Supernatural - Sam&Dean - A Nice Day to Start Again (1/2)

[blue_soaring]

This is all thanks to ponderosa121, for letting me make off with her ideas and notes and for a full of awesome beta. So it's all for her, too. *MWAH* to the evil twin. :D

A Nice Day to Start Again (1/2)
Supernatural. Sam and Dean. PG-13. ~11,000 words total. Co-authored with ponderosa121.
As a favour, Sam and Dean pick up on a job where Bobby's left off. Only, the spirit the Winchester boys are attempting to usher to the other side is making things more complicated than they're supposed to be.


A Nice Day to Start Again

Hunting messes with your head. Innocuous things--dolls, paintings, lamps-- become sinister, deadly. A flickering shadow pumps real fear-driven adrenaline into your veins. Perceptions are skewed, irreversible and permanent.

Sam isn't quite sure why the local Protestant minister puttering about in a bed of struggling petunias makes the spot between his shoulders itch, but it does.

"Excuse me, Reverend," he says, hands tucked in his jacket pockets and an open, innocent smile on his face.

A lifetime of dealing with his brother helps Sam interpret the huff-grunt noise the minister makes as acknowledgement and a go-ahead. The pile of limp weeds at the edge of the freshly turned dirt grows by two.

"Could you tell me where Em's grave is? I'd like to-" and Sam recalls feeling guilty about doing this once, the hitch in his words reeking of real grief but as fake as his smile, "-I'd like to say hi."

Reverend Holsapple sits back on his heels, brushing dirt clumps off his almost threadbare gloves. "I'm sorry, son, but Emma wasn't committed to the ground here," he says, eyes skipping to the haphazard rows of tombstones past the old iron fence. "Eric couldn't stand the idea. Her parents agreed to let him have the ashes."

"Oh." Sam shifted his weight. "Okay, thanks."

Holsapple nods, digging back into the dirt as Sam turns away, wandering along the crooked path to the church. Dean had vanished inside about ten minutes ago, after sweeping the perimeter with the EMF and coming up clean.

Sam used to like the quiet, safe hush of churches. Used to believe holy ground was holy. It'd saved Dean's ass from Cyrus but hadn't done crap to keep the Hookman off their backs. He's chewed on that for awhile, separating intent from action--Cyrus was a jealous racist, Karns a moral crusader, both murderers--and still hasn't found a satisfying answer. He believes in grey areas, but the more he hunts, the more chunks the things that go bump in the night carve out of the tidy black and white edges.

The spill of bright sunlight shows the scuffmarks on the old hardwood, the patches of wear on the aisle carpeting. "Dean?"

"Down here, Sammy," floats through the doorway to Sam's right. He pauses to let his eyes adjust to the gloom, eyeballing the narrow staircase before heading down. The top stair creaks loudly under his weight, the second one screeches like a banshee.

"Careful," Dean says, standing several feet away between a leaning bookcase and a stack of plain wooden chairs. "The Father's not gonna be happy if your big foot goes through his floor."

"Reverend," Sam says without a thought, moving to the bookshelf to read the bindings. "He's not Catholic."

"Yeah, whatever." Dean lifts the top off an old brass censer and sniffs. Loudly. "Whew," he says, waving a hand in front of his scrunched-up nose. "So, we have any idea why this dead girl's hanging out here? 'Cause I don't think it's for the nightlife."

"It's her church, but she's not buried here," Sam says, carefully turning crinkled, water-stained pages. The ledger is hardly a decade old, but it's yellowed straight through and musty smelling. "Reverend Holsapple says the husband, Eric, had her cremated."

"Huh. No bones to smoke."

"So something else is keeping her here."

"Yup, looks that way," Dean says. "Nothing here but a bunch of funky smelling mushrooms."

Sam slides the ledger back into place. "We should talk to Eric and hit the library. Something's not right about this."

Dean doesn't attempt to hide the roll of his eyes as he starts back up the stairs.

"What?" Sam says. "C'mon, why would Bobby quit in the middle of a hunt?"

"'Cause somebody asked for his help ASAP, that's why, Sam." Dean barrels through the main doors and out into the afternoon sun without a blink. "Probably thought this one was cut and dried, salt and burn. Didn't have a chance to dig deeper."

Sam slows near the car as Dean digs through his pockets for the keys. "According to that paper we saw when we stopped for breakfast," Sam says, folding his arms on top of the Impala, the heat from the metal sinking through his clothes, "there have been two deaths related to the lake in a matter of months, Emma first and then that girl a couple days ago, Caroline. If Emma's spirit is violent enough to kill, why'd Bobby drop the case so fast, and if she's just a death omen or a warning, how'd Bobby miss it? And why is she haunting the church?"

"I have no idea, but thanks for the recap, Exposition Boy." The Impala creaks twice like the stair, once when Dean opens his door and again when he settles into the driver's seat. "How about I drop you off at the library so you can get your geek on, and I'll swing by the post to get that package?"

Sam drops into the seat after shoving a mostly empty bag of Twizzlers out of his way. "Okay. How far is the library from the motel?"

"Dunno, why?"

"Well, if you're going to ditch me and hit the bar we passed on the way into town, I want cab fare."

Dean pauses with the key half shoved into the ignition. "You want cab fare."

"I could drop you off instead," Sam says with a shrug.

Dean mutters, rooting around in his back pocket and coming up with a crumpled twenty to slap into Sam's open hand. When Sam doesn't pull back, Dean's eyebrows shoot up. "What, how much does a freakin' cab cost?"

"I'll get some supplies while I'm out."

"Why don't you pay for it?"

Sam's nostrils flare on a long-suffering sigh. "Because you've got all the cash, and last time I checked, the FBI can't trace that."

"Alright, alright." This time, Dean pulls out his wallet and flicks through the bills. "Why don't you just suck me dry while you're at it." He hands over two more twenties and jams his wallet back into his jeans. "How's that, enough to buy yourself something cute, honey?"

Sam tucks the smoke-scented money away and smiles the sort of smile typical of younger siblings who always get their way. "I'll get you a Twinkie."

"Make it two," Dean grumbles, and brings the engine to life.

*

Juggling an armful of groceries and a tray of two jumbo-sized coffees from the tiny café by the supermarket, Sam fumbles around for the room key. He nearly ends up wearing Dean's coffee. If he drops anything, it'll be Dean who goes without by default, because Sam had to lug all this around while his brother drank beer and hit on girls. Relief catches him when the door unlocks without him needing a change of clothes. It opens about an inch before jerking to a halt.

Sam's gaze arrows in on the double chain holding the door shut. His brain runs the gamut of horrifying thoughts--Dean already in the middle of banging some girl, the FBI, Magic Fingers--and a cold chill settles deep into his bones when he realises the room is completely silent.

"McQueen?" Sam calls, trying to peer through the tiny crack in the door. "You in there?"

"No Feds hanging around, Sam. Get off the door, would ya?"

The tight knot of dread holding Sam's stomach hostage unravels enough for him to breathe. The door closes, metal scrapes, and Dean's hand shoots out, grabbing him by the front of his jacket and hauling him inside before he can blink.

"Jesus Christ, Dean!" Sam shouts, stumbling over his own feet and dropping the lightest bag in favour of saving the coffee. He whips around, jaw set and a pissed off, "What the hell," shrivelling into a whisper on his lips.

Dean glares up at Sam, eyes hard and a healthy flush creeping up his neck.

"Dean," Sam says, because--and he's noticed this before, just not quite so vividly--when he's at a complete and total loss, brain scrambled almost beyond repair, or when something's about to well and truly fuck him up, Dean's name is about the only thing he can manage.

Five seconds of pure silence tick by, then, "Dean, you're in a dress."

Dean folds his arms over his chest, muscles bunched with tension. "No shit."

"Dean," Sam says again, stupidly, struck dumb like he's standing at the edge of the world, "why are you in a dress?"

"Because I feel pretty, Sam, why the hell do you think I'm in a dress!"

Honestly, Sam has no idea. He can practically feel neurons attempting to fire, sputtering and rolling over and dying like the Impala's engine during the weeks and weeks Dean had worked on rebuilding it.

The upswept angles of Dean's collarbones stand in sharp relief, the hollow of his throat deep, shadows shifting as he swallows tightly. Sam stares, and colour spikes on Dean's cheeks.

Dean looks-

Dean looks ridiculous.

And Sam realises that laughing himself sick isn't really the best course of action, but he's utterly incapable of stopping.

Dean stomps by, heavy black boots peeking out from underneath the layers and layers of fluffy white fabric, and Sam loses it again. Dean waits maybe another half a minute before demanding, "Are you done yet?"

"Dean," Sam gasps, "you're in a dress. A wedding dress." His stomach aches, his face aches, and if Dean doesn't stop glaring at him from that pile of frosting masquerading as a garment, he might actually die.

"Yeah, and I can't get it off."

"You're- you're stuck? In your dress?"

Dean's expression turns tortured. Sam bites his lip. "I'm not playing dress-up here, Sammy. It's that spirit's dress. Emma."

Sam scratches at the back of his neck, sobered up by the thought of Dean stuck in a dead girl's dress. "So, uh. How'd you wind up in it?"

"I put it on," Dean grates out through his teeth. "I opened the package and I put it on."

It's a stupid question, but Sam can't help from asking, "Why?"

"Because the dress is possessed, or cursed, or- or-" Dean's wide-flung arms trail bits of fancy lace. "What, you think I'm a closet cross-dresser or something, got my damn zipper stuck and have been waiting around here for the last three hours for my brother to get back to find me re-enacting The Wedding Planner?"

"Is that the one with Jennifer Lopez?"

"Sam! Enough about your jerk-off fantasies, let's get back to me in a dress."

"Okay, sorry," Sam says, but from Dean's expression, he's got a feeling the look on his face is anything but apologetic. "What else happened?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing? Emma didn't manifest, or try to communicate with you?"

"No."

"You don't feel suicidal, or like doing anything else you normally wouldn't be caught dead doing, like wearing the ugliest wedding dress I have ever had the misfortune to see?"

"I've got this real strong urge to kick your ass."

Sam grins and drops into a chair hardly big enough to contain him. "I guess it's not serious, if you've been stuck in the dress for this long and nothing's happened."

Incredulous, Dean says, "But I'm in a dress, Sam."

Sam shrugs. Dean stares.

"Do you want me to try to unzip you?"

"No, Sam," Dean says cheerfully, all smiles and dimples, "I want you to leave me in this emasculated state so you can feel like a man for once. Of course I want you to unzip me!"

Sam can't wipe the smile off his face. He should be worried and he's not, and that's what ends up worrying him. Gnawing on the inside of his lip, he gestures for Dean to stand up so he can get at the zip.

"I can't believe you're enjoying this," Dean mutters.

"Hey, I'm being way nicer than you would be, if the situation were reversed."

"I'll give you a cookie later, Sam, just get me out of this thing."

"Trying," Sam says. He tugs on the stuck zipper, not really surprised when it won't budge. "Too tight to just pull off," he says, and takes the switchblade out of his back pocket. Then, "Don't move," as he sets the blade to the dress.

It doesn't make so much as a nick in the cloth.

Sam frowns, brow winkled. "So, why couldn't you do this?"

"What, get it off?"

"Yeah."

Dean shifts his weight, and Sam can hear the scowl in his voice. "I think it's the same compulsion that made me put it on in the first place. I got it hiked it up to about my knee before it hit me."

Experimentally, Sam stabs at the dress again. "I think you're stuck."

"...what?"

"I can't even cut it."

"You're kidding." Dean turns around, takes in Sam's face and the knife in his hand. "You're not kidding. Sammy, no, Jesus, I can't just sit around like this!"

"Look," Sam says, flicking the blade away, "it doesn't seem life-threatening, and I found some info about the lake. The girl died there, so we figure that out, we'll probably find a way to get you out of that."

Dean goes through a handful of expressions before settling on a bastard mix of resigned and pissed. "Fine. What'd you find out?"

"Okay," Sam says, pulling out his notebook and trying to keep the quirk of his lips from blooming into a full-on grin. He settles back into his chair as he flicks through the pages. "So, a couple years ago, there was a string of drownings at Plainfield Pond. Three girls, all connected to this guy who lived up by the lake. Cops couldn't pin it on him, though. Not enough evidence."

"Where's he now?" Dean asks, rustling his way to the bed and looking pained at every step. "And that's a stupid name for a lake."

"Moved away. He probably couldn't take the stigma."

"Yeah, I get that," Dean says. "Fuckin' small towns."

"And our spirit, Emma," Sam goes on, catching Dean's dramatic wince out of the corner of his eye, "wasn't married. Engaged to Eric Brownsdale, died on the water about a week before their wedding. The fiancé's an avid boater and was the prime suspect for murder before it got ruled as accidental."

Dean scratches a thumbnail through the stubble on his chin. "Connection?"

"Dunno," Sam says. "But Caroline's wake is this afternoon, so I was going to head over there after dropping off this stuff." Sam glanced at the groceries and only remembered the coffee after his gaze landed on it. He plucked one out of the tray and held it out to Dean, deciding the last minute to leave the second instead of taking it for himself. Dean would probably need it.

"What, you get the free food while I'm stuck here?"

"Looks like. Motel's got wireless, you could do some research."

Scowling and rumbling like a grizzly, Dean stretches out for the television remote. "Fuck you, man."

"Yeah, see you in a couple hours," Sam says, ducking out before Dean can throw it at his head.

*

Sam hangs back at the edges of the black-clad mourners milling about Caroline Leeson's back garden. He's done this so many times now, the tight, sad smile he gives to the people curious enough to stare at his ragged jeans and old jacket works like a charm, and Caroline's tottering grandfather leads him straight to Eric.

"Hi," Sam says, clasping Eric's clammy hand in a brief, tight grip. "I'm Sam. I just wanted to say, well, I knew Em. From college. She was really something, and I'm sorry."

Eric's smile doesn't reach his eyes. "You're a long ways from Amherst, Sam. Long, long ways."

"Yeah, guess you don't get much traffic in South Hawley," Sam says, putting on a smile that isn't one, the sort nearly every person at every funeral wears. "I'm on a road trip, taking some time off school. I didn't hear about what happened until a couple of days ago."

Eric nods, eyes on some distant point. The clatter of plates and silverware surges, and he glances over at the children clustering about a short table leaden with cakes. "The smallest one is Caroline's son," he says. "I'm his godfather."

Sam waits, quietly. Grief cuts some people off, others, it opens like a book. Eric talks softly, not meeting Sam's gaze, as if he could make Sam truly be the faceless stranger that still cares.

"Caroline took my boat to the lake that day," he says. "She was going to teach Michael, like I taught her. He still wants to learn, but I'm selling the boat. Less than two years old, it's a shame." Eric's gaze slides back into the present, over to Sam's face. "You in the market for a hobby, Sam?"

"No," Sam says, "no, sir, I don't think I am." Eric nods and continues watching Michael. A few moments pass, and Sam takes the opening. "Was he with her?"

"No," Eric breathes, "thank god, no. It was just her."

*

This time, Sam eases the motel room door open slowly. When it doesn't catch on the chain, he pushes it wide open and strolls in, dropping two bags of lukewarm takeout onto the one bed Dean isn't sprawled out on.

Around a mouthful of some cream and chocolate mess, Dean grunts a hello, too riveted to the television for anything else.

"What the hell is this?" Sam says, staring at the screen where some woman in too tight pants crawls into some beefy guy's lap. "Holy shit, are you watching porn?"

"Nope," Dean grins. "Some Canadian channel, Slice. I'm starting to think the great white north doesn't have censors or something."

Sam watches in a sick sort of fascination--almost exactly like walking in on Dean blissed out on Magic Fingers--as the screen cuts to a close-up of a serious make-out session, complete with groping, then to a commercial break.

"Yeah," Dean says, smirking. "Yeah, see?"

Sam scrubs a hand through his hair. "If you can tear yourself away from your softcore porn, Dean?"

"Sure, Sammy."

Huffing out a breath, Sam digs through the bags and tosses a wrapped burger loaded with about two pounds of meat across to Dean. "Turns out Caroline was Eric's cousin," he says, nailing Dean with a smirk of his own when the quick rustling of paper stops. "Yup. First Eric's fiancé, then his cousin. Sounds a lot like what happened to that Rodgers guy a couple of years ago."

Dean sits up straighter, his legs vanishing under the voluminous puff of his skirts. Sam does a shitty job of covering up a laugh, but Dean ignores him. "You piece together any connection between Rodgers and Brownsdale?" Dean asks.

"Well it's not a case of a killer boat, Rodgers' move pre-dates it. Aside from the lake, which only connects them because that's where people they loved died, nothing."

"There's gotta be something." Dean stares down as his burger, x-ray vision penetrating the bread to find the single shred of lettuce drowning in sauces. He digs it out before he digs in.

"Did you find out anything, or just watch that all day?" Sam says, and on cue, a woman's low, husky voice cuts in, saying, This program contains mature subject matter and harsh language. Two outta three ain't bad. Viewer discretion is advised.

"I love Canada," Dean says.

"How the hell are you even getting that channel?"

"No idea," Dean says. "Not complaining."

"Geez. Well, can you quit watching long enough to listen to me?"

"I already said sure," Dean says, eyes glued to the screen.

Lips thinned, Sam smacks his palm against the knob and snatches the remote before Dean can scramble for it. Dean curses, Sam grins and carries on with, "The only things tying Caroline and Emma are Eric and the lake."

"Pond," Dean grumbles. "Plainfield Pond."

"And the 'pond' is the only thing all the murdered girls have in common. So, I'm thinking we should check that out."

"Okay," Dean says. "Sure, Sammy, we'll check that out. Tomorrow."

"Why tomorrow?"

"Because I'm missing my fucking show."

Sam's mouth falls open. He closes it once, feels it threaten to gape again, and shakes his head as if that'll help. "Are you serious?"

"If I'm not out getting laid tonight, Sammy, then I'm gonna watch somebody get some. The pool boy's gonna bang the wife, I know it."

Bemused, Sam doesn't resist when Dean plucks the remote out of his limp fingers and switches the television back on. Instantly, the room turns bright with simulated sunlight and the sound of water lapping fills the air.

Dean smiles triumphantly.

"Okay," Sam says, slaps his hands down on his thighs and pushes himself up off the bed. "I'm gonna shower while you get in touch with your trashy feminine side."

"You do that," Dean says, already grabbing for Sam's half-finished fries.

Three hours later, Sam's really sick of Google not coughing up the local newspaper archives. Every so often, he can feel Dean's eyes on him, and he hunches over closer to the screen, trawling deeper through the internet trying to find something useful.

"Gonna go blind, Sammy," Dean says.

"Are you still watching that crap?"

"Yup."

"Hypocrite."

"Bitch."

And so it goes.

By midnight, Sam's eyeballs are close to falling out of his head. The words and images on his computer screen blur together; blinking puts them back where they belong for about a second before they start to migrate into each other's space again.

"Sam?"

"I'm awake," Sam says, his voice rusty.

"Yeah, good, 'cause you don't need another reason to be grumpy at me."

Sam's fairly certain that didn't make any sense, but at times like these--when his head's not working right, because heaven knows Dean's never is--he gives Dean the benefit of the doubt. He blinks, once, nice and slow, waiting for Dean to get on with it.

"I need you to come hold my dress up."

Sam closes his eyes, breathes. Counts to ten. "You what?"

"Come on, Sam, I'm serious," Dean snaps. "I can't get the fucking thing out of the way."

"For what?"

Dean jerks his head at the bathroom. Sam opens his eyes wide and holds his palms up, the universal gesture for I don't get it.

"Dude, I gotta crap, and the fucking dress keeps getting in the way. Now get off your bony ass and help me."

Sam scrubs sleep out of the corners of his eyes. "Are you screwing with me?"

"No, Sam, Jesus!"

Hands held out in mock defence, Sam says, "Okay, okay!" works a kink out of his knee and gets to his feet. His mind is a pleasant blank until he gets to the bathroom and finds Dean standing in front of the toilet, fuming.

Dean's bare toes peek out from underneath the hem. His boots are stuffed in a corner of the bathroom, his jeans and shorts in a haphazard pile halfway on top of them.

Sam says, "You're naked?"

"No, Sam, I'm in a dress. Now c'mere." Dean grabs a handful of skirt and shoves it at him, twisting around to grab another handful from the other side. "I figure if we can get it over the tank and you hold it there while I keep this fucking itchy, scratchy netting from ripping every last hair off my balls, I'll be good to go."

"Um," Sam says.

"Just... hold that, Boy Wonder," Dean says.

It's a bit of a production, Dean snapping orders and flashing skin, grunting when Sam says, "I'm way too tired for this shit," but it gets done. Dean settles down, surrounded by mounds of lace and silk, and tells Sam to get gone in between muttering his thanks.

"What about, you know?" Sam says.

Dean's eyebrows come together. "What?"

"When you're done?" Dean says nothing, so Sam says, "You know," and mimes something vague at the toilet paper.

"Oh, hell," Dean says, head falling forward into his hands, and maybe tomorrow morning, Sam'll find this funny, but right now, Dean's the picture of misery. "I'll figure something out."

"You sure, man?"

Voice muffled, Dean says, "You're not wiping my ass, Sam, so yeah, I'm sure."

"I could, uh, hold while you wipe?"

"Just go away, Sam."

Sam goes away, closing the door quietly behind him. Sometime later, when Dean calls out, Sam goes back in for the most awkward five minutes of his entire life.

*

"We could get you some bridal underwear," Sam says the next morning, chewing through a hunk of boot leather that had, in some former life, aspired to be a strip of bacon.

Dean pauses with a forkful of steak and eggs several inches from his mouth. "Some what?"

"Bridal underwear," Sam says.

"Sam," Dean says, too calmly, "do you have sordid little fantasies about me wearing lingerie?"

"What? No! God, Dean!" The blush that had been creeping up the back of Sam's neck explodes across his face. "God," he says, choking on a laugh. "They're like adult diapers. Brides sometimes wear them, like when they're stuck in a forty pound dress for eighteen hours."

Thankfully, Dean swallows before he sputters and his mouth drops open. "What the hell?"

"Less hassle?" Sam says with a shrug.

"Are you telling me some chicks voluntarily crap themselves on their wedding day?"

"Yes?" Sam hazards.

"That is fucked up."

Sam nods.

"You know what's even more fucked up?" Dean says. "That you know shit like that."

"Hilarious, Dean. Shut up."

Dean shakes his head, Dean-speak for my poor fucked up little brother, and ploughs his way through the rest of his breakfast and one-quarter of Sam's. Sam heads for the shower, leaving him to gnaw at the bacon like a dog with a bone.

He comes back to find Dean rooting through his pack and sniffing at his jeans.

"Uh, Dean?"

"You going to the lake this morning?"

"Yeah, but what's that got to do with you sniff-testing my freakin' underwear?"

"I'm going with you," Dean says, shaking out a pair of Sam's jeans and sticking his legs in one at a time. "One more day holed up in here and I'm gonna go crazy."

Sam smoothes a hand down his face, wishing not for the first time that Dean's logic meshed with the rest of humanity's. Or at the very least, his.

"You're a gazillion feet tall." Dean gathers up handfuls of silk and lace and starts stuffing. "More room in your clothes."

"Dude, that's not going to work. It's like stuffing a bed into your pants."

"It'll work," Dean says, a note of desperation in his voice when he starts running out of room. "I'll put your jacket on over it or something."

Laughter bubbles up in the back of Sam's throat. And he tries, oh, he tries to keep it down, to sympathise with the wild look in Dean's eyes, but he fails. Miserably.

Dean draws off and punches him in the arm, and he laughs harder.

"Just," Sam says, wheezing, "just get in the car, Dean."

"What? Like this?"

"Like that."

Rumpled satin overflowing and poofy sleeves askew, Dean looks up from pitting denim against his dress in a losing battle. His mouth works silently, then, "What if someone sees?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," Dean snaps, as if it were obvious and how could Sam ask such a question. He meets Sam's look head-on, glances away and back again, and Sam imagines him scuffing at the carpet with a toe before he says, "No."

Still, Sam checks to see if the coast is clear before Dean dives into the backseat, huddled in his leather jacket with one of Sam's spread out over his legs.

*

"Dude, watch out for the trees," Dean yells, scooting forward to smack the back of Sam's head. "You're gonna scratch the paint!"

Sam takes one hand off the wheel and presses it to the tick that started under his left eye about five miles back. "Dean," he says, voice thick with fraying patience, "if you can drive the car through wrought-iron gates, I can drive it through a few branches."

"That was life or death," Dean mumbles, and flops back into the seat. "Totally different."

Sam digs into his cheek with a knuckle.

The line of trees breaks and the Impala rolls over the grassy knoll onto the shore like a great lumbering beast. Sunlight sparkles on the gently lapping water, birds twitter, flowers sway in the breeze. It's beautiful and perfect and Sam instantly distrusts it.

Dean rolls down his window, leans out and says, "Wow. When d'you figure we drove into a Disney flick?"

"Stay here," Sam says, and gets out of the car. He's halfway to the shoreline before he hears Dean clamber out behind him, cursing on taffeta like it's the devil. There's no taffeta in the dress, but after this morning, Sam's decided to keep what he does and doesn't know about weddings to himself.

"What if someone sees?" Sam asks, swinging around with a wide grin already plastered across his face.

"Shut up, Sam. Go find the bad thing so I can kill it."

Squinting into the sun, Sam scans the lakeside. Dean fidgets beside him and says, "Man, this thing is like a greenhouse. I'm gonna melt."

"You could wait in the car."

"What, so I can melt all over the leather?"

"The old Rodgers place is probably over that way," Sam says, pointing to another break in the trees beside an old rickety dock. "We could check that out."

"Maybe finally get some action," Deans says and stomps back to the car. He digs up two snubbed shotguns and extra ammo, walking back with one tucked under his arm while he loads the other. His coat hangs open, the stark black guns like slashes of tar on his dress.

"Dean, man," Sam says, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Dude, you look like a homicidal Bridezilla."

Dean cocks an eyebrow, slinging a shotgun over one shoulder and lobbing the second at Sam. "I really hope there's something in there to shoot."

"Violence make you feel more like a man, Dean?" Sam says and turns back to the lake. The light on the water flickers, darkens before partially solidifying into a familiar shape. "Uh, Dean?"

"I see her, Sammy." Finger already on the trigger, Dean sights down the barrel.

"Hang on a minute, she's just standing there."

"It look like she's wearing white to you?"

Sam wets his lips, consciously trying to slow the beat of his heart. The moment of discovery has always been Sam's favourite part of the hunt, that feeling of triumph when they know exactly what they're dealing with, how it operates, how to kill it. Watching Emma float on the surface of the water like the Lady of the Lake, Sam knows they're close.

Dean practically vibrates with coiled tension beside him.

"Yeah, but she can't be a Woman in White," Sam says. "She wasn't married and didn't have any kids. It doesn't tie in with Rodgers, either."

"So what's she doing?"

"Aside from staring at you?"

"Yeah, Sam," Dean says, "aside from staring at me."

"Not a clue."

"Well, I don't like it." Dean's stance shifts, his breath leaving him in a quiet rush.

The hair on the back of Sam's neck prickles. "Dean-"

On cue, the water beneath the ghost's feet explodes, a rainbow wash of it glittering in the sun. Emma vanishes in the spray, her sharp wail abruptly cut off as the water collapses in on itself. A few ripples barely reach the shoreline.

"Jesus," Sam breathes. "What the hell was that?"

Frowning hard, Dean drops the shotgun to his side. "Let's just find old man Rodgers' place," he says, "before this gets any more crazy."

*

"You were right," Sam says, perched on the edge of his unmade bed. "Rodgers was a widower. First victim was his wife's sister, second was an old friend of his. Third was his," Sam pauses, frowns, "his cleaning lady."

"Makes sense the cops would want him for it," Dean says. "All the women around him dropping like flies."

Nodding absently, Sam scribbles in the margin of his notes. "Makes sense that they're eyeing Eric this time, too - first the fiancé, then the cousin."

"Maybe they're not connected, Rodgers' case and Brownsdale's?"

Sam gnaws on the inside of his lip, calm now like he wasn't at the lake. Playing sounding board with his brother is as old and familiar as breathing.

"Maybe, but it doesn't feel right," Sam says. "And what happened to Emma's spirit at the lake, that didn't seem like it was her idea."

Dean tugs at the ring on his hand, turning it over and over as he paces the tiny space between their beds. "So it's something in the water. Think we've finally got our lake monster?"

Sam rolls onto his side and reaches for the laptop. "Something that targets only women?"

"Could target the men," Dean says, already flipping open the journal. "Intelligent enough to hold a grudge against the guys and then go after who they care most about."

"That's pretty specific--and vindictive--for a creature, Dean.

"Nix?" Sam suggests. He sits back up, crossing his legs and pulling the computer into his lap. "Male water spirit that leads women and children like sirens lead men."

"None of the victims have been children," Dean reminds him and leans closer, breathing warm onto the back of Sam's neck. "What're you looking at?"

"Wikipedia."

"Geek."

"Bite me, Dean."

*

continued

Comments

Better be careful

[angels3.livejournal.com]

what you ask for Sammy you just may get it. Loved this can't wait for more.

Re: Better be careful

[blue-soaring.livejournal.com]

Hee, thank you! :D And the second part is already up, in case you missed it.

[miko-no-da.livejournal.com]

*howls with laughter* Oh. My. God. This is just... perfect.

Which absolutely does not surprise me, because not only are you an awesome writer, but I know how many times you've watched the first season already. *grins and zips off to the next part*

[blue-soaring.livejournal.com]

*CHOMP* :D

I, uh. I might've watched it again. Maybe. Just a little.

And then I might've gorged on interviews and things and listened to an .mp3 of Jensen talking about wincest. Ahar. XD

*chases after!*

[miko-no-da.livejournal.com]

There's an mp3 of Jensen talking about Wincest?? *laughs* What does he say?

[elzybub.livejournal.com]

hey just wanted to let you know that if Caroline is Eric's cousin then Michael would be his second cousin not his nephew.

[octette]

This whole thing cracked me up.

[amalthia]

I think part 2 is flocked. :(

[ponderosa]

it's a bad link actually from the lj->dw import. here's the second part on dw ^_^

http://blue-soaring.dreamwidth.org/43274.html#cutid1

[blue_soaring]

Bad link fixed now, too! Thanks for pointing that out.

[(Anonymous)]

Oh this situation about the dress and the toilet is sooo funny! Couldn't help but laugh aloud!