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FIC: Carnival of Souls (4/10)
Title: Carnival of Souls (Part Four)
Rating: Adults Only (rating is for violence)
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing: None (Dean, Sam, John - no 'cest, just the wonderful fucked-up family we all love)
Warnings: Some fairly gory detail in this chapter.
Summary: Pre-Series fic. Sam left his family to get away from the world of demons and ghosts. But when that world follows him to Stanford, Sam does the one thing he swore he'd never do: he calls his father.
Disclaimer: You don't seriously think I own Supernatural, do ya?
Previous Chapters: Part One | Part Two | Part Three
CARNIVAL OF SOULS
Part Four
Friday Evening
The poltergeist was gone. The girl it had haunted was in hospital, but now she was free of the malevolent spirit she should make a full recovery. Her house was a mess, her father thought John Winchester was a dangerous nutjob (well, he was half right), but that didn't matter. The job was done; the family would be safe now.
John stashed his guns in the back of his truck and rubbed his left wrist slowly. The wrist was beginning to swell but it wasn't broken, just a little sprain. He would ice it back at the motel and it would be fine. He thought ironically that his injury matched Dean's broken wrist, and that made him think of where his son was now. Where his sons were. Together.
He climbed into the truck and checked his phone. The display showed five missed calls. Five? John scrolled through the calls quickly then punched his voicemail code.
"Dad? I've just been to the carnival and I think I might know what we're dealing with. Call me when you get this."
"Dad, it's me again. I guess you're busy with your hunt but don't forget to call, okay?"
"Dad, where are you? I've gotta talk to you, man. Call me as soon as you get this."
John didn't listen to the rest. The worry in Dean's voice was enough. He called his son.
"Dad? Jesus, where have you been?" Dean's voice was a mixture of worry and relief. John heard a television in the background.
He answered calmly, "I've been banishing a poltergeist. What's going on, Dean? Did you find something?"
"Give me a second," Dean said. John heard a door close, and the sound of the television faded. Dean went on, his voice low. "Dad, the field where the carnival is set up, all the grass is dead. Whatever is there it's so evil it's turned the whole field into unholy ground. And there's more..."
John didn't interrupt as Dean gave his report. Dean explained everything he had found, his voice matter-of-fact. But by the time he reached the end, John could hear the strain in his son's voice. Dean was scared, and John understood why.
"Dad...two years ago...that kid I killed..."
"The demon," John corrected.
"Yeah, that. I remember...the grass died where she walked. But this can't be her, can it?"
John hesitated. He didn't want to give Dean more reasons to be scared, not while they were so far apart.
"Dad?"
"I don't know, son. It's possible."
"But we killed it! I killed it."
"You can't kill something that can't die. You killed its body and sent it back to hell, Dean. Doesn't mean it can't crawl out again."
"Fuck."
"That's enough," John snapped. "Dean, it's possible that this is the same demon, but there are other things it could be. The murders suggest a ritual of some kind...virgin sacrifice, maybe. Look into that."
"Yes, sir." Dean's voice was calmer now.
"Whatever it is, you're dealing with something very powerful. Take every precaution, Dean. Make sure Sammy does, too. Do you have holy water?"
"Yes, sir. And salt. We'll be fine."
"Don't try to hunt it until I get there," John reminded him.
"We won't," Dean promised.
"Good. I'm done here, so I'll be with you as soon as I can."
"Thanks, Dad. Bye."
John started the engine wearily. He wanted to leave at once, but common sense overruled the impulse. He was tired from his hunt, and he would need to be awake and reasonably refreshed when he reached Palo Alto. No, he decided. Some ice on the wrist and a few hours sleep. If he hit the road before dawn, he could make better time.
Earlier
"Is this everything?" Dean asked, pushing the last of Sam's printouts into the file.
Sam nodded. "That's it." He shoved his few weapons into a bag, added shaving gear and his toothbrush and pulled on his coat.
"Let's go," Dean said curtly, already turning toward the door.
Sam followed, pausing only to lock his room as they left. Dean was acting weird. He'd been acting weird ever since they left the carnival: stiff and distant, barking orders like he was their dad. Sam hadn't called him on it because he thought it was because Dean was scared. It took a lot to scare Dean.
Dean opened the Impala's passenger door for Sam and walked around.
"Dean...why didn't Dad take the car?" Sam asked. The question had been on his mind for a while.
Dean's answering smile was softer than anything Sam remembered seeing on his brother's face. He ran a hand lovingly over the Impala's hood. "She's mine now," he said proudly. "Dad's driving a truck."
Sam couldn't hide his surprise. "When I left, he didn't even like you driving her." He climbed into the car.
"Things change." Dean slammed the car door and started the engine. Music blasted out:
Oh, keep talking
You're a hunter I'm a wolf
Yeah! Keep talking
I'm the preacher you're a fool
Contamination and radiation
Let it crawl while the city sleeps [1]
Sam smiled to himself. He didn't recognise the song, but that was so Dean. The volume of the music made conversation pointless, so Sam leaned back in the familiar car, and let Dean drive.
At his motel room, Dean locked the door and poured salt over the threshold. Then he went to the window, pouring salt there, too.
Sam watched him do it. He turned the television on, searching for a news channel. "What's got you so worried, Dean?"
Dean said nothing until he'd finished creating his line of salt at the window. Then he straightened up, looking at Sam. "Sammy, if what we saw at that carnival doesn't worry you, you ain't payin' attention."
"I'm paying attention. But we still don't know what this is..."
Dean lifted his bag onto the nearest bed. "I might." He pulled out a second tub of salt and disappeared into the bathroom.
Sam followed.
"The dead ground. I've seen that before. Not exactly the same, but – " Dean broke off as his phone rang. He looked at the phone. "About time!" He answered the call. "Dad? Jesus, where have you been?" He held out the salt tub to Sam.
Sam took the hint – and the salt – and finished the salt line across the bathroom window while Dean listened to their father's reply.
"Give me a second," Dean said, walking away. A moment later, he was closing the door behind him, emphatically shutting Sam out of the conversation.
That gesture said it all, didn't it?
If you walk out that door, Sammy, don't come back. You walk out on your family now, you're not family any more.
John's words echoed in Sam's mind. Watching the closed motel room door, Sam felt the sting of them again. Even if this was what he'd wanted, it still hurt.
"Take every precaution, Dean.," John instructed. "Make sure Sammy does, too. Do you have holy water?"
Dean could have pointed out that he'd already taken such precautions, but in a weird way it was a relief to know John was worried, too. "Yes, sir," he confirmed. "And salt. We'll be fine."
"Don't try to hunt it until I get there." John ordered.
"We won't," Dean promised, and meant it. Whatever this was, it was way out of his league. He would hunt it if he had to, but he really wanted his dad's backup on this one.
"Good. I'm done here, so I'll be with you as soon as I can."
"Thanks, Dad. Bye." Dean pocketed his phone.
It sounded like a ritual, John had said. Ritual. The word lingered in Dean's mind, teasing him, as if there was something he should remember. Ritual...
He thought back to the child-demon he'd killed two years earlier. They'd never known for certain who raised it. Its first victim, John had said, was the most likely suspect. Demons weren't known for gratitude and summoning one the way that demon was summoned was suicidal. But that was supposition. What if the same magician was behind this? The same demon...?
The door opened behind him and Sam poked his head through. "Dean?"
"Yeah, Sammy, I'm coming."
"Is Dad okay?"
"He's fine. Said he's on his way." Dean laid his phone beside the bed in case John called back. "Sam, Dad thinks these killings could be some sort of ritual sacrifice. I'm gonna go over the police files. Can you come up with a map of the field and mark everything we know about where these kids visited, where they disappeared?"
Sam frowned. "Uh...sure...but..." he said uncertainly.
"But what?"
"Well...if it's ritual, the significant thing will be where they died. Dean, we've got no way to know that."
"So start with what we do know, dude," Dean insisted. He picked up Sam's file and carried it to his bed.
That morning, Dean had skimmed through everything in the file, but there hadn't been time to read it all closely. Now he did, ignoring the press clippings and Sam's notes and reading the police case notes first.
It was uncomfortable reading. These were children, each of them visiting the carnival with parents. None of the parents had noticed anything strange; or if they had, they weren't telling the police. Each told the same story: they had taken their eyes off the child for just a moment – to pay for a ride or to talk to someone – and when they looked back, the child was gone. No signs of a struggle. No screams. Nothing. That was odd in itself, Dean thought.
He turned to the autopsy reports, which included photographs mercifully printed in black-and-white. The first body was found not far from the carnival field; the second and third had been further away. The photographs showed the tiny body scattered in bloody pieces over grass and dirt; the largest...piece...was the poor child's head. Dean had seen some ugly things in his life; one or two of them when he was this kid's age. But the photographs turned his stomach. It wasn't the work of a creature. He could see the shape of the cuts, too clean to be anything but a knife. A person did this. How could anyone do this to a child?
The ME's report included a note that all the mutilation happened after the child died; that was something, at least. And again that word ritual was bugging him. Dean started noting down what seemed to him to be the significant details. The murder weapon was a double-edged knife, 15-20 centimetres long. Cause of death impossible to determine for certain, but the ME believed two of the three had their throats cut, left-to-right, deep cuts that would have killed almost instantly. On the third, he refused to commit himself. Parts of each body were missing: internal organs, the left hand of one child, and more, details that Dean noted down dutifully and tried to avoid thinking about.
Ritual. Virgin sacrifice, maybe. "Damn it, what can't I remember?" Dean burst out, throwing down the file.
Sam looked up. "What...?" he began. Then he whirled, reaching for the TV remote and turning the sound up.
"...no reason to believe Sarah Langley's disappearance is linked to the recent murders of three young children in Palo Alto..."
Dean saw a still photograph of a child replace the news anchorwoman's face on the screen. A little girl in pigtails, five or six years old, her gap-toothed smile wide and happy as she laughed at the camera, clutching a teddy bear.
"...But police tonight appealed for anyone who may have seen Sarah in the past few days to come forward urgently..."
Dean looked at Sam, whose eyes were fixed on the screen. The picture changed to show a woman, obviously upset, speaking haltingly into a reporter's microphone. The girl's mom, Dean thought.
"I know her," Sam whispered.
"You do?" Dean, his thoughts still full of those horrible photographs, swallowed hard.
Sam turned the TV off. "Not the girl. Her mother...she's a professor of art history here. Dean...do you think she's still alive?"
If this was hitting the news now, the kid must have been missing at least four or five hours. Dean shook his head. "No, Sammy, I don't. I'm sorry, man."
"But she could be, right? I mean, we don't know..."
Dean didn't have the heart to insist on the truth. He looked down at the notebook he'd been writing in. "Dude, we don't know anything for sure. I wish Dad were here. He'd make sense of this in no time."
"Make sense of what?"
"I don't know!" Dean threw it down, frustrated. "Damn it, Sammy, there's something here. I can feel it. Something I oughta recognise or remember..."
"Whoa, Dean, slow down. Tell me what you've got."
Talking it over with Sammy did help get Dean's thoughts in order, but did nothing to dispel that nagging feeling that the vital clue was somewhere just out of his reach.
They watched a repeat of the news and got the full story about the missing girl. She'd gone missing from a supervised play area in the local mall and if she'd ever been to the carnival, the reporters didn't know about it. Sam extended his hand-drawn map to include the information. They went over the map together, checking each detail. Sammy did a good job: his map of the carnival matched Dean's memory. But the missing piece of the puzzle did not appear to be in the map.
Ritual. Fuck it. I need to clear my head. "Sam," Dean suggested abruptly, "let's go out and eat."
"Sam! Sam!"
Sam turned toward the woman's voice and recognised his friend, Cat, and other friends on the far side of the bar-room. He smiled and waved, accepted the cold beer Dean gave him and headed their way, assuming Dean would follow.
"Is the world ending?" Cat asked him, and when Sam frowned, not understanding the question, she added, "I mean you, doofus. Out drinking beer when the library's still open."
Sam smiled tolerantly. It was true he did spend a lot of time studying. He needed to do exceptionally well to hang on to his scholarship. He reached for a chair as the others scooched over to make room at the table. "Cat, this is my brother, Dean. He talked me into taking a night off."
Cat grinned at Dean. "Good to meetcha. And well done. The library's gonna start charging Sam rent if he's not careful."
"Hey there...Cat," Dean drawled.
Sam winced, waiting for the inevitable bad joke.
But Cat laughed. "My parents, who should never be allowed to name anything, called me Tabitha. Tabitha became Tabby...so now I'm Cat. And, no, I don't purr if you stroke me. Or have claws."
"Just a hell of a left hook," Sam grinned, pulling up a chair for Dean. "Cat is Rachel's girl. Is she here?"
Cat shook her head. "Later."
Dean looked at Sam, then back to Cat. "This is the gal you think is so tough?"
Cat glared at Sam. "Gee, thanks, Winchester. Another pissing contest is all I need." She added, to Dean, "I can handle myself. I teach a women's self-defence class on campus. Sam volunteered to help out in the advanced class last year."
"Sammy volunteered to get beat up by a bunch of girls?" Dean repeated gleefully.
Sam drank his beer. Dean was never going to let that one go. "Yeah, Dean, that's right," he shrugged before continuing the introductions: Alex and Clive, both pre-law students like Sam; Marian, majoring in literature, Dana and her boyfriend, Lee. Sam's friends. All of them were part of his life here at Stanford. All of them greeted Dean with frank curiosity, and Sam felt really weird, bringing Dean into this crowd. Dean belonged to his old life.
Sam hated himself for even thinking that about his brother, even as he acknowledged the truth in it. He resolved to try to make Dean feel welcome in the conversation, but Dean was eyeing the pool table and when he left to refill his glass Dean didn't return.
Oddly, Sam wasn't the only one who seemed to relax when Dean was gone. The atmosphere changed without him as if Sam's friends, too, couldn't speak freely in front of Dean.
"Did you hear the news?" Alex asked Sam, his voice as quiet as it could be in the noisy bar.
"About Professor Langley?" Sam's mood darkened. "Yeah, I saw it on TV."
"Do you think it's...the same?" Dana asked.
Sam shrugged, unable to reveal everything – or anything – he knew. "It's a hell of a coincidence if it's not," he admitted. "But I hope – "
Cat patted his hand. "We all hope. I'm thinking it's time to make people take precautions around here. I mean, expand our escort service on campus, make sure women use it..."
Sam shook his head. "It won't – " He corrected himself quickly, "He won't attack adults, Cat. Serial killers nearly always stick to a specific type of victim. This one goes for children."
"Listen to Agent Sam Starling, ladies and gentlemen!" Clive said sarcastically. "You know a lot of serial killers, do you?"
Sam shrugged. "I used to read a lot about it. I thought about a career with the FBI at one time." The lie came all-too-easily to his lips. He finished his beer and looked around for Dean.
Her hands were clumsily unbuckling his belt even as Dean closed the stall door behind them. He slid the lock home and turned around, pulling up her skirt. She wasn't wearing underwear. He grinned. Good to meet a girl who knew what she wanted. He dug into his pocket for a condom and kissed her hard, tasting the alcohol on her breath.
Dean hadn't even asked her name. Nor she, his.
It didn't matter. This was what he needed: the rush of sex, heat and flesh to drown out the lingering images of bloody pieces of children, to make him forget it all for a few ecstatic moments.
It didn't last for long. It was minutes at most before she was biting into the leather of his coat to muffle her climax, her fingers gripping his shoulders as her body shook in his arms. He shoved her against the door as he finished, rough and merciless, not troubling to be quiet.
Moments later, she unlocked the stall door and was gone. They had barely even spoken.
Dean cleaned himself up, zipped his pants, wiped lipstick off his mouth and walked out to where Sammy was still nursing his beer. "Ready to go, Sam?"
Sam looked a little surprised, but he nodded. "I guess."
Saturday, 3.03am
Dean woke grabbing for the knife beneath his pillow. He scrambled out of the bed, the knife in his hand. He was crouched on the floor, ready to fight, before he fully realised he was awake.
The room was quiet and still. The only sound was the gentle sigh of Sam's breathing. Dean listened to Sam breathe, letting the sound calm him as the adrenaline rush faded. God, he missed having Sammy around!
What woke him? Dean transferred the knife to his left hand and walked around the room, checking the salt lines carefully. They were all intact. He sat down on his bed, slipping the knife back under his pillow. Maybe it was just a nightmare, or a passing car or...something. He was on edge.
Dean checked his watch. Past three in the morning. The hour of the wolf. He'd heard that someplace...oh, yeah. Bobby. The hour between three and four in the morning, when a man's defences are at their weakest. Bobby said those murders in Amityville happened at 3.15, which proved to him that there was a demonic influence at work. Demonic ritual...
Dad said these murders sounded like ritual... Ritual meant signs, omens, patterns...
"Oh, Jesus," Dean whispered into the dark. It couldn't be that simple...could it?
Dean clicked the light on and ran over to the table. Sammy mumbled in his sleep and covered his head with the pillow, but he didn't wake. Dean sorted through the papers rapidly until he found Sam's map. He picked up a pencil and drew a line linking the site of the first disappearance to the second. Then another, the third to the fourth.
"Son of a bitch." The lines formed an almost perfect Latin cross. Dean looked for the places where the bodies were found. The map wasn't exactly to scale, but from the three points they already knew Dean created a second cross on the map. The fourth body would be dumped somewhere along that line.
Dean looked at Sam's sleeping form. He couldn't ask Sam to do this. Hell, he shouldn't be considering it himself, he knew what John would say. Don't. Wait for me.
"Sorry, Dad. Not this time," Dean said aloud. He dressed quickly, scrawled a quick note to let Sam know why he'd left, and hurried out to the Impala.
The place was in the grounds of a large house. Dean couldn't tell if anyone was home but a place this size was bound to have some tough security. He took his handgun and checked that the clip was full before pushing it into his pants, then picked up a shotgun as well. He clicked on his flashlight and walked around the fence until he found a spot he could climb.
At the top of the fence he waited, ready to run like hell if there was a dog, or an alarm. He heard nothing, so dropped lightly down to the grass below. He moved through the grounds cautiously, using the flashlight as little as possible.
The smell of blood led him to it. When he first caught the scent it was mixed with something else vaguely familiar...incense? Dean raised his shotgun.
And then he saw it. A tiny, severed hand with blood bright around the palm.
It took everything he had to stand there, quite still, to look and not run and to keep his supper where it was supposed to be. Dean knew he couldn't stay for long. If he were caught here... He searched the area by flashlight. It was enough to confirm what he already knew: there were more body parts here.
Dean whirled at a sound behind him, aiming the shotgun, his finger squeezing down. But there was nothing there. He'd probably heard a rat. Or not. Fuck, the killer might still be here. He searched the darkness but saw no one. He stayed where he was, listening. Slowly, he relaxed.
Back in the Impala, Dean pushed a tape into the stereo and drove toward town. He drove slowly, not wanting to reach the motel too soon. He turned the volume up. Music helped him to think.
It's criminal
There ought to be a law
Criminal
There ought to be a whole lot more
You get nothing for nothing
Tell me who can you trust
We got what you want
And you got the lust... [2]
Four children were dead. That was fucking criminal.
Okay, Dean. Concentrate. What do you know?
Four children. Body parts stolen from each. The mutilation might be an attempt to cover up what the killer was really doing. The significant locations formed the shape of a Latin cross. Why a cross? Wasn't that a holy symbol?
If it weren't for the dead ground at the carnival and the spell of illusion covering it, Dean would be convinced by now they were dealing with some human crazy. Sick, psychotic, but not supernatural. Not his problem. That would explain the cross, too. If it were a run-of-the-mill human psycho, it would be something like "God" told him to do it.
Dad said this had the feel of ritual. Sacrifice.
That body hadn't been in the garden for long. The blood had been fresh. Laid out in "the hour of the wolf"...demonic influence showing in murders...missing body parts... Bobby had listed other murders, too, famous ones, which he believed were demonic work. Just like the most infamous of all...
Oh, holy crap! How could I be so stupid?
Dean pulled over to the side of the road. He turned off the tape and pulled out his phone. He found his hands were shaking, his heart pounding with fear. Because it all made sense now.
But if he was right, how the hell was Dean going to stop it? Wait for Dad? He couldn't wait.
It felt wrong, disloyal, even to think it, but Dean knew this was beyond John Winchester. There was only one person who might know what to do.
He dialled a number and waited impatiently while the phone rang.
On the sixth ring, a voice heavy with sleep growled, "This had better be good."
"Bobby, it's Dean Winchester. I need your help."
Song Lyrics:
[1] Preacher Man, Fields of the Nephilim
[2] If You Want Blood, AC/DC
Also posted at AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2899
no subject
This continues to be really creepy and suspenseful, and I'm starting to be really, really worried for Dean. But I'm absolutely gleeful that he called Bobby in to help. Yay, Bobby!
This story makes me happy even when it's worrying me. :-)
no subject
I'm starting to be really, really worried for Dean.
Me too :-) I'm not certain where his part of this story is going. I have a plan for Sam, but Dean...don't quite know yet.
But I'm absolutely gleeful that he called Bobby in to help. Yay, Bobby!
Oh, yeah, I love Bobby. (Love him even more after this week's ep, but he was always going to be in this story.)
Thanks again!
no subject
I really really shouldn't have though, because now I'm desperately wanting to leave an obnoxious "OMG MORE NOW PLS!" comment. *G*
This is amazing. You've written all three Winchesters so dead on and the story keeps getting spookier and spookier with each chapter. I am totally hooked now, and I can't wait to see how it pans out...and how Sam deals with John.
no subject
Oh, I'm so sorry! *grins*
This is amazing. You've written all three Winchesters so dead on and the story keeps getting spookier and spookier with each chapter.
Oh, I hope so! Next chapter is the biggie - that's when I have to actually explain what's happening...and the story will either work, or not, on the strength of that. I'm a tad nervous, actually...
I can't wait to see how it pans out...and how Sam deals with John.
Mm. Yes. *whistles innocently*
no subject
The way you weave the plot together is brilliant, too. Even though there must be a lot of research and plotting, it really feels natural to the readers, great job!
no subject
Even though there must be a lot of research and plotting, it really feels natural to the readers
I usually do reams of research for my fics, but in this case I'm drawing on a story I already knew a lot about... Um. No, I can't say right now as that's a spoiler for the next chapter. But suffice to say I picked a legend I'm fairly sure Kripke, with his Americana obsession, won't touch (*g*). But I can have fun with it!
I guess that's the best way to do these things: start with a familiar place.
As for plotting...I think my biggest challenge with this one is keeping it gen. It's really making me see how much I use slash as a shortcut at times. Without that emotional subtext I have to look for other reasons and motivations for the characters and...I guess I'm a tad rusty :-)
Thanks again!
no subject
"I used to read a lot about it. I thought about joining the FBI at one time." The lie came all-too-easily to his lips
You know, I really like how gradually you show a Sam that fell back into his role in a family of hunters. The setting of Palo Alto, Sam's inner struggle and a possible past evil's return make a real good whole.
Great job so far and I can't wait to find out what's happening.
no subject
And kid!demons get an extra bonus for creepiness
I have a major crush on Claudia in Interview With A Vampire (the movie, not the book).
You know, I really like how gradually you show a Sam that fell back into his role in a family of hunters.
*nods* Yes, this isn't like the first ep, where he's effectively pushed into it for (very) personal reasons. Here, he doesn't want to go there, but he's unable to just stand aside while bad things happen. He had this idea he could call John and not have to get involved...but it just doesn't work out that way for him. Poor Sammy.