand started to tremble, shaking the phone that was still pressed to her ear. "Hello?" She spoke into the receiver but it was the air that responded in a faint murmur.
Forever? A crinkle occurred over the bridge of her nose in confusion. She looked to each end of the yard, her sight easily gliding to the street on both sides. There was no one there. Just the man, who was now slumped face forward. His head was pressed down in mud, one of the many hidden puddles left behind from the melted slushy-snow.
The woman took a chilling step forward. "Sir?" She called out, hoping he would stir. "Are you okay?" She stopped beside him and crouched down, her hands coming within inches of his face.
"Next." The word came out of the air again and her hand stopped, hovering over the man's jugular. Her eyes widened and her fingers jerked back into a ball, forcing a fist.
The young woman looked around, checking her surroundings again. She glanced back to the minivan and saw her three-year-old watching her intently. The child waved through the glass and pushed a handful of cereal into her mouth. Her mother tried again to call 911 when she was hit with a sensation of cold steel. It struck her body mixing with luscious frost. It seeped into her veins, blending into her blood and sneaking trouble-free right into her bones and nestled at the marrow. She stood tall and backed away from the man, who was obviously dead in front of her and suddenly she realized she did know who it was. He was her ninth grade math teacher. He gave her a C+.
"Mr. Martin?" Her voice didn't sound right. It sounded thick with secretions and when the words hit the atmosphere around her, they iced and crystallized in front of her.
"Huh," she breathed and cracked a smile at the awesomeness of it. Her left hand came up in slow motion to push the small glacial forms away. They cracked and snapped at her touch.
There was the sound of static in her ear and she pressed the cell phone back to her lobe. She had already forgotten about making the phone call. Besides, hadn't the line went dead? Or the call simply dropped? She readjusted the phone and listened. Her ears felt full, filling with fluid… occupied.
"Hello?" she mouthed.
The static that filled her eardrum now made her smile and laugh with enjoyment, her short breaths forming clouds of ice as she did so. It delighted her. And the voice gave her sheer pleasure. "Chosen."
And then something rocked her World.
Sam's head was a mess. It was swimming. Scheming. Bleeding.
Rituals. Healers. Witch Doctors. Fountains of Youths. Herbs. Incense. Curses. Blessings.
Demons. Angels. Witches. Vampires. Tricksters. Federal Agents.
Alive. Fighting. Torture. Dying. Torment. Dead. Desperate.
Dean was pulling the Impala into a prime parking spot in a gravel lot. Sam glanced up. It was a dive of a restaurant. Small, old, needing new siding. It had one giant window in the front sporting the word "EATS" across it in blue and green flashing neon. Proudly, it also had a gold lettering display underneath saying they'd been established since 1958. And upon walking in, it hadn't been redecorated or updated since then, either. It served greasy burgers and tenderloins for sure, Sam noted as they crossed the small distance to a table. Suddenly a salad sounded pretty good.
Dean hadn't said anything for the past hour or so. He didn't even ask Sam if he wanted to stop for food, he had just made the silent decision on his own, pulling into the first place they came across in forty miles. He didn't check with his brother if this would suit him for lunch, he just opened the door and crawled out of the car. He hadn't been sleeping well lately. Tables had been turned and suddenly he was finding himself the brother plagued with nightmares. He had always felt bad for Sam in that department. Hurt for his sibling in the middle of the night, both physically and mentally. Even anguished for him when they were really bad, when he broke out into baths of sweat. Now he was empathetic. The night terrors racked him awake and asleep.
The cowbell that clunked over their heads as they walked in the cafe seemed to snap him out of his haze a little. The eatery was small and completely empty.
"What time is it?" Dean looked down at his watch. "11:45. You'd think the lunch crowd would be shovin' it in." The older brother chose a table and sunk into the booth.
Sam clamored after him. His eyes quickly casing their surroundings, taking in the gaudy decorations. One wall sported just stuffed fish. They covered the entire thing, mounted on wooden plaques. Some of them would state what kind of fish it was, where it was caught, who caught it and the date. Another wall had pictures of old Iowa barns. They also contained their locations and the date the building was erected. A third wall had an enormous wagon wheel bolted to it. Signatures covered the old wood, graffiti painted on and small poems were etched into the grain. Sam blinked at it and then noticed the carpeting on the floor. It was a short dark cut, old, worn and heavily stained. Underneath it all there was a faded pattern to its madness: cowboy hats. It was truly one of the cheesiest places they'd ever been.
Sam's older brother was peeling the menu apart. The plastic film was caked with unseen oils and grease keeping the menu sealed when not in use. Sticky fingers. He grimaced. "Yeah?"
"Have we ate here before?" Sam's eyes darted around. It was oddly familiar.
Dean, however, didn't even bother looking up. "Probably. We use to live here."
Sam squinted his eyes back across the table. "We lived here?"
The hazel cracked back up to him, smiling. "Yeah. Well up the road. Dad rented a house outside of Clarinda." When he didn't get an a-ha moment from his eating partner, he went on. "It was the first high school you ever went to."
Sam's shoulders sagged back into the bench behind him, taking his astonished weight. It was slowly starting a light bulb. "Yeah. You taught me how to drive here."
"No. We practiced for your learning permit here. I taught you how to drive in Texas. When you were nine."
Sam laughed at that. Dean started teaching him when he could reach the pedals. His legs had always been too long. "Oh, yeah. Right." When it came to the memories, Dean was always right. "I was fourteen when we were here?" His brother nodded back. "How long did we live here?"
A slight shrug answered him. "Dunno. Six months or less. You didn't finish ninth grade here. That was in Rockford."
"How do you remember that?"
The menu tipped down so the older man could give the younger a Seriously? look. "Cuz I was a Senior and that's where I graduated from." He paused a minute, brought the plastic back up and then added, "Doofus."
Sam still looked around, though. Trying to stir his own memory. "I really think I've eaten here before."
Dean sighed. What was this? Short term memory loss? "Probably did, genius. We just lived up the road a few miles. I'm sure Dad brought us here a couple of times for dinner. You know he didn't cook."
Right. That was a job for the oldest, too. That much Sam could remember.
There was a slow shuffle of feet beside them and a younger man saddled up to the table. He wore a once white apron draped around his front, protecting his precious red and green-checkered shirt. His hair was curly and dark and his eyes were even darker. He held a black ink pen in his left hand and a pocket order pad in his right.
"Get ya?" His voice was higher and didn't seem to match his features.
Sam glanced to Dean.
"Double cheeseburger, extra onions, extra pickle. The seasoned curly fries and a coke."
A nod. "Whatever you got on tap," Dean joked. "Oh, and pie. Apple or cherry. Surprise me."
Sam rolled his eyes. "I'll just have a salad, house dressing. And a water."
The waiter looked over to him. "Small or big?"
There was a few seconds hesitation until Sam realized the question was directed back to him. "What? The salad? Oh, big, I guess."
The kid was staring at him now, his eyes really studying Sam's face. His left hand tapped the pen against the pad a couple of times and he finally pointed to the younger man. "Yeah. I know you, right?"
Sam's eyes flicked up to the waiter. He looked at his dark features and skimmed his nametag. Omaha. But weren't they in Iowa? The name was pushing a few cobwebs back, though.
"Sam." The kid's voice raised an excited octave. He raced over to the wagon wheel wall and started searching the beaten up piece of… art.
Dean's face made an upside down frown to his brother and they watched as the waiter's fingers trailed down the old bark until it stopped. He looked over to the table. "Here." He announced proudly. "There's your name. Sam Winchester."
Sam's ears perked up. They always used their real names for school purposes. Records transfers. College applications. It was the one thing they were able to keep real. Because of that John had to be on top of his game more than the boys would ever know. Protect them from anything he hunted that might in return hunt them back. And protect them from bill collectors. It was a lot easier to hide without two growing boys tucked in your pocket.
Sam raised from the bench and walked over to the area Omaha had pointed out. There it was in a faded black sharpie marker – in his own younger handwriting – Sam Winchester. It was listed amongst at least a thousand other names and profanities. He smirked back over to Dean who gave him a small wink. He started walking back to the booth, noting he couldn't remember writing his name. He didn't think he'd been there with Dean. Definitely not Dad. John's punishment for putting his real name on an article so permanent for anyone in the Country to see would have been in itself unforgettable.
The cushions skwooshed as Sam slid his 6'4" frame back into his seat.
"You write something naughty?" Dean was grinning from across the table.
Sam gave him a confused look. "What? No, just my name."
Dean only grinned harder. "That's right. You were only fourteen. Probably didn't even know all the dirty words out there yet, huh, Sammy?"
The confused look had turned into a glare now. He flicked a stray crumb from the table at his brother, pinging him in the arm. "Shuddup."
"Hey, I'm just saying…"
"You were only fourteen."
Sam canted his head. "Yeah?"
"Probably too… virtuous to know those kinds of words." He giggled at himself.
Sam's eyes stayed glued on his brother. "Dude, I can't take you anywhere."
The drinks arrived in large plastic glasses with Coca-Cola scrawled across the side, even though the contents it held was Pepsi. Dean reached for his glass and scowled towards Sam. The old plastic glass felt grimy to the touch. Dean's hand easily lost its grip on it. This was a hole. He watched as Sam reached for his glass and they exchanged the same quiet, disgusted look.
Omaha hovered near the table, still a little over excited to be reunited with the younger Winchester. "We were in the same grade, man. Remember? I hung out with Joey D'Angelo and Rudy Rudker. We called him Moon Pie."
Sam pointed. "Wait. Yeah, actually I think I do. Yeah, I remember Moon Pie. I don't think he lived far from us."
Omaha snorted. "Rudy was your next door neighbor."
"Oh, that little short kid, kind of chubby?" Dean asked, bright eyed.
Sam stared, a bit surprised by his brother, his mouth quirking up. But he did remember Moon Pie. He couldn't have been taller that 5'5" and he was, well, stout. But he was funnier than Hell and he'd get Sam going so hard he'd nearly pee his pants. Sam blushed a little at forgetting him. "I remember him, just not real good."
"S'okay," Omaha continued, "you guys didn't live here for very long."
They never lived anywhere for very long, but that was another story.
"What ever happened to Moon Pie?" Dean egged on.
Omaha turned to the counter. He held one finger up to the brothers and dashed over to catch their food. He ran right back to them. Must have been pretty desperate for that tip.
"Oh, yeah." Dean lit up. He grabbed the burger and wrapped his mouth around it. One huge bite. It hit every taste bud just like it was suppose to. Sweet, sour, spicy, hot and thick. The brown runny grease leaked down his finger as his hold adjusted on the bun. But he didn't mind. Now he understood why everything was so sticky.
"Moon Pie fucking died, man."
Sam blinked. Of course he did. The one person Sam kind of remembered wouldn't have lived and gone to college, had a successful job, gotten married and had kids. No, that person would be dead. He didn't even want to ask.
"How'd he bite it?" Dean muffled, tearing his teeth into more of the burger.
Omaha gestured to the bench near the older brother and Dean obliged, scooting down, moving his food and drink with him. The waiter squeezed his skinny rear-end next to him and pulled out a Butterfinger. "Well, he came back to visit his family over Christmas." He unwrapped the candy bar and took a big bite. Sam's eyes tennis balled from one eater to the next. "He'd been living up in Minneapolis. Became some kind of Administrator for a school up there. Anyway, he and his new wife came home for the Holiday…"
Sam's heart sank. God, it was worse than he'd thought. He had achieved everything he was suppose to in life and still died.
"They went on a walk through the old neighborhood, showing his wife around and he just… fucking keeled over." Omaha's arm rose up and then steered down to the table hitting it with a thud. "Just like that. Guess he had a heart attack."
Well that got both of the listener's attentions.
"He was my age." Sam stammered.
Omaha nodded back. "Yeah."
"Don't you think… that's a little weird?" Sam continued, eyeing Dean as he gave his full attention now to his fries.
The young waiter was already nodding, his eyes wide almost seeming to get darker as he spoke. "Oh, yeah," he went on. "They said it was because he was too fat. But that's not the whole story. He died right on the sidewalk in front of the fucking town haunt."
Dean swallowed hard. "You mean the murder house?"
Sam was blown away. Jesus, what didn't Dean remember?
Omaha was nodding back at the older man. "Historically keeping up appearances, man." Then the waiter shifted his dark eyes between the two brothers. "And Moon Pie wasn't the only one."
Sam's brows furred. "There's been others?"
"Oh, yeah. A month before Tina O'Brien. Taking a walk, fell on the sidewalk." He leaned closer as though there were people listening in. "Scraped her knee and snapped her back. Who does that? Last week Alex Martin – BAM! Down and out, stuck like a pig. Said it was a stroke." Omaha pushed across to Sam. "Remember? He taught math."
Sam thought about it. "Looked like Chris Farley?"
Omaha huffed. "Well, older… and rougher. Like he'd been livin' in a fucking van down by the river."
Dean laughed heartily, hamburger and cheese visible for everyone to see.
"And, uh, a three-year-old little girl. She choked to death when her Mom stalled in front of the house. It happened the same day Mr. Martin died. The Mom, she tried to save them both, but…" Omaha's voice trailed off, his eyes ventured out to the emptiness of the café.
Both hunters exchanged a look with one another. A three-year-old. God, they hated when their job involved children. They felt a greater need to save, time pressing harder on their shoulders.
"The little girl…" Sam gestured gently, his hand rolling for Omaha to continue.
Omaha nodded his head. "The doors were locked. I guess the Mom had left her keys still in the car when she went out to help Mr. Martin." The waiter took another bite of his candy bar. "Emily Pruitt. Remember her?"
Sam did remember her. Emily. He had always like her… when she was fourteen. She was a cute little blonde with a big smile. Sam was so tall and lanky even back then and Emily was always so kind to him. Interested when others weren't. She had a great laugh that shook her shoulders when she got out of control. Which, Sam recalled, was a lot of the time. She was fun loving and the younger man had wanted to ask her out, take her to a movie. But Dean was four years older than he and had never taken a girl out on a date. Not that he didn't chase any or hadn't been with any. But to date? To have a girlfriend? It was an unspoken rule that both brothers understood none too well. No one, other than John's self-appointed individuals, were to breach the Winchester style of living.
Besides, as the younger recalled, he kind of had a thing going with Emily's best friend.
"It was Emily's daughter," Sam finally croaked out.
Dark eyes slid over to him. "Emily's daughter. Emily's math teacher. Our math teacher. Tina graduated with us. Remember, she had a real pizza face." Omaha scrunched his own face up and gave the brothers an exaggerated shudder. "Then… Moon Pie. I think its trying to take out our whole graduating class."
Dean sucked down some soda. "What is?"
Omaha shrugged. "The fucking house, maybe. Kind of like a Monster House. Or something inside it."
The ring of a cheap metal order bell sounded and Omaha glanced up. "Your fucking pie. I'll be back in a minute." He craned his neck at Dean. "Want cream?"
The older hunter smiled in confirmation and his side of the booth was relieved of the bony ass for the moment. Dean pushed his empty plate away, bumping it against Sam's barely touched salad. He folded his hands in front of him. "Sam, don't tell me you don't remember the old murder house?" Dean baited his brother, but Sam wasn't biting. Dean sighed. "It was a long time ago – 1912, I think? Somebody walks right into the house while everyone was sleeping and axes the entire family to death. Kills Mom and Dad, their four kids and two other little girls who were spending the night. Whoever it is leaves and was never caught. After that, reports start flying saying the house is haunted. Nothing real Evil, though, just regular crap. Spooky sounds, voices. After about thirty years, though, a young kid goes missing. Last name Johnson, Johnston, maybe. They find him in the house. Bludgeoned. About thirty more years another kid goes missing. Brian? Brady…? Find him out behind the house. Then when we were here…" Dean watched Sam closely, "Remember?"
Sam had been looking down at his salad, so not in the mood anymore for anything in his stomach now. Something evoked in him, though. The house had been white. The windows were largely proportioned and bizarre. The porch had an awning over it and the floorboard creaked under his feet. The doorknob wasn't smooth in his grasp when he had turned it ten years ago.
His eyes looked more green than blue as they fastened on Dean's hazel flicker of recognition between them.
"Amanda Brewer." Sam muted.
Dean let out a sigh that he hadn't even realized he'd been holding in. Things with Sam hadn't been so smooth lately. Sam had done a lot of things that had surprised the older brother recently. More or less, the things had been a little, well, Supernatural. Sometimes even a little cold. But Sam forgetting parts of his life, temporary amnesia of events was enough to get Dean's attention. It forced himself to dredge up questions – or rather a certain question of what something not too long ago put in the back of his mind, never to forget.
Just how sure are you that what you brought back is 100 pure Sam?
The higher than expected voice stopped Dean and he looked up to Omaha and smiled, taking the small white plate from his hands. Dean held it over to Sam, quietly offering him first bite of the dessert and, not surprisingly, was turned down. Dean swirled the whipped topping on his fork, spreading the fluffy white goodness all over the crust. The waiter sat back down, scootching at Dean with his hip. The hunter moved a baby step down, this time throwing an imaginary dart at him.
The young dark haired kid started in again. "You know what I remember about you guys being here, though? The legend of your Dad. Or rumor. I don't know, me and Moon Pie started it."
Sam looked over to the waiter. Dean had just taken a bite of the pastry and coughed out a choking sound. Omaha pushed the Pepsi closer to him. "Dude, I know. We use real cherries, not the shit from a can. Take smaller bites." He watched as Dean inhaled his beverage. "That night your Dad went barreling into that house with all those guns strapped to him like he was fuckin' Rambo or somethin'! He shot up the place and then came out and was all like 'this house is clean'. Moon Pie and I were hiding out next door and he made you stay out in the grass, like you were keeping watch for…" Omaha's eyes narrowed. "What were you watching out for?"
Dean gulped. "The, uh, cops."
That seemed right. "Yeah, well whatever your Dad thought he could do worked. Until now. Maybe you should call him up and see if he can come back all blazin' saddles again."
Sam's eyes were boring holes in Dean from across the table. Dean smoothed the topping around his pie now, playing with it. Distracting himself from the younger brother's rigidity. "Yeah, we'll have to call him," the older man answered with a degree of difficulty back to the hired help.
"Where was I?" Sam's voice caught him and his eyes automatically looked up.
No use in lying. It would just be covered by another and there wasn't enough time left in his sentence to smother it all with black. "Dad sent you to Pastor Jim's for the weekend. We got rid of it while you were gone."
"Rid of what?" Omaha perked up.
Sam ignored him. "Why?"
Dean shook his head, one shoulder raised and fell. "Thought you'd be…"
"Safe?" Sam's voice was sharp, angry.
Dean tilted his head. "I don't know, Sam. He didn't say a whole lot to me. He just wanted you away and he said we could take care of it together. And we did."
"We?" Sam's voice was threatening.
"What the fuck was it?" Omaha interrupted.
And when Sam didn't respond, keeping his eyes pasted on his brother, Dean answered them both. "Some kind of a spirit."
"One of the axes?" The inexperienced kid was soaking in the conversation, confirming years of what he had suspected had happened when the Winchesters had rode into town.
"I'm not really sure, but I don't think so. It's… complicated." Dean didn't want to explain anymore now. Not in front of Columbo Junior. "You know, I think I'd like a couple more pieces of pie. To go. Can you get that for me?"
The curly dark hair fluttered and he paused a few beats. His face smirked into a strange smile, not wanting to tear himself away from ghost talks but he slowly nodded. "Yeah, I can get it. I'll get you some fucking pie to take with you." He slid his skinny form out and sulked over to the window by the kitchen.
Dean's eyes trekked the waiter until he pushed himself through the double pizza-ranch doors to the back. The cherry pie was shoved aside and the older brother leaned over the small table, his voice dropping low for the only other occupant to hear. "Dad had to get rid of you, Sam. He was trying to protect you."
"From what?" The younger brother's tone was solid and non-wavering.
Dean blinked. "Honestly, I'm not quite sure."
"But it was something. Obviously it was something in the house… and it's not a Monster House, by the way. Freaking geek. But whatever it was, some kind of spirit, killed your girlfriend at the time."
Funny, something else in a house had once killed one of Sam's girlfriends, too. "Amanda was never my girlfriend," he blurted out.
"Well, she was a girl and your friend and she called all the goddamn time and you went out with her every weekend." Dean pointed to the wagon wheel. "You signed your name up there on that stupid thing when you were here with her." He waited while images seemed to flash through Sam's mind and then flinched when he saw the younger man's eyes deflect with the memory. Dean reached his hand out and patted Sam's wrist until his brother looked over to him. "Dad was afraid for you."
For him or of him, Sam wondered to himself.
And now Dean was officially, too. He had over two months before he'd be running from the Hell Hounds. Just over two months before this conversation wouldn't even be a memory for him. Two months and his baby brother wouldn't have him to fill in the pieces for him.
"But Dad got it."
Dean drew his hand back. "Yeah." He watched as Omaha closed the Styrofoam lid of his to-go container. "But remember back in Lawrence? Back in our old house? Missouri, she said some places are just magnets for paranormal activity. Well, I think when eight people get axed to death in the middle of the night that constitutes as real Evil. Don't you? Doesn't matter if it was human or something else. Still Evil. Maybe the house is just a calling card for shit to come and…"
"Cherry and apple, just in case." Omaha's voice was more subdued, as if his Ritalin had finally kicked in. He sat back down on the edge of the bench near Dean, but kept his legs stretched out into the eatery, not invading. "The funeral was today for the little girl," he sullenly unraveled. "Practically the whole town went."
That explained the emptiness of the joint.
"You didn't go?" Dean questioned curiously.
The waiter shook his head. "Been to enough lately. I didn't feel much like going to one where the casket would be…" his arms spread apart to a small child size.
Dean nodded. "You don't happen to have Emily's address do you?"
He felt Sam's sudden turn of his neck. The tension heaved across the table. The worry in his unspoken words. She just lost her child…
Omaha flicked his pen out and wrote the address and directions out on his order pad, ripped it off and handed it over to Dean. He looked back over to Sam with softer eyes. "Sam Winchester. Good to have seen you again." He gave a small smile. "You never said, what're you doin' now?"
Sam pelted him a look. "Been on a really long road trip with my brother."
Omaha nodded, throwing his Butterfinger wrapper on the table with Dean's dirty dishes. "Gonna go hunt the bitch down? Ghostbuster style?"
Sam almost laughed back at him. "I don't know what we're going to do yet."
There was a few seconds of silence between the three before Omaha breathed, "Fuckin' old haunt."
The overly large, overly oily cook from the back glowered at him from behind the small opening separating the kitchen from the dining area. Dean caught the shot and watched as Omaha waved back, smiling.
"Dude, you'd better watch it. He'll probably tell the owner you're throwing the f-bomb around. Don't want to go losing your job." Dean warned.
Omaha let out a "Ha", throwing the pie at the older Winchester and gave him a crooked smile. "Man, I own this shit hole."
A/N: As with my other stories, I will post a chapter every two to three days and I have the story already written so I just have to edit each one prior to posting. I believe I have seven chapters this time, unlike more normal six. If you care to send a note, that would be great! Thanks.