ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-09-06 05:19 pm
ratherastory) wrote2010-09-06 05:19 pm
Entry tags:
Not the Demons You're Looking For (13/24)
Part 12
Part 13
Of all the reactions Sam had been expecting, that wasn't on the list. He glanced at Dean, who gave him an I've-got-nothin' shrug, then followed Lesley inside. The house had a messy, lived-in look, the kind that comes from having a family with small children. Toys littered the living room floor, although it looked as though someone had made a half-hearted attempt to clean them up. By the looks of it, probably the kid —another boy, if Sam was to judge by the matchbox cars, the plastic action figures, and the Thomas the Tank Engine train set. Dean was giving the toys a funny look, as though remembering a time when he'd had a living room in which to leave his toys lying around. Andy was doing his best to fade into the woodwork. He did a better job of it than Sam ever managed. Maybe it was because he wasn't six foot four.
“Uh, Lesley Barnes?” It wasn't the best opening line he'd ever used, but it was the best he could come up with right now. “That's you, right?”
The woman was standing in the middle of the living room, wiping her hands on her jeans over and over, mechanically, as though it was something she did to soothe herself rather than because her hands were wet. “Yeah —yes. It's me. I... uh... what did you say your name was?”
“I didn't. I'm Sam,” he stepped forward, feeling his shoulders hunch, his head drop, in a half-unconscious attempt not to look threatening. He hated feeling like he towered over every single woman they met, hated the appraising looks he always got, the is-he-going-to-hurt-me look that he knew was both unjustified and yet totally understandable. Her hand disappeared in his, and she favoured him with a nervous smile.
“Hi Sam. I've been expecting you. Sort of. Who're you're friends?”
“Uh...” he felt like an idiot. Here he'd had everything more or less planned out —find the witness, feed her a story, interview her— and now the best he could come up with was to barely manage not to gape at her like a dying fish. “This is my brother Dean.”
“HHEISTCH!” Dean had twisted away, face buried in a tissue. He turned back, looking a bit sheepish, and gave a small wave of one hand. “Hey.”
Sam tried not to look as discouraged as he felt. “And that's Andy.”
“Andy Gallagher?”
Andy jumped as though he'd been stung. “Uh, do I know you?”
She smiled, the first expression Sam had seen on her that wasn't some variation on terrified. “Yeah, we went to school together. I was a grade behind, even though I'm only a few months younger than you. My name was Lesley Fitch before I got married.”
A light went on in Andy's eyes. “Oh my God. Yeah, I remember you. You were crazy-smart. You skipped, like, four grades after that year, didn't you? Uh... you've changed,” he flapped a hand at her, vaguely indicating her figure. “A lot.”
Lesley laughed, flushing. “Yeah. I was sort of rocking the dork look in those days. Bangs, braces, and baggy clothes. You haven't changed much, though. Still driving that van?”
“You bet.”
Dean made an impatient noise in his throat, and Sam knew that his brother was chomping at the bit, wanted to know just what the hell was going on, and if his throat wasn't killing him he'd probably have already made several sarcastic comments about high school reunions.
“Uh, Lesley?” he interrupted gently, before Dean ruptured a blood vessel. “How did you know we were coming?”
The fearful look came rushing back into her face, and he felt like a total heel for putting it there. “Not all of you. Just you.” She seemed to hesitate, then a look of resolve replaced the fear. “I should probably show you. Would you come with me? It's just through here.”
Sam followed close on her heels, the other two a few steps behind him. He could hear Dean trying to muffle a coughing fit into his sleeve, with limited success. Lesley led them through a bright kitchen with a sink full of dishes and a food-bespattered high chair to an even brighter room that obviously served as an art studio. In spite of the weather the room was filled with light from a large bay window, and Sam guessed that when it wasn't raining it must be bathed in sunlight for the majority of the day. There was an easel by the window, and papers, paints and canvasses were stacked everywhere in a way that presumably made sense to the artist. There were a series of charcoal sketches on the walls, and Sam found himself drawn to one in particular depicting a broken window, shards of glass lying in a puddle of water.
Dean had been picking his way across the room, careful not to step anything, and now he paused halfway, breath hitching, the back of his wrist pressed to his nose, a look of intense annoyance on his face. “Heh... uh... he'ih... HEISSHH! ISHOO! HEISHOO!” his shoulders clenched as he tried to keep the fit contained.
“Bless you,” Lesley said, but her attention was focussed on Sam.
“I've seen this before,” Sam said, turning to her.
“I know. I've seen it too. And...” she held out a paper with another charcoal sketch on it, “I've seen you, too.” It was a portrait of him, a bit stylized, but unmistakable, and Sam shivered in spite of himself. The Sam in the picture was crouched on the ground, one hand pressed to his temple, his expression one of excruciating pain.
“You get visions, then?”
She shook her head, looking confused. “What? Visions? No.”
“Then... how?”
“It's kind of hard to explain. It's going to sound crazy.”
“Yeah, that ship has pretty much sailed,” Andy piped up. “Everything's a little crazy lately.”
“Why don't you try explaining it to us?” Sam prompted her gently, before she could let herself be distracted by Andy. She was already squirrelly, looked as though she wanted to bolt from the room.
She sighed. “Okay. I have... I don't know what to call it. It's an ability. A gift, or something. Maybe it's a curse, I'm not sure.” She gestured to the easel. “I'm an artist, right? I mean, yeah, I went to university and I got all those degrees... but what I really wanted out of life was art. So that's what I do. Except... the things I draw? They've started coming true. Coming to life.” She flushed. “I know, it sounds crazy, but you don't really seem surprised. Then again, I'm guessing you're not entirely normal, either. You've been in my drawings for a while, now. Weeks. My husband even started joking around about whether he ought to be jealous of the guy in my drawings.”
Dean snorted at that, and she directed a curious look at him. He raised both his hands in a peace-making gesture.
“You don't talk much, do you?”
It was Sam's turn to snort, and Dean glared at him. He shrugged, gave her a deprecating smile, swallowed hard before trying to talk. “I'b the strogg, siledt type. Bakes be loogk bysterious.” he rasped, and winked exaggeratedly at her.
She winced in sympathy, but returned the smile. “Wow. That's a hell of a case of laryngitis you've got.”
He shrugged again and tilted his head in assent, then whipped his head around to sneeze into the crook of his elbow. “HEPTSCHUH! Huh... HUESTCH! HEKSHUH! 'scuze be,” he managed, coughing painfully.
“I take it back. That's a hell of a cold you've got.”
“I try.” Just listening to him was making Sam's throat hurt.
She looked back at Sam, hesitating. “Can I get you guys anything? I just made a pot of coffee, and I want to check on Dylan. I was about to do that when you rang the doorbell.”
“Is that your baby?” Sam couldn't remember the name he'd seen in the birth announcement —he'd been too focussed on trying to find the woman in his vision. Rookie mistake. He could kick himself.
She seemed surprised. “Yes. How did you know?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, ducked his head a bit. “That's probably something we should talk about over coffee.”
Lesley left them alone in the kitchen with the pot of coffee to check on her sleeping son, and Sam pulled the birth notice from his pocket to check it again, leaning against the counter near the sink. He glanced up at Dean, who was going through tissues and throat lozenges at record speed, sitting slumped at the kitchen table, while Andy dropped into a chair next to him. “You okay, dude?”
“Survivig. So what d'you thigk?” he gestured vaguely in the direction Lesley had gone.
“Too soon to tell.” He looked at the clipping, and for a moment his vision swam, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. Oh, please God, no. “You see the date on this?” Keeping his voice deliberately calm, he handed over the clipping, and Dean glanced at it, then dropped his head onto his folded arms, confirming Sam's worst fears.
“Tell be I'b wrong. I'b hallucidatig, right? I'b delirious, ad this is all jusdt a bad dreab. I'b dever takig NyQuil agaid.”
“What? What? You're freaking me out, guys.” Andy's leg was bouncing under the table.
Dean's head snapped forward into his cupped hands, effectively preventing him from answering. “HAISHOO! HEISHH! Nnngh...” he groaned softly, fished in his pocket for a tissue.
“Guys?” Andy insisted.
Sam held up a hand to silence him as Lesley came back. “Okay, he's fine. Still sleeping, thank goodness. What's wrong?” she asked, seeing the looks on their faces.
“Lesley, Dylan's six months old now, right?”
She looked startled. “Actually, yes. Why?”
Dean made a small, pathetic sound, head still buried in his arms.
“Uh, are you okay?”
He gave her a thumbs-up, kept his head down as another of volley of sneezes erupted from him. “Huh... HEPTSCHUUH! HHEISHH! Hih... heh-ESH-uh!”
“Bless you.”
He nodded his thanks, gave the tissue he was holding a baleful glare before wiping his nose with a wince. At the rate he was going, his nose would be raw in a few hours' time.
Sam steeled himself to have the same conversation he'd had with several other people now. Somehow, it never really got easier. Maybe because so many of them turned out to be quasi-psychopathic murderers. “So let me guess. Your ability... it started up around nine, ten months ago?”
“Yeah, how did you know?” She pulled up a chair at the table. “I feel like a broken record. I guess you know a lot more about what's going on than I do.”
“Debatable,” Dean muttered, then turned aside to cough into a clenched fist, his other hand pressed to his sternum, as though to ward off the pain. Sam could hear his breath wheezing in his chest, and tried not to look as worried as he felt. Everything felt as though it was spinning out of control, and he had to restrain himself from gripping the edges of the counter he was leaning on until his knuckles turned white.”
“That's when our abilities manifested too,” Sam gestured to himself and Andy. “There are lots of us, all with different abilities. Psychic abilities.”
She laughed uncertainly. “What?”
“Like psychokinesis, precognition, mind control... things that most people can't do. Andy and me, we're like you too.”
“I, uh...” she sank into a chair next to Dean, eyes wide, her face pale. “You have an ability?”
Sam nodded. “Sometimes I see things... visions. They show me what's going to happen. What could happen.”
She swallowed hard. “Andy?”
Andy blushed. “Uh... I can kind of mind-control people,” he muttered, staring at the tabletop as though he was trying to memorize its surface.
“I'd find it funny if I didn't think you were telling the truth. I mean, how else do you explain how I ended up like that guy on Heroes?”
Sam and Dean exchanged blank looks.
“TV show, guys,” Andy supplied. “Just started last year. Guy paints the future. You guys need to watch cable more.”
“Right,” Sam had the distinct impression that this conversation was taking a turn for the surreal. “Listen, Lesley, I don't know a good way to tell you this so that you won't freak out, so I'm going to have to tell you outright. Do you think you can try to stay calm?”
She shot him an incredulous look. “I drew pictures of you before I knew you existed. I have a figment of my imagination sitting in my kitchen. I think I'm okay, considering. So, let me guess: you had a vision, and now I'm in terrible danger.”
Sam flinched. “How'd you know?”
“I watch TV. That's always how it works.”
Part 14
Part 13
Of all the reactions Sam had been expecting, that wasn't on the list. He glanced at Dean, who gave him an I've-got-nothin' shrug, then followed Lesley inside. The house had a messy, lived-in look, the kind that comes from having a family with small children. Toys littered the living room floor, although it looked as though someone had made a half-hearted attempt to clean them up. By the looks of it, probably the kid —another boy, if Sam was to judge by the matchbox cars, the plastic action figures, and the Thomas the Tank Engine train set. Dean was giving the toys a funny look, as though remembering a time when he'd had a living room in which to leave his toys lying around. Andy was doing his best to fade into the woodwork. He did a better job of it than Sam ever managed. Maybe it was because he wasn't six foot four.
“Uh, Lesley Barnes?” It wasn't the best opening line he'd ever used, but it was the best he could come up with right now. “That's you, right?”
The woman was standing in the middle of the living room, wiping her hands on her jeans over and over, mechanically, as though it was something she did to soothe herself rather than because her hands were wet. “Yeah —yes. It's me. I... uh... what did you say your name was?”
“I didn't. I'm Sam,” he stepped forward, feeling his shoulders hunch, his head drop, in a half-unconscious attempt not to look threatening. He hated feeling like he towered over every single woman they met, hated the appraising looks he always got, the is-he-going-to-hurt-me look that he knew was both unjustified and yet totally understandable. Her hand disappeared in his, and she favoured him with a nervous smile.
“Hi Sam. I've been expecting you. Sort of. Who're you're friends?”
“Uh...” he felt like an idiot. Here he'd had everything more or less planned out —find the witness, feed her a story, interview her— and now the best he could come up with was to barely manage not to gape at her like a dying fish. “This is my brother Dean.”
“HHEISTCH!” Dean had twisted away, face buried in a tissue. He turned back, looking a bit sheepish, and gave a small wave of one hand. “Hey.”
Sam tried not to look as discouraged as he felt. “And that's Andy.”
“Andy Gallagher?”
Andy jumped as though he'd been stung. “Uh, do I know you?”
She smiled, the first expression Sam had seen on her that wasn't some variation on terrified. “Yeah, we went to school together. I was a grade behind, even though I'm only a few months younger than you. My name was Lesley Fitch before I got married.”
A light went on in Andy's eyes. “Oh my God. Yeah, I remember you. You were crazy-smart. You skipped, like, four grades after that year, didn't you? Uh... you've changed,” he flapped a hand at her, vaguely indicating her figure. “A lot.”
Lesley laughed, flushing. “Yeah. I was sort of rocking the dork look in those days. Bangs, braces, and baggy clothes. You haven't changed much, though. Still driving that van?”
“You bet.”
Dean made an impatient noise in his throat, and Sam knew that his brother was chomping at the bit, wanted to know just what the hell was going on, and if his throat wasn't killing him he'd probably have already made several sarcastic comments about high school reunions.
“Uh, Lesley?” he interrupted gently, before Dean ruptured a blood vessel. “How did you know we were coming?”
The fearful look came rushing back into her face, and he felt like a total heel for putting it there. “Not all of you. Just you.” She seemed to hesitate, then a look of resolve replaced the fear. “I should probably show you. Would you come with me? It's just through here.”
Sam followed close on her heels, the other two a few steps behind him. He could hear Dean trying to muffle a coughing fit into his sleeve, with limited success. Lesley led them through a bright kitchen with a sink full of dishes and a food-bespattered high chair to an even brighter room that obviously served as an art studio. In spite of the weather the room was filled with light from a large bay window, and Sam guessed that when it wasn't raining it must be bathed in sunlight for the majority of the day. There was an easel by the window, and papers, paints and canvasses were stacked everywhere in a way that presumably made sense to the artist. There were a series of charcoal sketches on the walls, and Sam found himself drawn to one in particular depicting a broken window, shards of glass lying in a puddle of water.
Dean had been picking his way across the room, careful not to step anything, and now he paused halfway, breath hitching, the back of his wrist pressed to his nose, a look of intense annoyance on his face. “Heh... uh... he'ih... HEISSHH! ISHOO! HEISHOO!” his shoulders clenched as he tried to keep the fit contained.
“Bless you,” Lesley said, but her attention was focussed on Sam.
“I've seen this before,” Sam said, turning to her.
“I know. I've seen it too. And...” she held out a paper with another charcoal sketch on it, “I've seen you, too.” It was a portrait of him, a bit stylized, but unmistakable, and Sam shivered in spite of himself. The Sam in the picture was crouched on the ground, one hand pressed to his temple, his expression one of excruciating pain.
“You get visions, then?”
She shook her head, looking confused. “What? Visions? No.”
“Then... how?”
“It's kind of hard to explain. It's going to sound crazy.”
“Yeah, that ship has pretty much sailed,” Andy piped up. “Everything's a little crazy lately.”
“Why don't you try explaining it to us?” Sam prompted her gently, before she could let herself be distracted by Andy. She was already squirrelly, looked as though she wanted to bolt from the room.
She sighed. “Okay. I have... I don't know what to call it. It's an ability. A gift, or something. Maybe it's a curse, I'm not sure.” She gestured to the easel. “I'm an artist, right? I mean, yeah, I went to university and I got all those degrees... but what I really wanted out of life was art. So that's what I do. Except... the things I draw? They've started coming true. Coming to life.” She flushed. “I know, it sounds crazy, but you don't really seem surprised. Then again, I'm guessing you're not entirely normal, either. You've been in my drawings for a while, now. Weeks. My husband even started joking around about whether he ought to be jealous of the guy in my drawings.”
Dean snorted at that, and she directed a curious look at him. He raised both his hands in a peace-making gesture.
“You don't talk much, do you?”
It was Sam's turn to snort, and Dean glared at him. He shrugged, gave her a deprecating smile, swallowed hard before trying to talk. “I'b the strogg, siledt type. Bakes be loogk bysterious.” he rasped, and winked exaggeratedly at her.
She winced in sympathy, but returned the smile. “Wow. That's a hell of a case of laryngitis you've got.”
He shrugged again and tilted his head in assent, then whipped his head around to sneeze into the crook of his elbow. “HEPTSCHUH! Huh... HUESTCH! HEKSHUH! 'scuze be,” he managed, coughing painfully.
“I take it back. That's a hell of a cold you've got.”
“I try.” Just listening to him was making Sam's throat hurt.
She looked back at Sam, hesitating. “Can I get you guys anything? I just made a pot of coffee, and I want to check on Dylan. I was about to do that when you rang the doorbell.”
“Is that your baby?” Sam couldn't remember the name he'd seen in the birth announcement —he'd been too focussed on trying to find the woman in his vision. Rookie mistake. He could kick himself.
She seemed surprised. “Yes. How did you know?”
He rubbed the back of his neck, ducked his head a bit. “That's probably something we should talk about over coffee.”
Lesley left them alone in the kitchen with the pot of coffee to check on her sleeping son, and Sam pulled the birth notice from his pocket to check it again, leaning against the counter near the sink. He glanced up at Dean, who was going through tissues and throat lozenges at record speed, sitting slumped at the kitchen table, while Andy dropped into a chair next to him. “You okay, dude?”
“Survivig. So what d'you thigk?” he gestured vaguely in the direction Lesley had gone.
“Too soon to tell.” He looked at the clipping, and for a moment his vision swam, heart hammering painfully against his ribs. Oh, please God, no. “You see the date on this?” Keeping his voice deliberately calm, he handed over the clipping, and Dean glanced at it, then dropped his head onto his folded arms, confirming Sam's worst fears.
“Tell be I'b wrong. I'b hallucidatig, right? I'b delirious, ad this is all jusdt a bad dreab. I'b dever takig NyQuil agaid.”
“What? What? You're freaking me out, guys.” Andy's leg was bouncing under the table.
Dean's head snapped forward into his cupped hands, effectively preventing him from answering. “HAISHOO! HEISHH! Nnngh...” he groaned softly, fished in his pocket for a tissue.
“Guys?” Andy insisted.
Sam held up a hand to silence him as Lesley came back. “Okay, he's fine. Still sleeping, thank goodness. What's wrong?” she asked, seeing the looks on their faces.
“Lesley, Dylan's six months old now, right?”
She looked startled. “Actually, yes. Why?”
Dean made a small, pathetic sound, head still buried in his arms.
“Uh, are you okay?”
He gave her a thumbs-up, kept his head down as another of volley of sneezes erupted from him. “Huh... HEPTSCHUUH! HHEISHH! Hih... heh-ESH-uh!”
“Bless you.”
He nodded his thanks, gave the tissue he was holding a baleful glare before wiping his nose with a wince. At the rate he was going, his nose would be raw in a few hours' time.
Sam steeled himself to have the same conversation he'd had with several other people now. Somehow, it never really got easier. Maybe because so many of them turned out to be quasi-psychopathic murderers. “So let me guess. Your ability... it started up around nine, ten months ago?”
“Yeah, how did you know?” She pulled up a chair at the table. “I feel like a broken record. I guess you know a lot more about what's going on than I do.”
“Debatable,” Dean muttered, then turned aside to cough into a clenched fist, his other hand pressed to his sternum, as though to ward off the pain. Sam could hear his breath wheezing in his chest, and tried not to look as worried as he felt. Everything felt as though it was spinning out of control, and he had to restrain himself from gripping the edges of the counter he was leaning on until his knuckles turned white.”
“That's when our abilities manifested too,” Sam gestured to himself and Andy. “There are lots of us, all with different abilities. Psychic abilities.”
She laughed uncertainly. “What?”
“Like psychokinesis, precognition, mind control... things that most people can't do. Andy and me, we're like you too.”
“I, uh...” she sank into a chair next to Dean, eyes wide, her face pale. “You have an ability?”
Sam nodded. “Sometimes I see things... visions. They show me what's going to happen. What could happen.”
She swallowed hard. “Andy?”
Andy blushed. “Uh... I can kind of mind-control people,” he muttered, staring at the tabletop as though he was trying to memorize its surface.
“I'd find it funny if I didn't think you were telling the truth. I mean, how else do you explain how I ended up like that guy on Heroes?”
Sam and Dean exchanged blank looks.
“TV show, guys,” Andy supplied. “Just started last year. Guy paints the future. You guys need to watch cable more.”
“Right,” Sam had the distinct impression that this conversation was taking a turn for the surreal. “Listen, Lesley, I don't know a good way to tell you this so that you won't freak out, so I'm going to have to tell you outright. Do you think you can try to stay calm?”
She shot him an incredulous look. “I drew pictures of you before I knew you existed. I have a figment of my imagination sitting in my kitchen. I think I'm okay, considering. So, let me guess: you had a vision, and now I'm in terrible danger.”
Sam flinched. “How'd you know?”
“I watch TV. That's always how it works.”
Part 14