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dixiehellcat2 The guys left the next morning, driving across the vast stretches of badland and prairie dusted with late fall’s first flakes of snow. Their plan was to track Lucifer through his latest recruit; when Cas had pulled them from his clutches in Missouri, the renegade archangel had been summoning the Horseman of Death. Mass murders, strings of contagious suicides and the like should be his signature, and it was a good bet Lucifer would be nearby to watch the action.
While Dean drove, Sam spun the radio dial monitoring the news. “…likely no matter what the president does, the opposition party will…coroner’s report leaked to TMZ said the pop icon died of…longest losing streak in the history of professional…freak late-spring snowfall in Australia’s…”
“Ah, turn that thing off,” Dean finally grumbled. “That shit’s enough to make ya decide the human race isn’t even worth saving.”
Sam snapped the switch and they rode in silence, the rumble of the Impala’s engine the only sound. “Do you?” he dared ask after a few minutes. “Wonder if it’s worth it, I mean.”
“Not really,” Dean returned. “As much as it sucks, it IS all we’ve got.”
They headed down to Texas to investigate the Army psychiatrist who opened fire on his comrades, and back up to Omaha to check out a string of grave robberies. Both proved to be all too mundane and mortal-driven, and further depressed the general view of the human race. As if to counter their impact though, the Winchesters began, as November wore into December, to run into all manner of small, good things. Dean hit on two chicks in a pool hall in Cape Girardeau, who turned out to be lovers and hustlers. Instead of cracking a cue over his head, however, they chuckled, decided he was adorable, and bought the boys a round. The four took up a table playing legit two on two half the night, and spent the rest with Dean showing one the wonders under the Impala’s hood, and Sam sitting on the trunk lid debating philosophy with the other.
As they rode out of town tussling over a huge loaf of homemade bread the girls had gifted them with, Sam dug through a newspaper and got a lead on a series of strange nighttime sightings in Ohio, so they headed that way, alert for packs of cultists trying to contact their infernal master. In the woods between Cincinnati and Columbus on the night of December 21, they found their target, but they proved to be only a cheerful band of nature-loving pagans preparing for their solstice celebration that night. Except for the new-age trappings, the group Sam and Dean surprised didn’t look much different from any church campout. Fortunately, they were not angered by the unexpected visitors who identified themselves as tabloid reporters. On the contrary, instead of calling the law, the high priest was delighted to be interviewed, and invited the boys to join them for their post-ritual potluck.
The pagans were to a member fascinated by the paranormal, and were happy to regale their guests with every wild tale any of them had ever heard, most of which had no real whiff of the supernatural. One did pique the guys’ curiosity, though. Over sweet potato pie that made Dean’s eyes roll back in his head, a plump matron who worked as a nurse at a nearby hospital told them about a rash of odd burglaries in her small town. “The sheriff’s stymied—there’s no signs of forced entry, no clue how they’re getting in and out; and the stuff they’re taking is of no value. My cousin edits the local paper, and he’s been trying to put the pieces together too, but nothing makes sense so far.”
It didn’t sound like a lead to the Horseman, but it did sound like something two freaky reporter types might find intriguing. So, as much to keep their cover as anything, they followed the nurse’s SUV the next morning, through Columbus to the small town of Braxton. The sheriff was in, but uninterested in talking to out of town media. Alvin, the editor of Braxton’s weekly paper, was more helpful.
“At first, nobody even connected the incidents,” he told Dean and Sam in the living room of his simple frame house. “An old lady’s walker, the portable blind-reader from the library, nothing much of value—of intrinsic value, I should say. They were of great value to the people who owned them, of course. A woman at our church is known all over this are for her Christmas baking; somebody walked right past her purse and jewelry box, and took her cookie sheets. My daughter’s boyfriend,” he nodded with a grin toward the kitchen, where a teenage girl was loading the dishwasher, hindered more than helped by two identically boisterous small boys, clearly her little brothers, “is working toward an art scholarship at Ohio State. The thief went into his bedroom, while he was in bed asleep, left his ipod and video games, and stole his art supplies.”
“Very weird,” Sam agreed.
“I’ve gone all CSI on this,” the editor continued, “but I can’t connect the dots. Hell, I can’t find dots to connect. Braxton’s always been a quiet town, so you won’t find any scandal here worth its ink, but things have gone downhill this year, and this isn’t helping the general mood. It was a company town, you know: Braxton Furniture’s main plant was just outside town for decades. But the old man died last year, about the time the economy went in the toilet, and his kids shut the place down and moved the work overseas. This little crime spree started shortly thereafter, so I’ve thought it might be a disgruntled employee. But who would target their own neighbors, and how are they doing it, and why?” He sighed explosively, then gave them both a sharp look. “Maybe you fellas will come up with something. You haven’t always chased UFOs for the checkout line bird-cage liners, have you?” At their silence, he went on, “You’re too aware of your surroundings, too tough. Like you’ve done time in a war zone.”
Dean’s shoulders hitched slightly, and Sam suddenly ached for his brother. If war was hell, then hell must be the worst war zone of all. His reply was light, though. “That obvious, huh? Yeah, we have. This is a good change, though. Think we might stick around and take a look.”
“Much appreciated. I know you won’t be here long though. This close to Christmas, you boys’ll want to be home, no doubt.” Dean shrugged. The twins romped into the room and began busily hauling cushions off the couch and piling them up. “Hey, now, what’s all this?” their dad demanded.
“A fort!” one declared. “For the puppy Santa’s bringing.”
“We’ll see about that. Santa may have a time with a puppy in his sleigh,” Alvin cautioned, but with a secret half-grin.
His daughter passed through, pulling on her hat and coat. “Dad, Mom called, she’ll be home from church about six, she said for you to put the meat loaf in the oven at five. I’m going to the library for my tutoring group—only three kids are coming this week, so I should be home in an hour or so.”
Alvin watched her go with a warm smile. “She’s a good girl, wants to be a teacher in the worst way. And just a sponge for learning. Our small-town library isn’t nearly enough for her, even with one computer, so we’ve gotten her some great learning software for Christmas. Or rather, we told Santa to get it,” he added with a glance at the twins.
At the mention of software, Sam brightened. “Uh oh,” Dean deadpanned. “Come on, geek boy, we’ll be here all day if you get your Steve Jobs on.”
TBC
