ratherastory (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ratherastory) wrote2010-09-06 04:29 pm
ratherastory) wrote2010-09-06 04:29 pm
Entry tags:
Not the Demons You're Looking For (8/24)
Part 7
Part 8
True to form, Dean resisted all of Sam's attempts to get him to go back home, to get some rest before he did himself in. Sam huffed out a breath in exasperation, felt his mouth compress into a disapproving line, and barely put up with Dean's comments about “Bitchface number seventy-three.” Andy wisely backed up out of the line of fire, and instead directed them to the address of the relatives of the woman who'd burned alive the previous day. They did stop at the house to change out of their wet jeans and don more official-looking suits, Dean declaring that, mind-control powers or not, they'd be more convincing as FBI agents investigating a strange death.
“I swear to God, Dean, if you make one more joke about Scully...”
“Sab, you wound be. You look so fetchig id those power suits. Esbecially the well-tailored sgirts,” Dean smirked, then hastily buried his face in a tissue, breath hitching erratically. “Hih... heiih.. HISHOO! HEISHOO! Uh... hih! ISHOO!”
“Bless.”
“Can we just go already?” Sam could feel his temper fraying at the edges, knew this was probably the worst mood to be in to go interview grieving witnesses, and didn't that thought help oh so much to sort out his temper.
“W-wait...” Dean held up a hand, still frozen in the same position. “G-gonna... HEITCHUH! Huh... HUISHOO! God... ESTCHUH! Nnngh...” he groaned softly, out of breath, wiped uselessly at his nose, started up again. “For the... HEISH! HEPTCHUH! HAAISHOO!”
Sam watched him pant for a few more seconds, pretty sure it was over this time. “You good?”
A brief nod. “Led's jusd go before by head explodes.”
At least Dean didn't insist on taking point on the interviews. Sam was grateful for small mercies. He stepped up to the door, Andy just behind him, and Dean standing to the back, looking so much like an extra from The Matrix in his suit and sunglasses (“In the rain, Dean, really?”) that Sam felt vaguely ludicrous. A man in his thirties opened the door, and Sam put his best game face on.
“Mr. Birch?”
A vague, almost blank look. The look of someone who hasn't quite encompassed his loss, the enormity of it all. “Yes?”
“I'm agent Holly, from the FBI. This is my partner,” he motioned to Dean, who flashed his fake badge with the flair worthy of a Hollywood movie. “I'm sorry to intrude during this difficult time, but we have some questions concerning your wife's death. May we come in?”
“Yes, of course,” Birch stepped back automatically, the dazed look never leaving his face. He didn't so much as glance in Andy's direction, and when Sam looked, he saw a faint look of concentration on Andy's features, almost pained. He remembered Andy mentioning that doing his thing without talking gave him headaches, and he had to fight not to wince in sympathy.
They stepped into a living room that looked like the dozens of living rooms they'd been in before: homey, accommodating in its own way. This one had green curtains and a brown leather sofa, worn with age and use, scuffed where kids had bounced on it and drummed their heels against it and lounged on it. There was a fireplace with family portraits: Birch and his wife, a boy and a girl who looked to be just shy of eight and ten years old in the most recent photographs, pictures of the kids and various grandparents, impossible to tell which side of the family just by looking. There was a large television in a corner, an older model but still hooked up to a gaming console, the controller left on the floor in a tangle of wires, as though whoever had been playing it last had been interrupted and had just left it there after switching off the game. They probably had, Sam thought sadly.
“The kids are with my parents,” Birch said in answer to their unanswered questions. “Lauren's parents... they aren't too strong to begin with, and now...” he trailed off, and he looked so damned lost that Sam was tempted to just leave this man to his grief.
Behind him, he could hear Dean trying to stifle another volley of sneezes, only partially successful in his attempts. “HKPHH! HHGFFH! Hih... HHPTSCH!”
Birch didn't so much as flinch, and so Sam unobtrusively nudged him into a chair and pressed forward with his questions. “I need you to tell me everything that you can remember about the days before your wife's death. Did anything unusual happen? Did she seem different, preoccupied, maybe?”
He shook his head. “No, nothing like that. At least, I didn't notice if she did. I keep trying to figure out if I missed something. I mean... Lauren... she seemed happy. I never saw it coming. How do you go from happy one day to —to that?” he asked, his face a mask of misery and confusion.
Sam tilted his head. “I'm not sure I follow.”
“It's bad enough she committed suicide, but to do it like that? Like that woman in January?”
Huh. Well, it made sense that they'd have passed it off as a suicide. No other explanation, and Andy's biological mother would serve as a good precedent. Sam glanced at Andy, but other than a tightening of the jaw, he appeared to be holding up.
“I know this is hard,” Sam said gently, “but I need you to bear with me. Did your wife see anyone new in the last little while?”
“No, not that I... wait, yes.” Birch looked up, a flicker of something more than despair finally in his eyes. “She mentioned that she met up with the father of a new family in town whie she was at the park with the kids last weekend. Wanted to invite them over for a barbecue when the weather turns nicer.”
“What was the name?”
He shook his head. “I'm sorry, I don't remember. Frank, I think. She didn't tell me his last name, or if she did I wasn't paying attention. I haven't been paying enough attention lately,” his breath hitched in a sob, and he pressed a fist to his lip, making a visible effort to hold himself together. “I'm sorry...”
“It's all right,” Sam soothed. “I know how hard this is,” he repeated, “but you're being very helpful. Did she say what they talked about?”
“It was pretty inconsequential, I think. Kids, schools... I think our daughters are the same age. Something about them having to replace all the smoke detectors in the place because of some weird insurance clause about fires. I remember that because it seemed like such a random thing to talk about with someone you've just met.”
Sam could feel Dean perking up like a bloodhound that's just picked up on a scent behind him, tried not to betray his own excitement. It was nothing, was probably nothing. Talking about potential fires was absolutely not an indication of being a demon, but the woman had burned to death less than a week later, and it was just weird. Weird warranted their attention, always.
“Hiih... HEISHUH!”
“Bless you,” Birch seemed to notice Dean for the first time, without much interest in his gaze. Probably for the best, as Dean simply nodded his thanks and kept sneezing, backing to the furthest corner of the room, not that it did much good.
“HEPKSCHUH! Huh... HUPTSCHUH! HEISH!”
“So, uh...” Sam tried to collect his thoughts. “No one came to the house? You never met this Frank?”
Another shake of the head. “Afraid not. Sorry.”
“No, that's fine. You've been very helpful, Mr. Birch. Thank you for your time. We may come back if we have more questions, if that's all right with you.”
“Yes, sure,” he escorted them to the door, answered mechanically. “Whatever I can do to help.”
Andy was exultant as they left, for reasons that Sam couldn't quite identify. “Dude, you are totally like the horse-whisperer! That was awesome. How d'you get him to talk to you like that?”
“Sab is taledted that way,” Dean was wiping his nose on yet another tissue, fishing the Impala's keys from his pocket. “Bakes people feel all cobforted and stuff. Gets 'eb t-to... hih.. to op- HEISSHH! Sud of a —ISHOO! HISHOO! Gets 'eb to oped up,” he concluded, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Sam rolled his eyes and didn't answer, decided that it wasn't worth arguing with Dean over driving back, since it was only about ten minutes away and it was just a cold, albeit a bad one. Having a cold didn't mean Dean was incapable of driving safely, and he was pretty sure it would trigger a really, but really bad argument. Dean was on edge, and feeling like crap, and Sam was just as on edge, and for once he was going to be the grownup in this relationship and not pick a fight with his brother, even if it was for his own damned good. Dean's breath was hitching again, his left arm up, the back of his hand hovering near his mouth.
“Heh... HEPTSCHUH! Huh-EISHH-uh! HEIITSCH!” he growled deep in his throat, as though that might just scare the cold into submission. “Christ, I jusd wadt to sdop sdeezig for five secods, is thad too buch to asgk?” he inquired, seemingly of the universe at large.
That was Sam's cue to say something soothing, or maybe something acerbic or at the very least smart-assed, except that he missed his cue entirely as pain slammed into him out of nowhere, rocking him forward in the passenger seat of the Impala, both hands pressed to his temples.
“Sam!”
He felt the Impala lurch to a halt, felt the pain try to crush his skull like a vice —flash— glass breaking —flash— rain pouring in through the shattered window —flash— the woman screaming, hunched over to protect the child —flash—
“Sam!”
The car was stopped, the door opened, and he was digging into his scalp with his fingernails —flash— the baby crying —flash— a figure in the doorway —flash— and then he was falling, on the ground, water soaking through his clothes —flash— “No! You can't have him!” —flash— back arching, heels scrabbling against the asphalt, and Dean was on top of him, holding him down by the shoulders, his eyes wide in a face that had drained of all its colour, trying to pull his hands away from his face. He pulled back —didn't Dean realize his hands were all that were keeping his brains inside his head?
“Sam! Dammit, come on!”
Was he the one making that whimpering, keening sound? He tried taking a breath, and the sound stopped, so it had to be him. “'M okay,” he managed, forcing his eyes open. He could feel Dean practically vibrating next to him, all nerves and anxiety, and he reached out to pat his sleeve awkwardly. “'M okay,” he repeated, unable to form anything more coherent.
His fingernails were bloody, he noted with something like clinical detachment. He must have scratched himself pretty hard. The pain hadn't faded, exactly, but it felt as though it had somehow moved aside, wasn't entirely part of him anymore. Rain was pouring onto his face, and for a split second he thought it might wash him away entirely. He tried to get up, found that nothing worked quite the way he remembered.
“Do you want me to call an ambulance?” A voice he couldn't quite place.
“No. Help me!” he heard Dean snap, and he felt two pairs of hands grasp him under his arms, lift him bodily back into the passenger seat of the car, and he let his eyes close, his head roll back to rest against the seat. Then they were stopped again, and Dean was talking to him, something about getting up, about going inside, but he felt so damned heavy, like his limbs were made of lead, and everything hurt, and finally he felt himself being half-carried, half-dragged up some stairs, into a place that was a lot warmer and dryer than before. Then it was up more stairs, in spite of his protests, in spite of how much it hurt, and then he was lying on something soft, and his wet clothes were being tugged off. Someone tucked a blanket around him, smoothed the hair from his forehead, and he heard Dean whisper, “It's okay, Sammy. Go to sleep.”
And with that, he let the darkness claim him.
Part 9
Part 8
True to form, Dean resisted all of Sam's attempts to get him to go back home, to get some rest before he did himself in. Sam huffed out a breath in exasperation, felt his mouth compress into a disapproving line, and barely put up with Dean's comments about “Bitchface number seventy-three.” Andy wisely backed up out of the line of fire, and instead directed them to the address of the relatives of the woman who'd burned alive the previous day. They did stop at the house to change out of their wet jeans and don more official-looking suits, Dean declaring that, mind-control powers or not, they'd be more convincing as FBI agents investigating a strange death.
“I swear to God, Dean, if you make one more joke about Scully...”
“Sab, you wound be. You look so fetchig id those power suits. Esbecially the well-tailored sgirts,” Dean smirked, then hastily buried his face in a tissue, breath hitching erratically. “Hih... heiih.. HISHOO! HEISHOO! Uh... hih! ISHOO!”
“Bless.”
“Can we just go already?” Sam could feel his temper fraying at the edges, knew this was probably the worst mood to be in to go interview grieving witnesses, and didn't that thought help oh so much to sort out his temper.
“W-wait...” Dean held up a hand, still frozen in the same position. “G-gonna... HEITCHUH! Huh... HUISHOO! God... ESTCHUH! Nnngh...” he groaned softly, out of breath, wiped uselessly at his nose, started up again. “For the... HEISH! HEPTCHUH! HAAISHOO!”
Sam watched him pant for a few more seconds, pretty sure it was over this time. “You good?”
A brief nod. “Led's jusd go before by head explodes.”
At least Dean didn't insist on taking point on the interviews. Sam was grateful for small mercies. He stepped up to the door, Andy just behind him, and Dean standing to the back, looking so much like an extra from The Matrix in his suit and sunglasses (“In the rain, Dean, really?”) that Sam felt vaguely ludicrous. A man in his thirties opened the door, and Sam put his best game face on.
“Mr. Birch?”
A vague, almost blank look. The look of someone who hasn't quite encompassed his loss, the enormity of it all. “Yes?”
“I'm agent Holly, from the FBI. This is my partner,” he motioned to Dean, who flashed his fake badge with the flair worthy of a Hollywood movie. “I'm sorry to intrude during this difficult time, but we have some questions concerning your wife's death. May we come in?”
“Yes, of course,” Birch stepped back automatically, the dazed look never leaving his face. He didn't so much as glance in Andy's direction, and when Sam looked, he saw a faint look of concentration on Andy's features, almost pained. He remembered Andy mentioning that doing his thing without talking gave him headaches, and he had to fight not to wince in sympathy.
They stepped into a living room that looked like the dozens of living rooms they'd been in before: homey, accommodating in its own way. This one had green curtains and a brown leather sofa, worn with age and use, scuffed where kids had bounced on it and drummed their heels against it and lounged on it. There was a fireplace with family portraits: Birch and his wife, a boy and a girl who looked to be just shy of eight and ten years old in the most recent photographs, pictures of the kids and various grandparents, impossible to tell which side of the family just by looking. There was a large television in a corner, an older model but still hooked up to a gaming console, the controller left on the floor in a tangle of wires, as though whoever had been playing it last had been interrupted and had just left it there after switching off the game. They probably had, Sam thought sadly.
“The kids are with my parents,” Birch said in answer to their unanswered questions. “Lauren's parents... they aren't too strong to begin with, and now...” he trailed off, and he looked so damned lost that Sam was tempted to just leave this man to his grief.
Behind him, he could hear Dean trying to stifle another volley of sneezes, only partially successful in his attempts. “HKPHH! HHGFFH! Hih... HHPTSCH!”
Birch didn't so much as flinch, and so Sam unobtrusively nudged him into a chair and pressed forward with his questions. “I need you to tell me everything that you can remember about the days before your wife's death. Did anything unusual happen? Did she seem different, preoccupied, maybe?”
He shook his head. “No, nothing like that. At least, I didn't notice if she did. I keep trying to figure out if I missed something. I mean... Lauren... she seemed happy. I never saw it coming. How do you go from happy one day to —to that?” he asked, his face a mask of misery and confusion.
Sam tilted his head. “I'm not sure I follow.”
“It's bad enough she committed suicide, but to do it like that? Like that woman in January?”
Huh. Well, it made sense that they'd have passed it off as a suicide. No other explanation, and Andy's biological mother would serve as a good precedent. Sam glanced at Andy, but other than a tightening of the jaw, he appeared to be holding up.
“I know this is hard,” Sam said gently, “but I need you to bear with me. Did your wife see anyone new in the last little while?”
“No, not that I... wait, yes.” Birch looked up, a flicker of something more than despair finally in his eyes. “She mentioned that she met up with the father of a new family in town whie she was at the park with the kids last weekend. Wanted to invite them over for a barbecue when the weather turns nicer.”
“What was the name?”
He shook his head. “I'm sorry, I don't remember. Frank, I think. She didn't tell me his last name, or if she did I wasn't paying attention. I haven't been paying enough attention lately,” his breath hitched in a sob, and he pressed a fist to his lip, making a visible effort to hold himself together. “I'm sorry...”
“It's all right,” Sam soothed. “I know how hard this is,” he repeated, “but you're being very helpful. Did she say what they talked about?”
“It was pretty inconsequential, I think. Kids, schools... I think our daughters are the same age. Something about them having to replace all the smoke detectors in the place because of some weird insurance clause about fires. I remember that because it seemed like such a random thing to talk about with someone you've just met.”
Sam could feel Dean perking up like a bloodhound that's just picked up on a scent behind him, tried not to betray his own excitement. It was nothing, was probably nothing. Talking about potential fires was absolutely not an indication of being a demon, but the woman had burned to death less than a week later, and it was just weird. Weird warranted their attention, always.
“Hiih... HEISHUH!”
“Bless you,” Birch seemed to notice Dean for the first time, without much interest in his gaze. Probably for the best, as Dean simply nodded his thanks and kept sneezing, backing to the furthest corner of the room, not that it did much good.
“HEPKSCHUH! Huh... HUPTSCHUH! HEISH!”
“So, uh...” Sam tried to collect his thoughts. “No one came to the house? You never met this Frank?”
Another shake of the head. “Afraid not. Sorry.”
“No, that's fine. You've been very helpful, Mr. Birch. Thank you for your time. We may come back if we have more questions, if that's all right with you.”
“Yes, sure,” he escorted them to the door, answered mechanically. “Whatever I can do to help.”
Andy was exultant as they left, for reasons that Sam couldn't quite identify. “Dude, you are totally like the horse-whisperer! That was awesome. How d'you get him to talk to you like that?”
“Sab is taledted that way,” Dean was wiping his nose on yet another tissue, fishing the Impala's keys from his pocket. “Bakes people feel all cobforted and stuff. Gets 'eb t-to... hih.. to op- HEISSHH! Sud of a —ISHOO! HISHOO! Gets 'eb to oped up,” he concluded, pinching the bridge of his nose.
Sam rolled his eyes and didn't answer, decided that it wasn't worth arguing with Dean over driving back, since it was only about ten minutes away and it was just a cold, albeit a bad one. Having a cold didn't mean Dean was incapable of driving safely, and he was pretty sure it would trigger a really, but really bad argument. Dean was on edge, and feeling like crap, and Sam was just as on edge, and for once he was going to be the grownup in this relationship and not pick a fight with his brother, even if it was for his own damned good. Dean's breath was hitching again, his left arm up, the back of his hand hovering near his mouth.
“Heh... HEPTSCHUH! Huh-EISHH-uh! HEIITSCH!” he growled deep in his throat, as though that might just scare the cold into submission. “Christ, I jusd wadt to sdop sdeezig for five secods, is thad too buch to asgk?” he inquired, seemingly of the universe at large.
That was Sam's cue to say something soothing, or maybe something acerbic or at the very least smart-assed, except that he missed his cue entirely as pain slammed into him out of nowhere, rocking him forward in the passenger seat of the Impala, both hands pressed to his temples.
“Sam!”
He felt the Impala lurch to a halt, felt the pain try to crush his skull like a vice —flash— glass breaking —flash— rain pouring in through the shattered window —flash— the woman screaming, hunched over to protect the child —flash—
“Sam!”
The car was stopped, the door opened, and he was digging into his scalp with his fingernails —flash— the baby crying —flash— a figure in the doorway —flash— and then he was falling, on the ground, water soaking through his clothes —flash— “No! You can't have him!” —flash— back arching, heels scrabbling against the asphalt, and Dean was on top of him, holding him down by the shoulders, his eyes wide in a face that had drained of all its colour, trying to pull his hands away from his face. He pulled back —didn't Dean realize his hands were all that were keeping his brains inside his head?
“Sam! Dammit, come on!”
Was he the one making that whimpering, keening sound? He tried taking a breath, and the sound stopped, so it had to be him. “'M okay,” he managed, forcing his eyes open. He could feel Dean practically vibrating next to him, all nerves and anxiety, and he reached out to pat his sleeve awkwardly. “'M okay,” he repeated, unable to form anything more coherent.
His fingernails were bloody, he noted with something like clinical detachment. He must have scratched himself pretty hard. The pain hadn't faded, exactly, but it felt as though it had somehow moved aside, wasn't entirely part of him anymore. Rain was pouring onto his face, and for a split second he thought it might wash him away entirely. He tried to get up, found that nothing worked quite the way he remembered.
“Do you want me to call an ambulance?” A voice he couldn't quite place.
“No. Help me!” he heard Dean snap, and he felt two pairs of hands grasp him under his arms, lift him bodily back into the passenger seat of the car, and he let his eyes close, his head roll back to rest against the seat. Then they were stopped again, and Dean was talking to him, something about getting up, about going inside, but he felt so damned heavy, like his limbs were made of lead, and everything hurt, and finally he felt himself being half-carried, half-dragged up some stairs, into a place that was a lot warmer and dryer than before. Then it was up more stairs, in spite of his protests, in spite of how much it hurt, and then he was lying on something soft, and his wet clothes were being tugged off. Someone tucked a blanket around him, smoothed the hair from his forehead, and he heard Dean whisper, “It's okay, Sammy. Go to sleep.”
And with that, he let the darkness claim him.
Part 9