ten thousand miles [spn][four]
Jul. 5th, 2009 12:32 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mimblexwimble
There are days, especially after that, when Dean goes to sleep with fury raging in his veins. When he thinks, somehow, in some way, Sam must have known what was going to happen, must have had a part in it. No one just vanishes like that, so perfectly, so flawlessly.
(It hurts to think that Sam might have been keeping secrets, important things that Dean should have known. He can’t stop wondering if it might have made a difference now, the knowing. It’s a gut-wrenching ache that hits when he least expects it, keeps him away at night, puts him off food during meals.)
Maybe it was mostly Sam’s fault that he disappeared – hell, maybe it was completely Sam’s fault. Maybe Sam did kill himself, a moment of weakness, maybe he didn’t stop and think about it, realize what it would do.
Once upon a time, Sam was all about himself and maybe this is just like that.
-
It snows again, the following week, winter’s final fuck you before spring finally gains enough momentum to take over. On Monday, Dean decides that he needs a change of scenery and doesn’t go to Denise’s diner for breakfast.
He hits the bar at 8 AM. It’s a thirty minute drive from the motel, all the way on the other end of town.
The bar is open, but there aren’t many people around. A table near the back is fully occupied; four men with heavy stubble and bags under their eyes are clutching cards and look like they’ve been there all night. Aside from them, there’s a guy smoking and reading the paper at the bar, sitting next to a kid who doesn’t look twenty-one from any angle. But the bartender’s dishing out the beer, and the kid’s accepting, shaking hands becoming less so with ever sip.
Dean sits on a barstool, asks the bartender for whatever beer he’s got. The man plops down a bottle of Sam Adams in front of him, and bile hits the back of Dean’s throat.
Something the matter? asks the bartender. He’s got a scruffy red beard.
No, says Dean. Nothing.
He picks up the bottle and drinks, letting the beer drag the feeling away. He goes through five bottles and what’s probably six packs of peanuts in an hour, playing some kind of cracked drinking game, glugging away every time he hears the poker players behind him exchanging chips, or the smoker three stools away flipping a page of his paper, or the drunk next to him asking for another shot.
He eventually trades his Sam Adams in for whiskey, the best the place has got, figuring if he’s going to get drunk, he might as well do it with the last of his hard-earned cash. He tosses a handful crumpled bills onto the wooden bar, topping them off with a mountain of change (he tries to stack, but it keeps toppling over), which the bartender sweeps into a box before pouring out the whiskey.
He leaves the bottle with Dean, and walks away. The smoker’s decided to hit the road. He folds up his paper and tosses it haphazardly onto the bar top, puts out his cigarette in the ashtray and hops off his stool. His newspaper’s momentum causes it to slide up to Dean, and he picks it up and squints at the headlines.
It’s a local edition, and Dean’s eyes skim over the now-familiar call for information about Sam Adams’ whereabouts. There’s an article about the local high school softball team’s victory, another about the paving of the street that runs past Town Hall and a third about a couple of murders further south in the state. Two bodies found in a dumpster. Dean reads and drinks until his eyes itch and then pushes the paper away.
He’s about to leave the bar when he remembers that if he doesn’t have a couple of glasses of water, Sam will kill him. He turns around, manages to successfully plant his rear on the barstool and chugs down two glasses of water before he feels like his stomach will explode.
It’s still cold outside, but not as cold as before, and Dean trudges through the gray, slushy snow, trying to remember where he parked the Impala. He stands under a lamppost, so as not to get run over and stamps his feet. He turns three sixty degrees, peers up at the dim sun and stuffs his hands into his pockets, before remembering that he parked out back. If Bobby happened to come out looking for him, the Impala would have given Dean away immediately.
Dean makes it to the back without incident. Sure, he almost slips as he tries to step off the curb, but he catches his balance just in time. No harm, no foul. He gazes at the Impala for a long moment, petting it like a cat, thinks that Sam always yells at him for driving when he’s drunk (and oh, boy, is he drunk) and there’s a good, logical, Sammy reason for that, so it’s probably a good idea to wait until he can at least get the keys into the car door, before heading home. So he sits down on the car’s hood, not realizing that some snow’s fallen on it until the icy wetness seeps through to his boxers. He curses, gets up, tries to get a look at the seat of his jeans and almost falls over backwards.
It’s then that he spots the dumpsters. They’re about ten feet away from the Impala, close to the bar’s backdoors, large, green monsters. Their lids are down, and Dean thinks about the newspaper article about those bodies. They were found in dumpsters, wrapped in large black trash bags, tossed like restaurant leftovers.
Dean trundles closer and thinks how easy it would be to hide a body in the dumpsters, how long it would take for anyone to find out – if they ever did. The lid reaches a bit below Dean’s eye level, and he lifts it up, peers over the edge. The smell of rotten food is overpowering and he pushes away, the lid falling with a dull thunk. If you were out tossing the day’s trash, you probably wouldn’t take the time to make eyes at the dumpsters contents. A body hidden in there, properly covered, could easily be missed. And eventually, the garbage collectors would come and empty the bin, and all the trash would go off to be compacted, and after that, the body wouldn’t even be a body anymore.
Without really knowing why, Dean glances around to make sure the coast is clear. He opens the lid and hefts himself inside, taking tiny breaths until he feels like he can stand the smell. He lowers the lid shut behind him, crouches there on the rancid garbage, feeling his feet sink, hearing the sounds of buzzing flies and writhing maggots, and his own breathing, in the pitch-black dark. He doesn’t need to lie down to realize that Sam could have been killed and tossed in here. He doesn’t need to get in a dumpster at all, to realize it, but he has and he doesn’t know why, but later, he’ll blame the drinking.
All he can think of is Sam’s dead body, crumpled amongst the stench of waste. All he can see is the blood and broken bones. And then he thinks, what if Sam wasn’t dead when he was tossed away, what if Sam died smelling every rotting thing on the planet, smelling what he would be in a month, two months, three, praying to be saved, thinking, A little while longer, and this’ll be over, and Dean’ll be here and I’ll be okay…? What if? What if?
Dean can’t get out of the dumpster (the grave) fast enough.
He scrambles out, falls on his knees, tearing holes, and skins them, before staggering to his feet again. He lifts the dumpster’s lid once last time and vomits into it, until his knees are shaking and sweat is dripping down his face.
When his aching, trembling arm can’t hold up the green lid any longer, he lets it drop. His stomach clenches again and he bends over right there, one hand on the dumpster for support, the other on his knee.
He doesn’t stop until he’s heaving dry.
The violent nausea doesn’t subside for an hour. In the end, Dean calls Bobby to pick him up. He waits by the Impala, wiping at his forehead and pressing at his bloody knees, under the cold sun.
-
You need to ask me something, says Sam.
You need to ask me something.
-
Another day, another ten hours of door-to-door photo exhibitions, this time in a nearby county. Peter’s asked, Excuse me, ma’am, but have you seen this man? so many times today that he wouldn’t be surprised if it came out in answer to Denise’s What’ll it be today, honey?
It’s stupid. That’s all Peter can think. It’s stupid that he’s spending his days looking for a kid who probably jumped off the bridge two towns over. They’ll find his body someday, bloated and half-decomposed and tell Mendel, You moron, wasn’t it obvious from the start?
He should have found more evidence by now. It’s been fifty-six days since Sam vanished. He should have found something. He’s got cops from three counties searching, a miracle in itself (he’s surprised they even report back, considering the amount of bitching they do about the job) and he’s still not found hide or hair of Sam Adams. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Sam hitched a ride on a spaceship. It’s almost more believable than this without-a-trace crap.
The only good thing to come of all this is that he’s lost five pounds. Beth’s been taking the car so often now that Peter’s pretty sure he’s not even going to bother asking for it when the divorce papers finally appear on his desk. It means more walking for him, though, and that means fewer calories and fewer chances that he’ll drop dead of angina before he reaches fifty.
Being optimistic was never this hard before.
Peter cuts through the woods on his way to the motel Dean’s staying at and takes the steps to the upper story two at a time, the neon sign buzzing at him behind his back. It’s late afternoon, and all the streetlamps have started to come on. He can hear the receptionist cheering on his football team downstairs. A couple’s chatting quietly as they struggle to get their battered suitcases into the gray Honda.
He knocks once on the door of number nine. The brass number is looking a little dull. Peter’s distorted reflection stares back at him, forehead and one eye magnified to alien proportions.
The door opens almost immediately, and Peter finds himself staring at a large man with a spectacular beer belly and a five o’clock shadow. He looks extremely disgruntled, and Peter’s willing to be he looks the same way. No way Dean changed this much since the last time Peter saw him.
Uh, Dean Adams? says Peter.
No, says the guy, and he looks a moment away from flipping Peter off.
I mean – is Dean Adams there?
No.
He was there a week ago.
Well, he ain’t here now.
Peter’s contemplating pulling out his badge, but thinks it’s probably not worth the trouble. This man could probably stick his stomach out at Peter and send him flying.
Peter goes down to reception thinking about how their tourist trade is falling faster than the economy if it’s attracting folks like Bellybutton-Hair-Mo back there.
Bill, he asks, once there, rapping his knuckles on the front desk. Did Dean Adams checkout?
Bill looks up from his game. Nope. Room 11.
Why?
Had a lady friend coming, said he wanted connected rooms. Moved him to room 11, his friend in room 12. Now, do you mind? We’re about to win.
Peter waves his hand at him and re-climbs the steps, heading to room 11. He knocks once. The door is opened promptly.
Dean’s eyebrows are raised slightly, and Peter thinks its surprise; this is one of Peter’s few unsolicited visits. Aside from that one time in the morgue with the body that wasn’t Sam, it’s the strongest emotion he’s ever seen on Dean’s face. The man definitely has stoic down pat.
You stalking me? he asks.
No, says Peter, confused.
I just changed rooms ten minutes ago.
Bill’s fast, Peter thinks, to have the abandoned room occupied already.
Bill told me where you were, Peter says to Dean. You’ve got friends visiting?
One friend, says Dean and he steps away from the door to let Peter in. It’s still a double, but there’s no sign of Bobby Singer. The room is filled with fading golden sunlight. Dean’s got the lights off, but the television is glowing in the corner, switched to one of the local news channels.
And the search for 24-year-old Samuel Adams continues… says the reporter, before Dean interrupts, asks if he wants a beer. Peter shakes his head and Dean sits down at the table and curls his fingers around his already opened drink. There are already three empty bottles under the table that Peter can see. There’s an ashtray on the table too, which wasn’t there last time, or ever, that Peter can remember. Smoke wafts idly from the cigarette sitting in it.
Peter sits down across from Dean. He finds that he has no words, suddenly.
He’s here to tell Dean that they’ve struck dead end after dead end. He’s going to keep searching, but not like before.
But he watches Dean, whose eyes are on the TV, fingers pressing tightly against the brown and white beer bottle wrapper, and notices the set of his jaw and the way he’s holding himself. It’s like watching a boneless man fighting to stand and he wonders how to make this blow as gentle as possible.
The motel door bangs open suddenly and Peter’s on his feet, hand going to holster. A woman walks in, arms laden with paper bags, and she’s saying, Next time, I’ll tell you I’m coming so you can at least stock up on real food, as she kicks the door closed. You might not eat, but I sure as fuck do.
She drops the bags on one of the beds, turns and catches sight of Peter and says, Oh. Sorry, didn’t know you had company. Her eyes flick to Dean, who says, This is the detective working on Sam’s case.
She’s blonde, with sharp gray eyes and she moves forward and says, I’m Jo.
Peter shakes her hand, gives his name. Jo looks from him, to Dean, and back and then puts her hands on her hips.
Well, you could at least help me bring the rest of the stuff up, she says to Dean, with a slight purse of her lips.
Dean takes a swig of beer, and then sets the bottle down, says, Sure.
He stands up and pulls his coat off the chair and walks out the still-open door. Jo doesn’t follow. Instead, she turns to Peter and shrugs, looking uncomfortable.
He’s taking it hard, she says, with the air of one telling a guest that child is acting rowdy because it’s close to naptime.
Peter nods. I would be too, he says, even though he probably wouldn’t. His only brother is eleven years his elder and they never got along very well. He’s spent the past three years of his life in jail, which probably has something to do with his habit of dealing drugs to teenagers.
Jo nods, rests one hand on the chair Dean’s just unoccupied and the other on her hip. She looks around at the television, and Peter gets the acute feeling that she wants to ask him something but isn’t entirely sure if it would be proper. He watches her eyes light up momentarily, and she asks him if he’d like a beer.
I’m on duty, says Peter. It comes out apologetic, rather than reproachful.
Jo nods, says she should have guessed and goes over to the window, mutters, What’s taking Dean so long?
He probably knows he was being gotten rid of, says Peter with a small smile.
Jo blushes slightly. That obvious, huh?
Peter shrugs.
Yeah. Dean’s not one to talk about this stuff and Bobby wasn’t much help either… I just wanted to know how the case was going.
It’s going, says Peter. Not a lot of evidence, but that’s not unusual for missing persons cases. We’re doing our best.
You’re doing your best, you mean, says Jo. At Peter’s raised eyebrows, she says, Dean said you’re the only one working the case. Her tone is accusatory, as if it’s Peter’s fault that no one’s taking this case seriously, as if it’s his fault Sam’s not been found yet.
Not exactly. I’m the detective in charge of the case, but I’m not the only one working on it, says Peter, only half-lying.
Jo looks cynical, but lets it go.
So, do you know Dean well? asks Peter, deciding he might as well use this opportunity to investigate a bit more, make sure there really are no more leads to follow before dealing Dean the blow.
Jo shrugs. Not – not well. He travels a lot, but his dad was friends with mine and he and Sam come by the Roadhouse a lot.
The Roadhouse?
My mom’s bar.
How about Sam? Know him better than Dean?
No, says Jo. I don’t think there’s anyone who knows Sam and Dean well, aside from themselves. They’re only really close to each other. Their family’s always stuck together, and now it’s just them two, so... She bites her lip, corrects herself, Or it was. Now it’s just Dean, I guess.
But you’ve been around them? You’d notice changes in demeanor?
Sure. She juts her chin towards the door. Dean’s never that helpful.
Did you notice Sam acting any different, the last few times you saw him? Did he seem like something was bothering him? Was he particularly down?
Something clouds Jo’s eyes, but it’s gone so quickly that Peter’s not entirely sure he didn’t imagine it. She seems to mull over the question for a while, and then replies, No, I don’t think so. He seemed pretty normal. I – if you’re asking if there was something that might make me think he was going to disappear? No.
Do you think Sam could have killed himself? asks Peter, bluntly.
Jo snorts a laugh at that. Not Sam. He wouldn’t do that to Dean. She pauses and seems to hesitate before going on, There were… things he had to do this year and… Sam really – they’re really close. I can’t imagine Sam leaving or killing himself or anything. He knows – he would know that it’d kill Dean if he did something stupid.
Peter nods. It’s what he’s already gathered, from Bobby and Dean. There’s nothing suspicious about it, but Peter’s not stupid and he’s picked out the pattern. No one talks about Sam and says he was happy. They say he had things to do, or that he cared too much about Dean, or that he was kinder than that, but really, kindness and previous plans don’t stop suicides. Of course, unhappiness doesn’t cause suicides either. All it takes is the ability to cope; doesn’t matter, then, how fucked you are. You keep on going. But still. Peter can’t help but wonder what kind of life Sam Adams led. What kind of person he was. What secrets he kept, hidden behind his smile.
Peter asks a few more questions, but garners nothing new, and eventually, Dean returns, grocery bags underarm. He closes the door behind him, shoves the bags into Jo’s arms, who gives him a dirty look, and shucks off his coat.
You realize you’re not staying in this room, right? he asks Jo, going over to the television and switching it off. Jo rolls her eyes, says she can take a hint and shifts the bags in her arms to the right, and goes into the adjoining room, conveniently forgetting the rest of the bags on the bed. She kicks the door shut behind her.
So, Dean says, looking at Peter. What can I do for you, man?
Peter clears his throat. Dean, I’m here on behalf of the police station to tell you that we’re slowing down our investigation.
What? says Dean blankly.
We’ve – starts Peter, then pauses.
This really shouldn’t be as hard as it’s turning out to be. Peter barrels on. We’ve investigated all our leads, we’ve searched the area where you found your car, we’ve checked phone records, tracked the last few numbers he called – there’s just not enough evidence to do anything more. Dennis Randall’s murder is still unsolved but until we find something conclusive, something that actually links Sam and Randall, we’ve got nothing more to go on.
So, what? You’re just gonna give up? asks Dean.
There’s nothing else we can do, says Peter.
There must be something.
There isn’t, says Peter flatly. He wishes he’d accepted that beer now.
Dean’s shaking his head. He pulls a chair closer, sits down on the orange plastic-leather covering the metal bars. It squeaks in protest. Dean puts his elbows on the table, runs his fingers back and forth through his hair, rests his head in his hands for a moment. Peter watches his back curve, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders, feels deep discomfort in the pit of his stomach.
This is his case to solve and he wants to solve it badly. One success could change everything for him. But he’s spent almost two months chasing every lead and half-lead and hit dead ends with each one. There is nothing to look into. This case was cold before it even started.
We’re not going to halt entirely, Peter reminds Dean. Just slow down. We might still find something.
Dean looks up and snorts. You know what? Don’t bother. You’ve done enough already.
He stands up and goes over to the door, pulls it open. There’s something smoldering behind his eyes; something cold and dangerous.
Peter has no choice but to leave.
-
He stands by the door for the longest time.
Something poisonous courses through him, burning.
This, all of it, tastes of betrayal. Trusting the police. Accepting their help. Waiting in the motel room while they did their thing.
So what now? Where is he supposed to go? What is he supposed to do? Where are the answers?
Why can’t I find you?
The burning gets stronger and stronger and Dean can’t quell it, doesn’t even really try, walks over to the table, picks up his beer bottle and hurls it at the front door. It shatters, liquid spraying across the wood and seeping down onto the carpet. Dean watches it, breathing heavily.
It’s not enough. It’s not enough.
He turns again, lifts up the coffee table and throws that too. The ashtray, with it's now-out cigarette cluncks against a wall. He sends the plastic chair over the beds with a grunt. Another chair, the side table, the three glasses sitting on a tray on the television. He rips the room apart. He can feel heat radiating off of him, but never quite leaving.
Sam’s duffle hits the television and Dean snarls, Fuck you!
Grabs the plastic chair again and hurls it at the TV too, where a reporter is probably still milking Sam’s investigation behind the black screen, says through clenched teeth, How could you do this to me? How could you do this to me? You bastard, you son of a bitch, fuck you!
He’s not yelling, not shouting, not even talking, the words just squeezing out of him, throat clenched with anger and despair. The mirror in the bathroom glints at him and Dean walks forward and slams his fist into his reflection, over and over and over, (How could you? How could you? How could you let this happen?) until his knuckles are ripped and the broken glass painted red and his breathing harsh and labored and the bathroom is almost spinning around him and his head is pounding and—
Dean?
Dean turns.
Jo’s standing there, staring at him, her hair sopping wet like she’s just gotten out of the shower. Her shirt is on backwards.
-
First it’s Samisnotgone. Then it’s Samisokay. And eventually, it’s Samisnotdead.
They take turns looping in Dean’s head, mantras that slowly, gently, drive him insane. He sees the signs in the morning when he gets up and brushes his teeth and runs a comb through his hair. His cheekbones jut out, the hollows beneath them like craters. His eyes are bagged like they’ve never been before. He examines himself under the fluorescent tube light in an almost uninterested manner, a doctor cutting open a body for autopsy.
He knows he doesn’t eat properly. Denise has probably thrown out more food in the past couple of months than she has in years. He doesn’t sleep. He can’t count how many nights he’s lain awake in bed, listening to the murmurs of (happy, safe, together) people through the too-thin walls. He can tell when someone new rents out the next room without even checking.
(He’s falling so far into himself that he’s not sure there’s a way back. He’s not sure he’s willing to find one, even if there is.)
He’s starting to think the unthinkable: that maybe Sam did leave on his own and that maybe, he’s never coming back.
-
It happens for the first time while he’s in the shower. Water runs through his hair and over his body in warm rivulets. The shower splashes around his feet on the ceramic tiles, fills his ears with the sound of rain. He has the window cracked open a fraction to let the steam escape. Beams of sunlight penetrate through the screen beyond the glass.
He’s not even thinking about anything when it starts; he’s just watching dust motes drift in the beam of light as he shampoos – and then he’s crying. Not soft, quiet crying, but full-blown sobs that rack his body, make him double over in pain. He has to brace his hands against either side of the shower stall to keep from falling.
He cries himself sick in the shower, until his arms start to ache and he just has to sit right there on the water-warmed tiles, until all the hot water has run out and he’s sitting in ice, until he runs out of tears and each sob is just dry grief.
The shower splashes around him on the ceramic tiles. It fills his ears with the sound of rain.
-
Sam’s face haunts him, from the tiny columns in newspapers, from the grainy blow-up that’s shown occasionally on the local television station, from the black-and-white photo staring at him from fliers nailed to wooden poles and taped to walls.
Missing! they scream at him as he walks past, stray gravel crunching under his boots on the sidewalk.
On March 10th, Dean starts ripping the posters down whenever he sees them.
He’s not sure why.
-
Eleanor Albright, a single mother from Greenfield, is to thank for the first and last jumpstart Sam’s case ever gets.
She’s visiting the Mormon Trail Lake with her two children on a warm spring Saturday when it happens. It’s a welcome break from her third job of the year, and though she’s hoping this is the one that will stick, it’s hard work and keeps her away from her kids.
Maggie and Christopher Albright are running around near the lake’s designated swimming area, mini-lifejackets firmly strapped on. They’re twins, both redheads with dazzling green eyes. They’re three years old. It’s their first time near a large, natural body of water like this, and they’re skirting the edge of the lake, getting wet sand in between their toes and splashing in the shallowest of water before running back to safety, not entirely sure that they won’t get sucked in by monsters. They wave to Eleanor, who’s hovering nearby just in case something goes wrong.
Some couples sitting on the grass with their food, others in the covered picnic areas, lunches spread on the wooden tables, chatting happily. Folks walk near the lake edge. Eleanor watches a man bend to lift something that’s washed up on shore. It looks like a blue jacket. His wife shakes his arm, obviously telling him to drop it, and he does. They walk on.
Eleanor feels an itch between her shoulder blades, curiosity piqued. She was just reading the newspaper, and she remembers seeing the call for information on the bottom right-hand corner of the papers. A missing person, Sam Adams, last seen December 28th.
He was wearing a blue jacket.
Eleanor calls to Maggie and Chris, beckoning them to walk with her. They trot up obediently, temporarily placid after having had the chance to play. They hook their hands in hers as she makes her way to the little blue lump on the earth near the edge of the lake.
She doesn’t touch the jacket, stops Chris from doing the same when he toddles forward with interest. It’s blue, patched corduroy; looks like someone picked it up from the Salvation Army, exactly as the column in the paper describes.
The jacket is dark from the water, but Eleanor bends down to take a closer look at the collar, which is white and woolen-looking. It’s stained with something rust-colored.
Something tells Eleanor that it’s blood.
She pulls out her cell phone and calls the police.
-
Holy crap, is my cooking that bad? asks Jo.
Holy crap, are you going to say that every time I take a bite? asks Dean, prodding something that looks like something that probably came from a cow. Though that’s questionable.
You haven’t taken a bite yet, you realize, says Jo. She’s sitting across from him at her motel room table. It’s her third visit of the month. She’s taken a hunt nearby, some ghost terrorizing a bowling alley.
Your point? asks Dean, setting down his fork, already tired of this conversation, this visit. He’s playing along for their sakes, Jo’s and Ellen’s and Bobby’s. It would be better if they just left him to himself, but that’s not going to happen, not unless Dean comes out and says it. But without Sam, he’s got very few people left in the world, and he’s not willing to jeopardize his friendships.
That was my point, moron, says Jo just as Dean’s cell phone goes off.
Abuse puts me off food, Dean says tonelessly, pulling out his phone. And your cooking is that bad, he adds, and Jo stabs a piece of broccoli viciously, eyes on him the entire time.
Hello?
Dean, it’s Peter Mendel, comes the voice, and Dean wishes he’d checked the fucking name on the screen before picking up.
He takes a deep breath and forces himself to sound pleasant. Peter, hey. How’s it going?
Jo looks up.
It’s… going fine, says Peter, sound bemused. I’m calling to tell you that we think we’ve located your brother’s jacket. We’d like you to come down to the station and identify it.
Dean’s up and grabbing his jacket before Peter’s finished, almost clipping off the end of his sentence in his hurry to hang up and just go.
What happened? asks Jo, standing up, almost sending the food flying when her legs jar the table. Dean?
Against his better judgment, Dean tells her. They found Sam’s jacket. I’m going down to the station.
I’m coming with you, says Jo. And don’t you fucking try to stop me this time.
Dean wants to, but he doesn’t.
-
It is Sam’s jacket. Unlike the body or the phone call on Dean’s birthday, it actually belongs to Sam.
They’ve got it in a large, plastic evidence bag and the man who brought it out is wearing latex gloves. It’s sitting on the table, an arm’s reach away, and Dean can see every rubbed-down, worn-out raised band of the navy blue corduroy. He can see the dark splashes on the white fleece collar, similar spots on the lapels. His stomach clenches painfully.
Sam was wearing this jacket, he thinks. Sam was wearing this jacket when he disappeared. It has blood on it. His head starts to pound.
It was found at Mormon Trail Lake by a civilian, says Peter. We’re going to need some of Sam’s DNA and an oral swab from you to certify it but… you’re sure it’s Sam’s?
For a brief moment Dean’s overcome by the desire to say he’s not sure, and could he touch it to make sure? He wants so badly to feel the jacket, pull it to his face and see if it smells like Sam.
He’s forgotten how Sam smells.
It should feel ridiculous, that sentiment, bordering on insane, but it doesn’t. It tightens against Dean’s throat, feels like betrayal. But he doesn’t ask, because he’s sure it would be breaking some sort of rule, just nods and says, I’m sure. That’s the jacket.
We’re going to search the lake, says Peter.
You think Sam might – might be there? asks Jo, from where she’s hovering, near Dean’s shoulder. Dean stiffens at her question.
His jacket washed up on the lakeside, says Peter. It’s a possibility.
What if he’s not there? asks Dean, something painful growing in the pit of his stomach. Peter looks down at the plastic bag, and Dean thinks, This is it. This is the beginning of the end, and Peter’s going to tell him that even if they don’t find Sam’s body, they’ll be investigating murder from now on and Dean’s final semblance of hope, that choking, choking hope, will have slipped out of his fingers and Sam will be dead.
But Peter looks up, grim, and says, Then we’ll just keep looking.
-
They barricade off Mormon Trail Lake and Park, the entire 170 acres of it. No one is allowed in it, or even near it. They send divers down early Sunday morning, and continue searching through Monday. Peter Mendel supervises and helps fend off reporters and interested civilians.
After more than forty-eight hours, they call the search off.
They’ve found nothing.
-
Ruby never shows up again, after the first time.
Dean doesn’t try another summoning.
(It hurts to think that Sam might have been keeping secrets, important things that Dean should have known. He can’t stop wondering if it might have made a difference now, the knowing. It’s a gut-wrenching ache that hits when he least expects it, keeps him away at night, puts him off food during meals.)
Maybe it was mostly Sam’s fault that he disappeared – hell, maybe it was completely Sam’s fault. Maybe Sam did kill himself, a moment of weakness, maybe he didn’t stop and think about it, realize what it would do.
Once upon a time, Sam was all about himself and maybe this is just like that.
It snows again, the following week, winter’s final fuck you before spring finally gains enough momentum to take over. On Monday, Dean decides that he needs a change of scenery and doesn’t go to Denise’s diner for breakfast.
He hits the bar at 8 AM. It’s a thirty minute drive from the motel, all the way on the other end of town.
The bar is open, but there aren’t many people around. A table near the back is fully occupied; four men with heavy stubble and bags under their eyes are clutching cards and look like they’ve been there all night. Aside from them, there’s a guy smoking and reading the paper at the bar, sitting next to a kid who doesn’t look twenty-one from any angle. But the bartender’s dishing out the beer, and the kid’s accepting, shaking hands becoming less so with ever sip.
Dean sits on a barstool, asks the bartender for whatever beer he’s got. The man plops down a bottle of Sam Adams in front of him, and bile hits the back of Dean’s throat.
Something the matter? asks the bartender. He’s got a scruffy red beard.
No, says Dean. Nothing.
He picks up the bottle and drinks, letting the beer drag the feeling away. He goes through five bottles and what’s probably six packs of peanuts in an hour, playing some kind of cracked drinking game, glugging away every time he hears the poker players behind him exchanging chips, or the smoker three stools away flipping a page of his paper, or the drunk next to him asking for another shot.
He eventually trades his Sam Adams in for whiskey, the best the place has got, figuring if he’s going to get drunk, he might as well do it with the last of his hard-earned cash. He tosses a handful crumpled bills onto the wooden bar, topping them off with a mountain of change (he tries to stack, but it keeps toppling over), which the bartender sweeps into a box before pouring out the whiskey.
He leaves the bottle with Dean, and walks away. The smoker’s decided to hit the road. He folds up his paper and tosses it haphazardly onto the bar top, puts out his cigarette in the ashtray and hops off his stool. His newspaper’s momentum causes it to slide up to Dean, and he picks it up and squints at the headlines.
It’s a local edition, and Dean’s eyes skim over the now-familiar call for information about Sam Adams’ whereabouts. There’s an article about the local high school softball team’s victory, another about the paving of the street that runs past Town Hall and a third about a couple of murders further south in the state. Two bodies found in a dumpster. Dean reads and drinks until his eyes itch and then pushes the paper away.
He’s about to leave the bar when he remembers that if he doesn’t have a couple of glasses of water, Sam will kill him. He turns around, manages to successfully plant his rear on the barstool and chugs down two glasses of water before he feels like his stomach will explode.
It’s still cold outside, but not as cold as before, and Dean trudges through the gray, slushy snow, trying to remember where he parked the Impala. He stands under a lamppost, so as not to get run over and stamps his feet. He turns three sixty degrees, peers up at the dim sun and stuffs his hands into his pockets, before remembering that he parked out back. If Bobby happened to come out looking for him, the Impala would have given Dean away immediately.
Dean makes it to the back without incident. Sure, he almost slips as he tries to step off the curb, but he catches his balance just in time. No harm, no foul. He gazes at the Impala for a long moment, petting it like a cat, thinks that Sam always yells at him for driving when he’s drunk (and oh, boy, is he drunk) and there’s a good, logical, Sammy reason for that, so it’s probably a good idea to wait until he can at least get the keys into the car door, before heading home. So he sits down on the car’s hood, not realizing that some snow’s fallen on it until the icy wetness seeps through to his boxers. He curses, gets up, tries to get a look at the seat of his jeans and almost falls over backwards.
It’s then that he spots the dumpsters. They’re about ten feet away from the Impala, close to the bar’s backdoors, large, green monsters. Their lids are down, and Dean thinks about the newspaper article about those bodies. They were found in dumpsters, wrapped in large black trash bags, tossed like restaurant leftovers.
Dean trundles closer and thinks how easy it would be to hide a body in the dumpsters, how long it would take for anyone to find out – if they ever did. The lid reaches a bit below Dean’s eye level, and he lifts it up, peers over the edge. The smell of rotten food is overpowering and he pushes away, the lid falling with a dull thunk. If you were out tossing the day’s trash, you probably wouldn’t take the time to make eyes at the dumpsters contents. A body hidden in there, properly covered, could easily be missed. And eventually, the garbage collectors would come and empty the bin, and all the trash would go off to be compacted, and after that, the body wouldn’t even be a body anymore.
Without really knowing why, Dean glances around to make sure the coast is clear. He opens the lid and hefts himself inside, taking tiny breaths until he feels like he can stand the smell. He lowers the lid shut behind him, crouches there on the rancid garbage, feeling his feet sink, hearing the sounds of buzzing flies and writhing maggots, and his own breathing, in the pitch-black dark. He doesn’t need to lie down to realize that Sam could have been killed and tossed in here. He doesn’t need to get in a dumpster at all, to realize it, but he has and he doesn’t know why, but later, he’ll blame the drinking.
All he can think of is Sam’s dead body, crumpled amongst the stench of waste. All he can see is the blood and broken bones. And then he thinks, what if Sam wasn’t dead when he was tossed away, what if Sam died smelling every rotting thing on the planet, smelling what he would be in a month, two months, three, praying to be saved, thinking, A little while longer, and this’ll be over, and Dean’ll be here and I’ll be okay…? What if? What if?
Dean can’t get out of the dumpster (the grave) fast enough.
He scrambles out, falls on his knees, tearing holes, and skins them, before staggering to his feet again. He lifts the dumpster’s lid once last time and vomits into it, until his knees are shaking and sweat is dripping down his face.
When his aching, trembling arm can’t hold up the green lid any longer, he lets it drop. His stomach clenches again and he bends over right there, one hand on the dumpster for support, the other on his knee.
He doesn’t stop until he’s heaving dry.
The violent nausea doesn’t subside for an hour. In the end, Dean calls Bobby to pick him up. He waits by the Impala, wiping at his forehead and pressing at his bloody knees, under the cold sun.
You need to ask me something, says Sam.
You need to ask me something.
Another day, another ten hours of door-to-door photo exhibitions, this time in a nearby county. Peter’s asked, Excuse me, ma’am, but have you seen this man? so many times today that he wouldn’t be surprised if it came out in answer to Denise’s What’ll it be today, honey?
It’s stupid. That’s all Peter can think. It’s stupid that he’s spending his days looking for a kid who probably jumped off the bridge two towns over. They’ll find his body someday, bloated and half-decomposed and tell Mendel, You moron, wasn’t it obvious from the start?
He should have found more evidence by now. It’s been fifty-six days since Sam vanished. He should have found something. He’s got cops from three counties searching, a miracle in itself (he’s surprised they even report back, considering the amount of bitching they do about the job) and he’s still not found hide or hair of Sam Adams. If he didn’t know better, he’d say Sam hitched a ride on a spaceship. It’s almost more believable than this without-a-trace crap.
The only good thing to come of all this is that he’s lost five pounds. Beth’s been taking the car so often now that Peter’s pretty sure he’s not even going to bother asking for it when the divorce papers finally appear on his desk. It means more walking for him, though, and that means fewer calories and fewer chances that he’ll drop dead of angina before he reaches fifty.
Being optimistic was never this hard before.
Peter cuts through the woods on his way to the motel Dean’s staying at and takes the steps to the upper story two at a time, the neon sign buzzing at him behind his back. It’s late afternoon, and all the streetlamps have started to come on. He can hear the receptionist cheering on his football team downstairs. A couple’s chatting quietly as they struggle to get their battered suitcases into the gray Honda.
He knocks once on the door of number nine. The brass number is looking a little dull. Peter’s distorted reflection stares back at him, forehead and one eye magnified to alien proportions.
The door opens almost immediately, and Peter finds himself staring at a large man with a spectacular beer belly and a five o’clock shadow. He looks extremely disgruntled, and Peter’s willing to be he looks the same way. No way Dean changed this much since the last time Peter saw him.
Uh, Dean Adams? says Peter.
No, says the guy, and he looks a moment away from flipping Peter off.
I mean – is Dean Adams there?
No.
He was there a week ago.
Well, he ain’t here now.
Peter’s contemplating pulling out his badge, but thinks it’s probably not worth the trouble. This man could probably stick his stomach out at Peter and send him flying.
Peter goes down to reception thinking about how their tourist trade is falling faster than the economy if it’s attracting folks like Bellybutton-Hair-Mo back there.
Bill, he asks, once there, rapping his knuckles on the front desk. Did Dean Adams checkout?
Bill looks up from his game. Nope. Room 11.
Why?
Had a lady friend coming, said he wanted connected rooms. Moved him to room 11, his friend in room 12. Now, do you mind? We’re about to win.
Peter waves his hand at him and re-climbs the steps, heading to room 11. He knocks once. The door is opened promptly.
Dean’s eyebrows are raised slightly, and Peter thinks its surprise; this is one of Peter’s few unsolicited visits. Aside from that one time in the morgue with the body that wasn’t Sam, it’s the strongest emotion he’s ever seen on Dean’s face. The man definitely has stoic down pat.
You stalking me? he asks.
No, says Peter, confused.
I just changed rooms ten minutes ago.
Bill’s fast, Peter thinks, to have the abandoned room occupied already.
Bill told me where you were, Peter says to Dean. You’ve got friends visiting?
One friend, says Dean and he steps away from the door to let Peter in. It’s still a double, but there’s no sign of Bobby Singer. The room is filled with fading golden sunlight. Dean’s got the lights off, but the television is glowing in the corner, switched to one of the local news channels.
And the search for 24-year-old Samuel Adams continues… says the reporter, before Dean interrupts, asks if he wants a beer. Peter shakes his head and Dean sits down at the table and curls his fingers around his already opened drink. There are already three empty bottles under the table that Peter can see. There’s an ashtray on the table too, which wasn’t there last time, or ever, that Peter can remember. Smoke wafts idly from the cigarette sitting in it.
Peter sits down across from Dean. He finds that he has no words, suddenly.
He’s here to tell Dean that they’ve struck dead end after dead end. He’s going to keep searching, but not like before.
But he watches Dean, whose eyes are on the TV, fingers pressing tightly against the brown and white beer bottle wrapper, and notices the set of his jaw and the way he’s holding himself. It’s like watching a boneless man fighting to stand and he wonders how to make this blow as gentle as possible.
The motel door bangs open suddenly and Peter’s on his feet, hand going to holster. A woman walks in, arms laden with paper bags, and she’s saying, Next time, I’ll tell you I’m coming so you can at least stock up on real food, as she kicks the door closed. You might not eat, but I sure as fuck do.
She drops the bags on one of the beds, turns and catches sight of Peter and says, Oh. Sorry, didn’t know you had company. Her eyes flick to Dean, who says, This is the detective working on Sam’s case.
She’s blonde, with sharp gray eyes and she moves forward and says, I’m Jo.
Peter shakes her hand, gives his name. Jo looks from him, to Dean, and back and then puts her hands on her hips.
Well, you could at least help me bring the rest of the stuff up, she says to Dean, with a slight purse of her lips.
Dean takes a swig of beer, and then sets the bottle down, says, Sure.
He stands up and pulls his coat off the chair and walks out the still-open door. Jo doesn’t follow. Instead, she turns to Peter and shrugs, looking uncomfortable.
He’s taking it hard, she says, with the air of one telling a guest that child is acting rowdy because it’s close to naptime.
Peter nods. I would be too, he says, even though he probably wouldn’t. His only brother is eleven years his elder and they never got along very well. He’s spent the past three years of his life in jail, which probably has something to do with his habit of dealing drugs to teenagers.
Jo nods, rests one hand on the chair Dean’s just unoccupied and the other on her hip. She looks around at the television, and Peter gets the acute feeling that she wants to ask him something but isn’t entirely sure if it would be proper. He watches her eyes light up momentarily, and she asks him if he’d like a beer.
I’m on duty, says Peter. It comes out apologetic, rather than reproachful.
Jo nods, says she should have guessed and goes over to the window, mutters, What’s taking Dean so long?
He probably knows he was being gotten rid of, says Peter with a small smile.
Jo blushes slightly. That obvious, huh?
Peter shrugs.
Yeah. Dean’s not one to talk about this stuff and Bobby wasn’t much help either… I just wanted to know how the case was going.
It’s going, says Peter. Not a lot of evidence, but that’s not unusual for missing persons cases. We’re doing our best.
You’re doing your best, you mean, says Jo. At Peter’s raised eyebrows, she says, Dean said you’re the only one working the case. Her tone is accusatory, as if it’s Peter’s fault that no one’s taking this case seriously, as if it’s his fault Sam’s not been found yet.
Not exactly. I’m the detective in charge of the case, but I’m not the only one working on it, says Peter, only half-lying.
Jo looks cynical, but lets it go.
So, do you know Dean well? asks Peter, deciding he might as well use this opportunity to investigate a bit more, make sure there really are no more leads to follow before dealing Dean the blow.
Jo shrugs. Not – not well. He travels a lot, but his dad was friends with mine and he and Sam come by the Roadhouse a lot.
The Roadhouse?
My mom’s bar.
How about Sam? Know him better than Dean?
No, says Jo. I don’t think there’s anyone who knows Sam and Dean well, aside from themselves. They’re only really close to each other. Their family’s always stuck together, and now it’s just them two, so... She bites her lip, corrects herself, Or it was. Now it’s just Dean, I guess.
But you’ve been around them? You’d notice changes in demeanor?
Sure. She juts her chin towards the door. Dean’s never that helpful.
Did you notice Sam acting any different, the last few times you saw him? Did he seem like something was bothering him? Was he particularly down?
Something clouds Jo’s eyes, but it’s gone so quickly that Peter’s not entirely sure he didn’t imagine it. She seems to mull over the question for a while, and then replies, No, I don’t think so. He seemed pretty normal. I – if you’re asking if there was something that might make me think he was going to disappear? No.
Do you think Sam could have killed himself? asks Peter, bluntly.
Jo snorts a laugh at that. Not Sam. He wouldn’t do that to Dean. She pauses and seems to hesitate before going on, There were… things he had to do this year and… Sam really – they’re really close. I can’t imagine Sam leaving or killing himself or anything. He knows – he would know that it’d kill Dean if he did something stupid.
Peter nods. It’s what he’s already gathered, from Bobby and Dean. There’s nothing suspicious about it, but Peter’s not stupid and he’s picked out the pattern. No one talks about Sam and says he was happy. They say he had things to do, or that he cared too much about Dean, or that he was kinder than that, but really, kindness and previous plans don’t stop suicides. Of course, unhappiness doesn’t cause suicides either. All it takes is the ability to cope; doesn’t matter, then, how fucked you are. You keep on going. But still. Peter can’t help but wonder what kind of life Sam Adams led. What kind of person he was. What secrets he kept, hidden behind his smile.
Peter asks a few more questions, but garners nothing new, and eventually, Dean returns, grocery bags underarm. He closes the door behind him, shoves the bags into Jo’s arms, who gives him a dirty look, and shucks off his coat.
You realize you’re not staying in this room, right? he asks Jo, going over to the television and switching it off. Jo rolls her eyes, says she can take a hint and shifts the bags in her arms to the right, and goes into the adjoining room, conveniently forgetting the rest of the bags on the bed. She kicks the door shut behind her.
So, Dean says, looking at Peter. What can I do for you, man?
Peter clears his throat. Dean, I’m here on behalf of the police station to tell you that we’re slowing down our investigation.
What? says Dean blankly.
We’ve – starts Peter, then pauses.
This really shouldn’t be as hard as it’s turning out to be. Peter barrels on. We’ve investigated all our leads, we’ve searched the area where you found your car, we’ve checked phone records, tracked the last few numbers he called – there’s just not enough evidence to do anything more. Dennis Randall’s murder is still unsolved but until we find something conclusive, something that actually links Sam and Randall, we’ve got nothing more to go on.
So, what? You’re just gonna give up? asks Dean.
There’s nothing else we can do, says Peter.
There must be something.
There isn’t, says Peter flatly. He wishes he’d accepted that beer now.
Dean’s shaking his head. He pulls a chair closer, sits down on the orange plastic-leather covering the metal bars. It squeaks in protest. Dean puts his elbows on the table, runs his fingers back and forth through his hair, rests his head in his hands for a moment. Peter watches his back curve, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders, feels deep discomfort in the pit of his stomach.
This is his case to solve and he wants to solve it badly. One success could change everything for him. But he’s spent almost two months chasing every lead and half-lead and hit dead ends with each one. There is nothing to look into. This case was cold before it even started.
We’re not going to halt entirely, Peter reminds Dean. Just slow down. We might still find something.
Dean looks up and snorts. You know what? Don’t bother. You’ve done enough already.
He stands up and goes over to the door, pulls it open. There’s something smoldering behind his eyes; something cold and dangerous.
Peter has no choice but to leave.
He stands by the door for the longest time.
Something poisonous courses through him, burning.
This, all of it, tastes of betrayal. Trusting the police. Accepting their help. Waiting in the motel room while they did their thing.
So what now? Where is he supposed to go? What is he supposed to do? Where are the answers?
Why can’t I find you?
The burning gets stronger and stronger and Dean can’t quell it, doesn’t even really try, walks over to the table, picks up his beer bottle and hurls it at the front door. It shatters, liquid spraying across the wood and seeping down onto the carpet. Dean watches it, breathing heavily.
It’s not enough. It’s not enough.
He turns again, lifts up the coffee table and throws that too. The ashtray, with it's now-out cigarette cluncks against a wall. He sends the plastic chair over the beds with a grunt. Another chair, the side table, the three glasses sitting on a tray on the television. He rips the room apart. He can feel heat radiating off of him, but never quite leaving.
Sam’s duffle hits the television and Dean snarls, Fuck you!
Grabs the plastic chair again and hurls it at the TV too, where a reporter is probably still milking Sam’s investigation behind the black screen, says through clenched teeth, How could you do this to me? How could you do this to me? You bastard, you son of a bitch, fuck you!
He’s not yelling, not shouting, not even talking, the words just squeezing out of him, throat clenched with anger and despair. The mirror in the bathroom glints at him and Dean walks forward and slams his fist into his reflection, over and over and over, (How could you? How could you? How could you let this happen?) until his knuckles are ripped and the broken glass painted red and his breathing harsh and labored and the bathroom is almost spinning around him and his head is pounding and—
Dean?
Dean turns.
Jo’s standing there, staring at him, her hair sopping wet like she’s just gotten out of the shower. Her shirt is on backwards.
First it’s Samisnotgone. Then it’s Samisokay. And eventually, it’s Samisnotdead.
They take turns looping in Dean’s head, mantras that slowly, gently, drive him insane. He sees the signs in the morning when he gets up and brushes his teeth and runs a comb through his hair. His cheekbones jut out, the hollows beneath them like craters. His eyes are bagged like they’ve never been before. He examines himself under the fluorescent tube light in an almost uninterested manner, a doctor cutting open a body for autopsy.
He knows he doesn’t eat properly. Denise has probably thrown out more food in the past couple of months than she has in years. He doesn’t sleep. He can’t count how many nights he’s lain awake in bed, listening to the murmurs of (happy, safe, together) people through the too-thin walls. He can tell when someone new rents out the next room without even checking.
(He’s falling so far into himself that he’s not sure there’s a way back. He’s not sure he’s willing to find one, even if there is.)
He’s starting to think the unthinkable: that maybe Sam did leave on his own and that maybe, he’s never coming back.
It happens for the first time while he’s in the shower. Water runs through his hair and over his body in warm rivulets. The shower splashes around his feet on the ceramic tiles, fills his ears with the sound of rain. He has the window cracked open a fraction to let the steam escape. Beams of sunlight penetrate through the screen beyond the glass.
He’s not even thinking about anything when it starts; he’s just watching dust motes drift in the beam of light as he shampoos – and then he’s crying. Not soft, quiet crying, but full-blown sobs that rack his body, make him double over in pain. He has to brace his hands against either side of the shower stall to keep from falling.
He cries himself sick in the shower, until his arms start to ache and he just has to sit right there on the water-warmed tiles, until all the hot water has run out and he’s sitting in ice, until he runs out of tears and each sob is just dry grief.
The shower splashes around him on the ceramic tiles. It fills his ears with the sound of rain.
Sam’s face haunts him, from the tiny columns in newspapers, from the grainy blow-up that’s shown occasionally on the local television station, from the black-and-white photo staring at him from fliers nailed to wooden poles and taped to walls.
Missing! they scream at him as he walks past, stray gravel crunching under his boots on the sidewalk.
On March 10th, Dean starts ripping the posters down whenever he sees them.
He’s not sure why.
Eleanor Albright, a single mother from Greenfield, is to thank for the first and last jumpstart Sam’s case ever gets.
She’s visiting the Mormon Trail Lake with her two children on a warm spring Saturday when it happens. It’s a welcome break from her third job of the year, and though she’s hoping this is the one that will stick, it’s hard work and keeps her away from her kids.
Maggie and Christopher Albright are running around near the lake’s designated swimming area, mini-lifejackets firmly strapped on. They’re twins, both redheads with dazzling green eyes. They’re three years old. It’s their first time near a large, natural body of water like this, and they’re skirting the edge of the lake, getting wet sand in between their toes and splashing in the shallowest of water before running back to safety, not entirely sure that they won’t get sucked in by monsters. They wave to Eleanor, who’s hovering nearby just in case something goes wrong.
Some couples sitting on the grass with their food, others in the covered picnic areas, lunches spread on the wooden tables, chatting happily. Folks walk near the lake edge. Eleanor watches a man bend to lift something that’s washed up on shore. It looks like a blue jacket. His wife shakes his arm, obviously telling him to drop it, and he does. They walk on.
Eleanor feels an itch between her shoulder blades, curiosity piqued. She was just reading the newspaper, and she remembers seeing the call for information on the bottom right-hand corner of the papers. A missing person, Sam Adams, last seen December 28th.
He was wearing a blue jacket.
Eleanor calls to Maggie and Chris, beckoning them to walk with her. They trot up obediently, temporarily placid after having had the chance to play. They hook their hands in hers as she makes her way to the little blue lump on the earth near the edge of the lake.
She doesn’t touch the jacket, stops Chris from doing the same when he toddles forward with interest. It’s blue, patched corduroy; looks like someone picked it up from the Salvation Army, exactly as the column in the paper describes.
The jacket is dark from the water, but Eleanor bends down to take a closer look at the collar, which is white and woolen-looking. It’s stained with something rust-colored.
Something tells Eleanor that it’s blood.
She pulls out her cell phone and calls the police.
Holy crap, is my cooking that bad? asks Jo.
Holy crap, are you going to say that every time I take a bite? asks Dean, prodding something that looks like something that probably came from a cow. Though that’s questionable.
You haven’t taken a bite yet, you realize, says Jo. She’s sitting across from him at her motel room table. It’s her third visit of the month. She’s taken a hunt nearby, some ghost terrorizing a bowling alley.
Your point? asks Dean, setting down his fork, already tired of this conversation, this visit. He’s playing along for their sakes, Jo’s and Ellen’s and Bobby’s. It would be better if they just left him to himself, but that’s not going to happen, not unless Dean comes out and says it. But without Sam, he’s got very few people left in the world, and he’s not willing to jeopardize his friendships.
That was my point, moron, says Jo just as Dean’s cell phone goes off.
Abuse puts me off food, Dean says tonelessly, pulling out his phone. And your cooking is that bad, he adds, and Jo stabs a piece of broccoli viciously, eyes on him the entire time.
Hello?
Dean, it’s Peter Mendel, comes the voice, and Dean wishes he’d checked the fucking name on the screen before picking up.
He takes a deep breath and forces himself to sound pleasant. Peter, hey. How’s it going?
Jo looks up.
It’s… going fine, says Peter, sound bemused. I’m calling to tell you that we think we’ve located your brother’s jacket. We’d like you to come down to the station and identify it.
Dean’s up and grabbing his jacket before Peter’s finished, almost clipping off the end of his sentence in his hurry to hang up and just go.
What happened? asks Jo, standing up, almost sending the food flying when her legs jar the table. Dean?
Against his better judgment, Dean tells her. They found Sam’s jacket. I’m going down to the station.
I’m coming with you, says Jo. And don’t you fucking try to stop me this time.
Dean wants to, but he doesn’t.
It is Sam’s jacket. Unlike the body or the phone call on Dean’s birthday, it actually belongs to Sam.
They’ve got it in a large, plastic evidence bag and the man who brought it out is wearing latex gloves. It’s sitting on the table, an arm’s reach away, and Dean can see every rubbed-down, worn-out raised band of the navy blue corduroy. He can see the dark splashes on the white fleece collar, similar spots on the lapels. His stomach clenches painfully.
Sam was wearing this jacket, he thinks. Sam was wearing this jacket when he disappeared. It has blood on it. His head starts to pound.
It was found at Mormon Trail Lake by a civilian, says Peter. We’re going to need some of Sam’s DNA and an oral swab from you to certify it but… you’re sure it’s Sam’s?
For a brief moment Dean’s overcome by the desire to say he’s not sure, and could he touch it to make sure? He wants so badly to feel the jacket, pull it to his face and see if it smells like Sam.
He’s forgotten how Sam smells.
It should feel ridiculous, that sentiment, bordering on insane, but it doesn’t. It tightens against Dean’s throat, feels like betrayal. But he doesn’t ask, because he’s sure it would be breaking some sort of rule, just nods and says, I’m sure. That’s the jacket.
We’re going to search the lake, says Peter.
You think Sam might – might be there? asks Jo, from where she’s hovering, near Dean’s shoulder. Dean stiffens at her question.
His jacket washed up on the lakeside, says Peter. It’s a possibility.
What if he’s not there? asks Dean, something painful growing in the pit of his stomach. Peter looks down at the plastic bag, and Dean thinks, This is it. This is the beginning of the end, and Peter’s going to tell him that even if they don’t find Sam’s body, they’ll be investigating murder from now on and Dean’s final semblance of hope, that choking, choking hope, will have slipped out of his fingers and Sam will be dead.
But Peter looks up, grim, and says, Then we’ll just keep looking.
They barricade off Mormon Trail Lake and Park, the entire 170 acres of it. No one is allowed in it, or even near it. They send divers down early Sunday morning, and continue searching through Monday. Peter Mendel supervises and helps fend off reporters and interested civilians.
After more than forty-eight hours, they call the search off.
They’ve found nothing.
Ruby never shows up again, after the first time.
Dean doesn’t try another summoning.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-07-06 05:50 pm (UTC)And this: 'You need to ask me something, says Sam. You need to ask me something...'
I keep wondering if Dean has missed something...
no subject
Date: 2009-08-18 03:57 am (UTC)Go figure that's the part where I burst into tears. I just want to hug that man. *blows nose*
I love how there are clues interspersed through every section, and I see them and feel them and wave at them as they go by but I HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THEY MEAN! Gah. Brilliant.
no subject
Date: 2010-01-05 12:11 pm (UTC)"You need to ask me something."
THAT'S KILLING ME!!!! WHAT?! OMG that's my favorite sentence!
Part when he sees his jacket,his thoughts...It's so amazingly written! One more chapter to go...God,don't know what to expect,but i lost my hope in Sam being alive :(
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Date: 2010-03-12 07:37 am (UTC)And that was also when I first broke down.
no subject
Date: 2010-03-13 06:43 pm (UTC)