Tecumseh
By Tidia & MOG, May 2006
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Chapter 12/18
Dean held the Impala at idle in front of the Millerton Public Library
as Sam leaned down to speak to him through the open passenger’s door.
“So, you think a couple hours?” asked Sam.
“Yeah, Ben doesn’t have much on the ‘to-do’ list, but I figure it’s
that much less he’ll have to do on his day off.”
Sam nodded. He didn’t always approve of his brother’s situational
ethics, but times like this, when Dean did small things that showed the
loyalty he had towards friends – Sam was damned proud to have him as a
brother.
“Sounds good,” the younger Winchester confirmed. “If I’m not out front
here, I’ll have my cell on."
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When Dean returned, Sam sat on a bench out front. Watching some
teenagers skateboarding in the park across the street, he was unaware
of his brother’s arrival. Dean couldn’t help but notice the wistful
expression on Sam’s face. It made the older Winchester wish that they
both held more favorable memories of their childhood.
Dean wholly understood the pangs of regret he read in his brother’s
expression. He chose to break Sam’s reverie with a quick honk of the
car horn.
A few seconds later Sam dropped down into the passenger’s seat and the
earlier melancholy gave way to a light in his eyes.
“You look happy,” observed Dean.
“I got lucky.”
“Hot librarian?”
Sam returned his brother’s sly grin. “Not that lucky. But take a look
at this.” He flipped through the pile of photocopies in his hand and
passed a few to Dean. “All these articles talk about murders, suicides,
disappearances, runaways, several accidental drownings…all young
females and all on May 17th.”
Dean smiled at the yellow highlighting strung through some of the
articles. Sam was still in college mode. “And no one ever put it
together?”
“Actually, some local cop in the late 1930’s did. And he was even nice
enough to include his theories in his memoirs.” Sam unzipped his
Carhart hoodie and pulled out a book with blue-inked letters stamped
across its binding - ‘RESERVED.’
“Sammy! You stole a book from the library.” Dean could almost picture
his brother’s indecisiveness over taking it. “I’m impressed.”
“Yeah, well, it’s going back after this is all settled.” Sam treated
the book gingerly, carefully turning the aged pages. “This detective
noticed the pattern. He even helped with the investigations of three of
the cases. Thought he knew who was doing it too - a guy by the name of
Lincoln Beets.”
“Pillar of the community or scumbag of the earth?” Dean asked, glancing
again at the articles he held.
“Richest family in town at one point,” answered Sam.
“Money talks.”
“And orphaned Native American girls don’t.”
Dean passed the papers back to his brother, slipped the car into Drive
and pulled away from the curb. “I stopped by the Ramada…the Stacey has
landed.”
“So, Jennifer Love-Hewitt?”
“Still don’t know. The R.I.P. boys must have told her to expect us;
there was a note at the front desk saying swing by the mission. I tried
the cell on her card but just got one of those default automated
messages.” He shook his head. “I was hoping to at least hear the voice.
But for the record – I’m now sensing blonde.”
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They drove to the mission, with Sam lowering the volume on the stereo
as he found something interesting in the book to read aloud, then
increasing it again as he read on to himself.
Dean started in as soon as they approached the Wheelock and he saw a
lone individual standing on the grass by a Ford Explorer taking
photographs of the mission and its surroundings. Though facing away
from them, they could see the figure was slim and draped in a blue
striped Baja pullover and loose, white linen pants that reminded Dean
of pajama bottoms. Long, straight blond hair hung to the middle of the
back and seemed almost white in the sun’s light.
“Oh, what did I tell you? Blonde. Tall too, I’ll bet she’s Swedish. How
much you wanna bet she’s Swedish? God loves me.”
Dean found an open space on the street to park and Sam could
practically feel the anticipation radiating off his brother as they
walked toward the mission.
“Stacey May?” Dean called out, letting the name linger in his throat.
The blonde turned and Sam covered his loud laugh with a cough.
“That’s me. Hey, you must be Dean and Sam.”
Dean had stopped walking - frozen in place, with his mouth hanging open
slightly. Sam, however, strode forward and accepted the extended hand.
“Mr. May….very nice to meet
you.” The grin on his face had more to do with relishing in Dean’s
disappointment than with actually meeting R.I.P.’s psychic consultant.
The man appeared to be in his early thirties, but his pale blue eyes
and high, angled cheekbones gave him the benefit of looking younger
than he probably was.
“Just call me Cracker,” he said, with a smile.
Dean looked skyward and muttered under his breath, “Why do you hate
me?” He shook his head as he forced himself forward to join his
brother, but continued to talk to himself. “Just…just fucking cruel,
that’s what it is.”
Sam, on the other hand, still wore a highly amused grin. This grand
cosmic joke would give him harassment material for years to come. “
‘Stacey’, is that a Swedish name? It’s interesting.”
“Named after your mom, perhaps?” Dean bit out, stuffing his hands in
his jean pockets.
Cracker pulled an elastic band from his wrist and secured his long hair
into a ponytail. He stared at them for a moment, before giving his
explanation. “By her, actually. She was a huge Stacy Keach fan, such a
great actor. But her aunt’s name was Stacy too, so mine is spelled with
an –ey; ya know, to kind of differentiate between the male-female
spelling. ” He looked at the brothers, as if waiting for them to make a
comment.
Dean opened his mouth, then shut it. With a name like Stacey, the guy
probably had been tormented enough throughout his life, or maybe he was
just oblivious.
‘What is it with psychics and weird
names?’ he thought. ‘First
Missouri, now a guy named Stacey.’
Dean had a flash of that first awkward meeting with Missouri and worked
to clear his mind of anything more than commonplace thoughts. “So
you’re the psychic?” The disappointment of not meeting a beautiful
Swede was still evident in his voice.
“Yeah, that would be me. Matt said he told you about the problems Judy
had with this gig. With three spirits involved - it seemed like a
challenge…I was like, yeah, count me in.”
“You’re talking about just the girls,” said Sam. There was a slight
questioning tone in his voice.
“Yeah, you know I just figured they needed some help crossing over.”
With two fingers, he illustrated walking. “I talked to Scarlett this
morning and I think. . .”
“Greeeaaatttt,” drawled Dean. “Hate to break it to ya, John Edwards,
but we don’t think there’s just three little girls. There’s something
nasty in there with them. If I hadn’t been with Sam, he would have
taken a sawhorse to the back of the head.”
Cracker raised his hands slightly. “Hey, chill - way too much negative
energy coming from you. I already picked up enough from the mission.”
He glanced at Sam. “And you write with him voluntarily?”
“Pretty much,” answered Sam, trying to suppress a smile. “Being born
his brother is most of it.”
“Ahh. And is he always like this?”
Dean spoke up. “Hello? Standing right here.”
Sam ignored him. “He really does have a happy face. Today he’s just
feeling betrayed by the universe.”
Cracker nodded and looked at Dean. “I can appreciate that. She can be a
cruel mistress. Yeah, Matt mentioned you guys write articles. . .Where?”
“You know, the usual paranormal rags.” Dean replied smoothly.
“Really? ‘cause I subscribe to the major ones, I can’t remember your
names in any by-line.”
The brothers answered simultaneously.
“Pseudonym,” said Sam.
“We’re new,” Dean replied.
They glanced at each other for a split second and Dean picked up the
slack. “We’re in the travel article circuit, but we just started
dabbling in the psi stuff. It’s been an interest since we were kids.
We’ve gotten some pieces published under a pseudonym in a couple of the
smaller mags.”
“We’d rather be mysterious,” added Sam.
“I so get it,” replied Cracker. He paused and for a moment, Dean
thought he was going call their bluff. “There’s more mystery with dead
people,” continued the psychic. “I don’t like to read live people.
You’re all messed up, always with a chip on your shoulder to boot.”
He indicated Dean with a vague wave of his hand. “I mean look at you.
Let me guess - death of a parent or close loved one at a young age?
Subsequent guilt complex, over-protectiveness and taking on heavy
responsibility before your time?”
Dean wasn’t even aware that he’d taken half a step back. It was
unnerving to have your life summed up in two sentences. In that sudden
moment, he felt strangely ineffectual. “That’s random,” he quickly
replied, hoping to cover how he felt, “and so not true.”
Dean’s face still held a stark expression and Cracker smiled. “Psych
minor, philosophy major - very ying and yang; but does the Princeton
degree say that? I said ‘put in ying and yang’ and they’re like, nope,
summa cum laude…whatever.”
He leaned against the rental SUV. “So are we working together or not?
As I was saying, I can help those girls.”
“There’s more to it.” Sam answered, glancing at Dean to get his
permission to continue. Dean gave a tiny nod. He saw the look in his
brother’s eye. Sam had just met a college graduate with the shining –
he was enthralled. Dean just wanted to hang back and lick his wounds.
“There always is.” Cracker replied, fidgeting with a medicine pouch
around his neck. “Care to share?”
“Yeah, I got some stuff from the library.” Sam pulled out the
photocopies rolled up in his back pocket.
“Cool. Let’s walk and talk. I’d like to get more of a feel for the
grounds.” Cracker looked at the mission again before taking a step
forward. “It’s going to be an awesome B & B - I totally get
Scarlett’s vision.”
“Aw shit,” Dean mumbled as he followed behind. He gave Sam space to
talk to his new best friend, but stayed within earshot to hear the
conversation.
“When did you first notice you could help the dead?” Sam asked, after
he’d finished sharing what they’d discovered about the annual deaths
and Lincoln Beets.
“Always. I was an indigo child.” Cracker placed his hand briefly on one
of the mission’s outside walls and took a deep breath.
“A what?” Sam looked back at Dean, wondering if he was familiar with
the term. His brother just shrugged.
“An indigo child,” replied Cracker. “My aura is indigo, indicative of
the Third Eye Chakra.” He lightly tapped his forehead, just above the
eyes. “I was always, you know, special - a nonconformist, gifted and
intuitive. Man, it so works for me.”
“Jesus.” Dean coughed to cover his reply when he realized he’d said it
louder than he’d meant. “Umm, so your parents said you were special?”
“Yeah, of course.” Cracker glanced at Dean and breathed a laugh. “Man,
we are all special.”
Dean smiled at the psychic and thought to himself, ‘Yeah, and I’ll bet
Uncle Frankie’s parents thought he was special too.’
Dean couldn’t remember the last time anyone called him special. Sure,
girls said he was special, but it wasn’t the same as coming from a
parent.
“What about you?” Cracker stated to Sam as they continued to walk.
“What about me, what?” The younger Winchester took interest in how
Cracker went about touching the mission.
“The visions?”
“Visions? Uh…No, not me,” Sam shook his head vehemently. He looked back
at Dean, who caught up to the twosome when he saw the panicked look on
his brother’s face.
“Okay, whatever, although your aura screams, ‘I have nightmarish
visions’. But hey, maybe I’m wrong.” Cracker shrugged and took a few
steps back to look up at the mission. “This is how I feel it - the
action of remodeling this place activated the girls’ spirits. That, in
turn, drew Beets here - like a murderer returning to the scene of the
crime to relive the emotional high, the thrill of the kill. Their
energies are keeping him here.”
Sam nodded in understanding, surprised at Cracker’s succinct
explanation. The psychic fiddled with the medicine pouch against his
chest. “The cop was right, by the way, it was Beets. He’s a wily one
though. He spent all his living years lying low, and most of his dead
ones doing the same. The female energy attracts him. That’s why he
attacked Judy, but ignored Josh. Beets is a really aggressive guy –
totally yanged out.”
“ ‘scuse me?” asked Sam.
Cracker frowned, trying to think of a better way to describe it. “He’s
got too much yang, ya know, male energy. Imagine a spoiled, drunk,
pissed-off, frat boy football player on steroids. It’s like Beets is
nothing but testosterone.”
Sam nodded. “So we need a way of drawing him out.”
“You could dress in drag,” Dean suggested with a grin.
“Screw you,” Sam replied, annoyed and embarrassed by his brother’s
flippant remark.
Dean held his hands out in an innocent gesture. “Hey, I only mentioned
drag. I didn’t say anything about prostitution.”
Cracker smiled. “You guys are a lot less geekified than other psi
writers I’ve had to deal with.”
Sam answered nonchalantly. “We’re very hands on.”
Dean flashed a cocky grin. “We’re a regular occult Hallmark – weapons
for all your supernatural needs.”
Cracker still had an amused expression, but looked slightly unsure.
“Hands on? Weapons? So you want to be all Jack Bauer about this? Yeah,
that’s one approach. But uh, don’t you think we need a plan?”
“Nah,” replied Dean, “it’s pretty simple - good guys get bad guy.” He
gestured to the three of them. “And well, it’ll be fair - one guy and
two girls versus a bad guy. Right, Stacey?”
“Man, you are so using up
your good karma.”
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