FIC: Carnival of Souls (5/10)

[briarwood]

Title: Carnival of Souls (Part Five)
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 details - see rating.
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 | Part Four

---

CARNIVAL OF SOULS

Part Five

Saturday Morning

Sam woke alone in Dean's motel room. He lived through four minutes of pure panic before he found Dean's note,

Sammy –

Had a midnight inspiration so I've gone to check it out. Didn't want to wake you in case I'm right. Please wait for me

– Dean

Sam breathed a sigh of relief. At least Dean was okay. "Midnight inspiration", though? What the hell was that? Sam saw the carnival map, then, with the lines Dean had drawn. His stomach lurched. Oh, god, Dean, you didn't...

He dived across the room for his phone and called his brother.

"Hey, Sammy."

God, it's good to hear your voice! "Did you find her?" Sam demanded.

Dean didn't answer at once. Sam could hear the Impala's engine and Dean's music in the background over a lot of interference on the line. Finally, Dean said, "I did. Sammy, I'm sorry."

"Tell me."

"Dude, you don't wanna know the details, trust me." Dean hesitated, then added, "I'm on my way back, Sammy. I've got a lot to tell you, but not over the phone. Just stay put."

Sam took a deep breath. He'd caught only part of what Dean was saying over the static, but it was enough to get the gist. "Okay."

"You want coffee? I'll stop on the way."

"Yeah. Grab me a bagel, too?"

"Uh...okay. See you soon."

Sam turned on the television while he waited for Dean. The local news channel was still full of the abduction of Sarah Langley. The child's mother, Professor Langley, spoke to the cameras, her voice strong at first, begging for her daughter's safe return. The camera kept running as she dissolved into tears and was led away by another woman. Sam wondered where her husband was.

The news said nothing about the police finding Sarah's body.

The camera had no respect for a family's grief. All these reporters cared about was the story, displaying the Professor's pain across headlines and television screens. It made Sam think of his own family. His father had been spared this, at least, when his mom died.

The news report moved on to something else. Sam left the television on, but quit listening. He paced the room, anxious for Dean's return.

---

"You've got to be kidding me," Sam said flatly.

Dean slammed the gun he was cleaning down on the table between them, anger sparking in his eyes. Sam flinched at the gesture: you could make a gun go off like that, but he'd seen Dean remove the clip. The gun was safe. Dean wasn't.

"Do you think I'd joke about something like this?" Dean demanded.

Sam held up both hands in a "peace" gesture. "No. No, of course not. But, Dean, you're talking about the most famous serial killer in history." Sam shook his head. He wanted to believe Dean. It just sounded so...preposterous. "I mean, dude, Jack the Ripper? Whoever he really was, he's been dead a century or more. There was nothing supernatural about him."

Dean picked up the gun and slid the clip, now loaded with what looked like iron bullets, home. "First," he snapped, "I didn't say this killer is Jack the Ripper. I said the murders are the same thing."

"Jack the Ripper killed six prostitutes. Adult women, Dean. Not children."

"And second," Dean went on, ignoring Sam's interruption, "you're wrong about Jack not being supernatural. Why do you think he was never caught?"

"Because the cops back then didn't have the benefit of modern forensics or profiling."

Dean stood, tucking the gun through his belt. With his back to Sam, he said, "I know what I'm talking about, Sammy." He sat down on the end of the motel bed. "A few months after you left us, Dad sent me to spend some time with another hunter. Bobby Singer. He's a demonology expert."

"You mean like an apprenticeship?"

"Kinda. Dad said there was stuff he could teach me. Bobby has a file thicker than an encyclopaedia on demon-influenced murders. It included Aleister Crowley's theory about Jack."^[1]

Sam nodded. "Okay, that's a name I recognise," he agreed. Aleister Crowley was a black magician, famously dubbed "the wickedest man alive" in his day. Although wicked, in this case, was a relative term: truly evil magicians don't court publicity the way Crowley did. No, Crowley had been powerful, but more amoral than evil. In Victorian England, it was the same thing.

"Crowley uncovered a ritual dating back to the middle ages. It was black magic, stuff so dark Crowley wouldn't touch it. He believed that Jack the Ripper was a black magician attempting to complete that ritual. It involved killing five people, and the magician gained new powers with each murder."

Sam found himself sitting up straighter. "And...?"

"And it gets worse." Dean stood, walking over to the window. "He's not just killing, Sam. He's stealing souls. In the fifth ritual, if he gets it right, he trades the souls of his victims to some demon in exchange for the ultimate power."

Sam swallowed. "What's the ultimate power?"

"I haven't a clue. No one knows. But I'm betting it ain't good."

"Okay. But you still haven't said anything that proves a connection between this ritual and these dead children."

"It's on the map, Sammy." Dean moved to the table and turned the map around. "Just look at it."

"I saw this earlier," Sam agreed, not pointing out that he'd drawn the map in the first place. "But why would someone use a Christian cross in a black magic ritual?"

Dean's look was almost contemptuous. "I know you're out of practice with this stuff, Sammy, but that's just lame. Look again."

Sam looked at the map, his eyes tracing the lines Dean had drawn. For a moment, all he saw was the same thing he'd seen that morning. Then he turned the map around, orienting it to the north, like a real map. He sank back into his chair. "I can't believe I didn't see that."

"Catching on, college boy?" Dean drew a bowie knife out of his bag.

"Alright, don't rub it in. The cross is reversed, signifying a black mass. A ritual to summon the devil."

Dean nodded. "An upper-level demon would be powerful enough to desecrate the field and create the illusion to hide it. Sammy, from what you put together – the murders in Florida and Washington, a magician has been trying to complete this pact for a while. Both times, something has stopped him. I don't know, maybe some other hunter. But now, he's one more slice-and-dice away from winning. We can't let that happen."

Dean flipped the knife over in his hand and offered it, hilt-first, to Sam.

Sam took the knife. "What am I supposed to do with this?"

"There's one more thing I've got to know before we can kill this son of a bitch. But first..." Dean stretched his arm out across the table: the arm covered with the grubby cast. "Help me get this thing off."

Sam stared at him. "Are you high? Dean, if you take that cast off before the bones are healed, you could end up with damage that won't heal. Ever. You want to risk that?"

Dean gave him an impatient look. "It's supposed to come off in a few days anyhow. It'll be fine. Dude, I can't hunt with this thing on my hand. It throws off my aim."

Sam shook his head stubbornly.

Dean held his hand out for the knife. "Fine. I'll do it myself."

---

The piercing ring of his cell phone woke John. He grabbed the phone from the nightstand and answered it without opening his eyes. "John Winchester."

"John," a male voice growled, "what shit have you gotten that boy into this time?"

John felt tired, a little groggy: the lingering effects of strong painkillers and not enough sleep. The voice was familiar, but he didn't place it immediately. "Who is this?" he asked, sitting up in the bed. Sunlight streamed in through a gap in the curtains.

"He called me at five thirty this morning. I gave him the information he wanted, John, but I want you to tell me you know what you're doing."

The last of his tiredness sluiced away. "Dean called you?" He recognised the voice now: Bobby Singer. What would have made Dean call Bobby, and not his own father?

"Christ, John, yes. I'm telling you, that boy doesn't understand what he's stepping in. If you want to risk your immortal soul that's your affair, but you've no right to order that boy – "

"Bobby!" John almost shouted. "Shut up and listen to me. Whatever Dean is doing, it's not on my orders. He's not with me, he's in Palo Alto with his brother. Now back up and tell me what trouble you think my Dean is in."

For a moment, there was silence. Then Bobby said slowly, "Where are you, John?"

"Louisiana."

"And you let Dean go into this alone?"

"I didn't let him do anything," John spat irritably. "It's his brother." It was the truth – John couldn't have stopped Dean. But Dean promised to wait, damn him! "Bobby, tell me what's going on."

"Dean called me two hours ago asking questions about a medieval pact with the Devil."

John nodded. That made sense. "He's been looking into a string of murders," John volunteered.

"He told me. John, he thinks someone is trying to recreate the old pact. He wanted to know how to stop it. I told him what I could, but he hung up before I could warn him."

"Warn him about what?" John remembered, You said something about putting the soul in danger. Explain, Bobby."

John was gripping the cell phone almost hard enough to crack the casing. When he realised what he was doing he tried to unclench his hand. But Bobby kept talking, and every word tightened the knot in John's stomach.

He gave Dean strict orders not to hunt this thing. Dean was capable, but he was hurt, damn it, and for a job like this even that small injury could make the difference between success and dead...or worse. Would Dean obey orders? When John was with him, Dean always followed orders. If Dean were alone, John thought he could be confident Dean would wait. But he wasn't alone. He was with Sammy, and Sammy had always followed his own instincts ahead of his father's orders. Dean was as loyal to Sammy as he was to John. Perhaps more. With the boys together – without John – he couldn't predict what Dean would do.

Did Dean call Bobby in order to have all the information when John arrived? Or was he hunting now, without waiting?

These thoughts ran through John's head while Bobby told him everything.

Everything was enough for John to consider very seriously abandoning his rig and catching the next plane to California. But he dismissed that urge immediately; the only thing more dangerous than failing to reach his boys would be to reach them unprepared. He needed his truck and his arsenal.

John tried to call Dean. The call went straight to voicemail. John cursed and hung up without leaving a message.

Ten minutes later he was on the road, driving west as fast as possible. But he knew in his heart he would be too late to stop Dean making a mistake he might regret for eternity.

---

"Here it is. Turn right." Sam reached out to turn down the music as Dean steered the Impala turned into the street he indicated. The neighbourhood was upmarket without being ostentatious: perfectly manicured lawns surrounded clean driveways and faux-colonial houses. It was a good neighbourhood; the kind of place Sam thought he'd like to live someday. A dog barked as Dean parked the car and Sam saw a couple of girls around eighth grade age running with a golden retriever on a leash. Yeah, this was a good place to live.

Dean started to get out of the car. Sam didn't move.

Dean sat down again. "You comin'?"

Sam wanted to turn the car around and head straight back to the carnival, or the campus. Anywhere but here. "I can't believe you talked me into this," he muttered, more to himself than to Dean. Sam had done things like this before, on his father's orders. He hated it then, and he hated it now, even though he understood why Dean thought it was necessary. It was bad enough when it was lying to strangers, but this was someone he knew and respected. And it was wrong. Just wrong.

Sam didn't say any of this to Dean.

"You want to stay here?" Dean asked. He rummaged through a wooden box. Dean wore a white support bandage on his left wrist in place of the cast. He'd insisted he didn't need it, but Sam refused to help him with the cast until Dean agreed to wear the bandage. He knew Dean's wrist would need the support, especially if it wasn't fully healed.

Dean extracted a fake FBI badge bearing his photograph.

Sam rolled his eyes. At a glance the badge was a good forgery (Dad always was good at this) but Dean would never get away with impersonating an FBI agent. Not dressed as he was, unshaven and scruffy. Sam was tempted to let Dean try it and get what he deserved, but just then a car passed them, moving slowly, and Sam recognised the driver.

"Put that away, Dean," he said reluctantly. "Just wait."

They watched Professor Langley turn the car into her driveway. She stayed in the driver's seat for a few moments after the car stopped and then slowly walked around to the trunk and opened it. She lifted a large brown bag of groceries out of the trunk, but stayed where she was, not moving toward the house.

Sam, swallowing back his misgivings, left the car and walked toward her. He didn't look back to see if Dean followed. He reached her just as the bag fell from her arms. Sam caught the bag before it hit the ground, crouched and set it down on the driveway and began to retrieve the few things that had spilled.

He straightened up with the bag in his arms just as Dean reached his side. "Let me help you with this, Professor."

She gazed at him for a moment, and Sam had the distinct feeling she wasn't really seeing him. She was certainly in no state to be driving. He wondered if she knew yet that her daughter was dead. Surely not...if she knew she wouldn't have been out shopping.

She brushed back a lock of brown hair and her eyes refocused. "It's...Sam, isn't it? Thank you."

"Yes, ma'am. Sam Winchester. Uh..." he nodded toward Dean, "this is my brother, Dean."

Professor Langley's eyes were red from crying, and her ringed hand shook as she reached out to take the grocery bag from him.

Sam shook his head, holding on to the bag. "It's alright, I'll carry it. You look tired."

"Thank you," she said again. She reached into the trunk for a second grocery bag; Sam gave Dean a look and Dean picked the bag up for her.

Sam walked beside the Professor toward her front door. "I...um...I heard about...Sarah," he said awkwardly. "I can't imagine what you must be going through." He heard the catch in her breath and hated himself for going on. "If there's anything I can do..."

She unlocked her door. "That's kind of you, Sam."

The door swung open and he followed her into the house, but not too far in. There was a bureau near the front door; he set her groceries down there. He saw nothing to be gained from interrogating this poor woman. Sam glanced at Dean and shook his head slightly, praying Dean would get the message.

Dean put down the bag he was carrying. He turned to Professor Langley. "Uh...would you mind if I use your restroom?" he asked.

"Dean," Sam warned, but it was too late.

The professor nodded. "It's okay, Sam. Second door on the left."

"Thanks." Dean walked that way, darting a significant look at Sam as he passed.

You son of a bitch, Sam groused, but it was done now. He was alone with her. He met Professor Langley's eyes uncomfortably. "Is there anyone here...for you?" he tried. "Your husband?"

She managed a weak smile. "No, not right now, but my sister will be here soon. I won't be alone."

"Good. I mean, you shouldn't be, at a time like this. Do you know...do the police have any leads?"

She looked stricken. "Some..." she answered, twisting the ring on her finger round and around. "I...I couldn't tell them much. One moment she was there, and the next..." Tears sprang into her eyes.

Sam reached out, gently leading her to the nearest chair. "It's terrible, I know. You didn't see anyone nearby? No one at all?"

"No, only the playground supervisor. Sarah was playing with another little girl. I looked away for a moment, and..."

Where the hell was Dean? Sam didn't even have a kleenex to offer her. "I...uh...oh, hell. I don't know what to say, Professor. I'm so sorry. I...I know how things like this can affect a family." He could have elaborated; part of him wanted to, so she would know they weren't just empty words, but she had heard enough.

As Dean reappeared Sam said quietly, "We won't intrude any further, Professor. Dean, we should be going."

Dean got the point. "It was good to meet you, Professor," he said. She nodded and Dean headed for the door.

Sam lingered, feeling there was something more. When she looked up at him, he said, "Listen, I know you have your family and friends, but if there is anything I can do...I'm not just saying it."

"Thank you, Sam."

He left her to her grief.

Back in the Impala, Sam ran both hands through his hair. He felt dirty. "I hope you're happy, dude," he snarled. Right in that moment, only for that moment, he truly hated his brother.

"Sammy, it's our job. It ain't nice, but we do what we've gotta do."

"Your job, maybe," Sam insisted. He couldn't look at Dean.

"What did she tell you?"

"Not much. She said there were no adults around except the supervisor and herself. Sarah was playing with a girl she didn't know. There one moment, gone the next. No one saw her taken."

"Yahtzee," Dean whispered. Aloud, he said, "Same as the others."

"Exactly. We don't know anything new. Dude, we had no right... And," he rounded on Dean, "it's pretty obvious no one's found Sarah's body yet. Except you. Why didn't you call the cops?"

"And get myself arrested?" Dean looked determined. "Sammy, do you think I like this? I know what that woman's goin' through. I hate it. But it's our job – alright, my job – to make sure no other mom has to go through that. Now I know for sure what's doing it, we can stop it."

"Are you serious? I thought Dad told you to wait."

"He did. But the earliest he's gonna get here is tonight, Sammy. That could be too late to save the next kid. This son of a bitch isn't just killing 'em. He's stealing their souls. Can you go back to your library and just let that happen? 'Cause I sure as hell can't."

No. No Sam couldn't let that happen. "Do you have a plan?" he asked, knowing, even as he spoke, that this might mean the end of his safe, normal life.

"You bet your ass I do." Dean fired up the Impala's engine.

Part Six

---

Also posted on AO3: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2899

Note:

[1] There are two well-documented theories about the possible supernatural origins of "Jack the Ripper". The first, put forward by Roslyn D'Onston (a self-declared Satanist who was himself a suspect in the Ripper investigation) suggested that the Jack the Ripper was collecting ingredients necessary for certain Black Magic rituals. He's the one who pointed out that the murder sites formed the shape of a Latin cross, oriented with the head of the cross in the west (which is the reverse of the traditional orientation of a church). The second theory was published by Aleister Crowley and is as Dean describes it in this story, with the exception that Crowley claimed the murder sites formed a pentacle (they don't). Crowley's most compelling "evidence" for his theory was the notion that the magician/murderer would gain certain powers with each killing. After the third, he would gain the power of invisibility which was, according to Crowley, the reason "Jack the Ripper" was never caught. It is true that on one occasion while Jack the Ripper was active, a policeman followed a man and a woman into what is described as a dead end – an alley leading to a locked factory gate - and found the woman dead and the man nowhere in sight. Of course, it wouldn't have been that hard for the man to climb over that factory gate, but if you're a Winchester, invisibility is probably the more likely explanation.