Chapter Text
Sam came awake with a start and sat up, eyes flying open and rapidly scanning the room around him. He grunted in relief as he took in the sparse, shabby furnishings and grubby curtains of the cheap motel room. The dark, damp warehouse he'd been trapped in a moment before was just a memory – albeit a memory of a living nightmare he wished with all his heart had never happened.
There was a time when his nightmares had been identical, night after night - Jess, pinned to the ceiling, her face a mask of terror, flames surrounding her body. But for the past few months, another image had often replaced the picture of Jess. Dean, face contorted in agony, lifeblood bleeding away into the wooden boards of a cabin floor. And now, a new image had joined the collection. Dean, pinned against a wall, a hunting knife hovering over his chest as their father uttered the three words that spelled his death sentence.
Sam shuddered involuntarily and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, eyes moving anxiously to the other side of the room. Dean was still asleep, lying half on his side, propped up on a pile of pillows. Sam glanced at his watch. Nine am. It was almost three hours since his brother had woken, shaking and sweating, from the third nightmare that night. As on the other occasions, Sam had sat beside him, offering silent support until the trembling stopped and he slipped back into sleep.
It felt like a lifetime, but only sixteen hours had passed since an old enemy of their father's had lured the three Winchesters to an abandoned warehouse. Sixteen hours since Manson had put his plan of revenge into action as they stood helpless, bound by a demon's power. "Make your choice, Winchester. Which of your sons will live and which will die?"
Sixteen hours since Dad made his choice, and with three little words had blown a hole in Dean's heart.
Rubbing at eyes gritty from lack of sleep, Sam quietly padded across the room and squatted beside Dean's bed. The blanket had slipped down around Dean's waist, and Sam frowned as he scanned the bruises that stood out starkly against pale skin. Dean's back from left shoulder to hip was a mottled patchwork of blue and black. He was going to be in a lot of pain when he woke up, despite the succession of ice packs Sam had applied the night before.
After a moment of indecision, Sam decided to leave Dean to rest and quietly made his way to the bathroom. A shower would wake him up and chase away the lightheaded feeling caused by lack of sleep.
When he stepped back into the room a while later he found his brother awake and sitting hunched on the edge of the bed.
Dean looked up as Sam approached and a ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Morning, sunshine."
"Hey." Sam kept it deliberately casual. "How're you feeling?"
"I'm fine."
"Well, you look like crap," Sam commented honestly.
Dean's lips quirked. "Yeah? Well, right back at you, raccoon man."
Sam had to smile. "We comparing bags now?"
"Did I mention bags? Not on this face, man. This face is smooth as a baby's ass."
"Just wait 'til you look in the mirror."
As Sam had expected, his brother's usual brash, cocky self had reasserted itself, replacing the emotionally vulnerable Dean from a few hours ago.
He'd rarely seen Dean as close to losing control as he'd been last night. Control was everything to Dean, who prided himself on his tough persona and was usually strong enough to preserve it, no matter what happened around him.
Knowing this, Sam had understood -- and backed off -- when Dean had made it clear he wasn't ready to deal with his feelings about their father's choice.
Mentally shaking himself out of his musings, Sam critically studied his brother. Dean really did look like crap. "Seriously, Dean, you don't look too good, man. Let me take a look at your back."
"Nuhuh. Hands off, dude. It's fine."
"Dean, you can't even straighten up.
"I'm just stiff. Seriously, I've been worse. Those ice packs did a mean job. So back off Florence Nightingale, and let me go take a shower. Unless you want to come in and scrub my back?" Dean waggled his eyebrows suggestively.
Sam rolled his eyes. "Thanks, I'll pass."
"Okay then. Why don't you start packing? Then we can take off, get some breakfast on the road."
"Take off?" Sam frowned. "I was thinking we'd stay here a few days, give your back a chance to heal. It's not like we have a deadline."
"Dude, the trail'll be getting cold down in Four Pines."
"The suicides? You still want to look into that?"
"Why not? We were on our way to check it out before--" Dean stopped speaking, and something flickered in his eyes.
Sam regarded his brother carefully for a moment. The wall was back in place, but he could tell its foundations were shaky.
He considered their options. On the one hand, it was stupid to take a road trip when Dean could barely stand. On the other hand, the idea of taking on a new case had merit. Dean needed something to focus on, to take his thoughts away from the events in the warehouse. The last thing he needed was downtime that would allow him to sit and think.
"All right," Sam said finally. "We head for Four Pines on two conditions."
Dean's eyebrows shot up. "You're giving me conditions?"
Ignoring him, Sam began to count off on his fingers. "One – you take some painkillers before we leave."
Dean stood up slowly, grimacing as he tried and failed to straighten his back. "Okay. I guess I can live with that one."
"Two – I'm driving."
Dean's eyes narrowed but Sam squared his jaw and held his brother's gaze, arranging his features into his most determined look. "Take it or leave it, Dean. Actually, I really like the idea of spending the day here. We could watch some daytime TV…"
"Okay!" Dean growled. "You win." He motioned toward the bathroom. "I'm getting that shower."
Sam waited until his brother had pushed open the bathroom door. "Don't forget to take those painkillers."
He couldn't help but grin as Dean gave him the finger just before the door slammed behind him.
~ ~ ~ ~
"Dean! Dean, wake up!"
Dean jolted awake, jerking forward and biting back a gasp of pain as the sudden movement wrenched his back. "What's wrong?" he ground out, trying to orient himself and catch his breath at the same time.
"You were dreaming, man. You okay?"
Dean took a few deep breaths and looked away from his brother's scrutiny. He didn't need to see Sam to know that his face held the same expression of worried concern that had been present all morning. "I'm fine," he said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. "Where are we?"
"Just turned off Highway 70."
Dean bit back a groan. Barely halfway to their destination. The headache he'd been unable to shake all morning still throbbed insistently at his temples, and every bump in the road sliced a sliver of pain through his back.
He was doing his best to behave as if everything was fine, and he thought he'd done a pretty good job so far. It helped that he no longer felt on the edge of breaking down. Last night… last night he'd been closer to losing it than he'd been in a long time. Most of his memory of those hours revolved around Sam — anxiously hovering, forcing Tylenol down his throat, and making up ice packs for his back. He didn't have the words to tell him, but he knew his brother had got him through those difficult hours, and the reassurance that he and Sam were okay with each other was pretty much the only positive thing he had to hold on to right now.
Yet whenever he allowed his thoughts to wander back to the warehouse, the pain and the hurt flooded back. In the past, he had always been able to keep his feelings carefully locked away, hidden from everyone, including himself. His feelings weren't important. The job was important, and Sam was important. And Dad… he was important, too.
He shook himself mentally, angry at his lack of control. He just needed to pull himself together and get on with it. Sam had enough issues of his own without having to deal with this kind of emotional crap from his brother. He had to be strong for Sam. Had to keep it together for Sam.
"You sure you're okay?"
"I'm fine," he lied again, wishing it were true. His back had hurt badly enough lying in a comfortable bed. Now, after three hours on the road, the pain had intensified. He fidgeted surreptitiously, trying in vain to find a comfortable position. Sam glanced at him sharply.
"Want to stop for a bit?"
Hell, yes, he wanted to stop. He wanted to hole up somewhere until the pain passed. Instead, he smiled reassuringly at his brother. "I'm good. It's only another couple of hours' drive. Let's keep going."
After a moment of intense scrutiny, Sam nodded. "Why don't you dig out that article and remind me what we're getting into?"
Relieved that he'd successfully averted another discussion about his well-being, Dean pulled out the local newspaper editorial that had attracted them to the small Colorado town of Four Pines.
"It's an editorial from the Four Pines Gazette. 'Killer Cottage' by Buck Weadle." He paused. "Catchy title, eh?" Sam smiled, and Dean read on. "Rose Cottage on Anderson Avenue, Four Pines, has witnessed five deaths over the past three years. Coincidence? Or is something more sinister going on in our sleepy little town? Let us consider the facts – and the victims.
"Brad Warrington: electrocuted while fixing some faulty wiring in the cottage basement. Official cause of death — misadventure. Jamie Warrington, Brad's brother: found hanged in the cottage one year later. Official cause of death — suicide. Rhonda Adams: bled to death after cutting herself on broken glass. Official cause of death – misadventure. Wendy Metzler: drowned in a pond in the garden of the cottage. Official cause of death – open verdict. Bill Turner: broke his neck falling from the roof of the cottage. Official cause of death – misadventure.
"All these deaths took place within Rose Cottage or its grounds. Local law enforcement officers are convinced that the connection to the cottage is nothing more than a coincidence. 'It is a little odd,' admitted Deputy Sheriff Tommy Cartwright. 'But there's no evidence pointing to the likelihood of foul play in any of these cases. What we're dealing with here is a series of tragic coincidences.'" Dean looked up. "'A little odd '? That's an understatement."
Sam nodded. "Does it give any more details on the deaths?"
Dean scanned further down the editorial. "Nah. He just rambles on about five deaths being no coincidence. He ends with this: 'An unsatisfactory state of affairs, in the opinion of your humble editor. Is it not more plausible to consider the possibility that a serial killer is at work here in our little town? How many more people must die before someone decides to investigate the connection? But the sheriff's department refuses to reopen any of these cases, and who am I, a mere small-town editor, to question the mighty arm of law enforcement?"
"And that's it?"
Dean folded the clipping and put it back into his pocket. "That's it."
"Not much to go on, is it?"
Dean shrugged. "I don't know. Five deaths in the same house within three years is a mighty big coincidence."
"Yeah, I guess. I don't buy the serial killer theory, though."
Dean nodded. "If it is a serial killer, he's pretty inventive – a different MO for each murder. My guess is we're dealing with a spirit of some kind."
"Either way, I wonder why he… it… chose those particular people? They can't have been the only ones to visit the cottage in three years."
"Yeah, well, not much point in speculating 'til we find out more."
Dean shifted in his seat again, and Sam glanced at him. "Why don't you try and get some more sleep. I'll wake you when we get there."
"Fine." Dean didn't intend to fall asleep, though. When he slept, he dreamed of the warehouse. But he knew Sam thought he needed the rest, and as he wasn't in the mood to talk, he slumped down in his seat, folded his arms, and closed his eyes.
~ ~ ~ ~
Sam drove wearily down the main street of Four Pines. It seemed to be a typical small Colorado town: one main street with broad avenues branching off. White-capped mountains stood starkly to attention in the distance, and pine forests surrounded the town to the east and west.
He pulled up outside a brightly painted sign proclaiming, "Norma's Diner – best value in town" and killed the engine. He'd been driving for over six hours with only one break and was tired and stiff. He glanced across at Dean, slumped in the seat beside him. It was hard to tell under the shades if his brother was awake or asleep, but Dean grunted as the engine rumbled into silence and asked, "Are we there?"
"Yeah. Welcome to the metropolis of Four Pines. I figure we can grab a bite to eat, maybe ask a few questions."
"Yeah, okay."
Sam winced in sympathy as Dean gingerly pulled himself upright, not quite able to hide a grimace of pain, and fished about in the glove compartment. "So, Sammy, who'd you like to be today?"
Sam shrugged. He hated the need for subterfuge when checking out a case, but there was no way they could just come out with the truth. "How about PI's, investigating one of the deaths?"
Dean seemed to consider, then shook his head. "Too risky. This is a small town — for all we know the whole town knew all the victims like family. How about we're freelance journalists writing an article on the unsolved mysteries of small-town America?"
"Think the relatives of the dead will want to talk to journalists?" Sam asked doubtfully.
Dean grinned. "I'll charm the young ladies; you can turn the puppy-dog eyes on the old biddies. We'll knock 'em dead, Sammy."
Sam tried to glare but failed miserably and had to smile instead. It was good to see a glimpse of the old, cocky Dean. If Dean kept this up, he'd be back to his obnoxious self in no time.
Until then, though, Sam couldn't help but feel protective of his brother. He had to force himself not to comment or offer help as Dean slowly, painfully got out of the car, instead contenting himself by walking ahead to the diner and holding the door open.
The diner was typically small town, with lines of red Formica-topped tables along one side of the room and the counter running the length of the other. It was still early, and there were only four other customers, two of them seated casually at the counter, looking like part of the furniture.
Dean and Sam took a table near the door, and after a moment, a tall, gaunt-featured woman in her fifties ambled across with a pad in her hand and a pen above her ear.
"Evenin', boys."
Dean whipped off his shades and smiled. "Evening," he glanced at her name badge, "Norma. Nice place you have here. Any specials tonight?"
"We always have specials," she said briskly. "They're on the board over there. Homemade meatloaf with fries or rock salmon fresh from the river."
"I'll take the meatloaf," Dean replied predictably while Sam ordered the salmon.
Norma called in their order and then returned to their table with a coffee pot in her hand. "Coffee?"
"Thanks," Sam said, and Dean nodded.
"You boys just passing through?"
"Actually," Dean said, "we're in town for a few days."
Norma nodded. "Tourist Information two blocks down can tell you everything you need to know."
Sam said, "Thanks, but we're here on business, not pleasure. We're journalists. I —"
"Dean Kent," Dean interrupted smoothly. "And this is my partner, Lo—"
"Logan," Sam said quickly. "Uhh… Jimmy Logan." He scowled at his brother, who smirked while keeping his eyes fixed on Norma.
"We're here about that story in the Gazette – the one about the Killer Cottage?" Dean said.
Norma snorted. "You've wasted your time, then. Load a' crap. That Buck Weadle's a load a' crap. Buck Weasel, more like. Weasel by looks, weasel by nature, and more full of crap than a lorry load a' buffalo."
Sam blinked at the colorful image, exchanging a glance with Dean, whose lips were twitching. He cleared his throat. "You don't think there's anything to his theory, then?"
"About the serial killer? Load a' crap, like I said. Not that I ain't sorry those folks are dead, but it was their choice to do what they did. I reckon they all chose Rose Cottage 'cause of some 'romantic' notion."
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Romantic?"
"In my experience, them as chooses to take their own lives are the arty-farty types, like young Jamie Warrington. Always mooning about that kid, writing poetry and that kind of crap."
"Uhh… so you believe all the deaths were suicides?" Sam clarified.
Norma shrugged. "Maybe not the first one, young Brad. But the others, I reckon so, yes. Just 'cause no one could prove it one hundred percent, don't mean they didn't off themselves, does it?"
"I guess not," Sam said. "So, do you know where we can find Mr. Weas… Weadle? We'd like to talk to him about his theory — even though it's probably a load a' crap," he added hastily, seeing Norma about to launch forth again.
She cackled. "Only one place to find Buck these days. Charlie's Bar, a block up. He's there most nights, drinking himself into an early grave."
The arrival of a new group of customers saved the brothers from replying.
"Your food be with you in a few minutes," Norma said and left them to welcome the new party.
"Colorful characters they have in Four Pines," Sam commented once Norma was out of earshot.
"Yeah. She's something else." Dean grinned suddenly. "Jimmy Logan? Good recovery there, Sammy."
Sam felt himself coloring. "Don't start with me. I know where you were heading…"
"What?" Dean spread his hands, radiating innocence. "I was going for Lonny, but I like Logan much better." He leaned back, and his face contorted in pain.
"Dean?"
"I'm fine," Dean said quickly. Too quickly. "Moved too fast, that's all. Back's a bit stiff from all that time in the car."
"Did you bring your painkillers?"
"Nope. Left 'em in the car."
Sam fished in his pocket. "Good job I brought them, then... What?"
Dean was looking at him with a mixture of exasperation and amusement. "Thanks, Mom."
Sam grinned. "You're welcome."
~ ~ ~ ~
"You know, we'd have had Norma eating out of our hands if you hadn't insulted her meatloaf," Sam commented an hour later as they stood outside the diner, deciding what to do next.
"I didn't insult her meatloaf," Dean said indignantly.
"You didn't eat it, either!"
"Yeah, well, I wasn't hungry." It was the truth. The meatloaf had smelled good, but Dean had had no appetite despite eating next to nothing all day. He was dog-tired, his head still throbbed, and the pain in his back had intensified. But Sammy didn't need to know any of that. "Anyway, Norma isn't my responsibility. I do the nubile blondes, remember? You're the one who's supposed to sucker the little old grannies."
"You think that battleaxe qualifies as a little old granny?" Sam asked, his tone incredulous.
"Well, I bet she's someone's grandma. Move your ass, Sam. I need a drink. Let's go visit Charlie Boy and get acquainted with Mr. Weasel."
Charlie's Bar, a block further along Main Street, sported an innocuous entrance with a battered sign in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. It was full of what looked like locals – it was obviously not upscale enough for the tourists, and Dean had a suspicion that Charlie kept it that way deliberately to put them off. His patrons didn't look like the types who'd enjoy the company of a bunch of overly enthusiastic hikers. His eyes lit up when he spotted a pool table towards the back of the room, and then he frowned in disappointment as his back twinged a warning. There was no way he was up to hustling pool tonight.
Sam nudged him and nodded toward the bar, where a man held forth to a small group of customers. Dean grinned as he remembered Norma's description. The man was probably in his mid-fifties, with a wiry build and small, sharp features. He certainly had the look of a weasel. And sure enough, Sam's inquiry of the bartender earned a nod in the man's direction.
They ordered a couple of beers and waited patiently until the group had dispersed before heading casually in Weadle's direction and introducing themselves. A promise of an acknowledgment when the story was published had Weadle happily divulging everything he knew about the Rose Cottage Killings, as he termed them.
"It stands to reason, doesn't it," he said. "Five people, all dying in one house?"
"What makes you think it might be a serial killer?" Dean asked.
"What else could it be? It isn't plausible that four or five people would off themselves in the same place or kill themselves accidentally. I can't find any connection between them other than Brad and Jamie being brothers."
"So, the 'victims' had nothing in common, then?" Sam prompted.
Weadle shrugged. "Not that I can figure. First one was Brad Warrington, three years ago. Brad's father owns the house – Brad and Jamie were raised there. Kid was a high-flyer, college student, heading for the big time – at least, if you talk to his father. They said his death was a freak accident. He was home from college for the weekend, went down to the basement to fix the fuses – power'd blown out in a storm. When he didn't come back, Martin, his father, went down to find him. He was stone dead, with a live wire in his hand. Police wrote it off as an accident."
At the mention of electrocution, Dean carefully avoided catching Sam's eyes. He knew his own brush with death after killing the Rawhead still bothered Sam. "What about Jamie?" he asked quickly.
Weadle took a large swig of his whiskey. "Jamie was Brad's younger brother. Bit of a dreamer. Interested in poetry, and the like. Different from Brad as chalk from cheese, but the two of them were thick as thieves despite that. Jamie went a bit strange when his brother died — wouldn't go out, sat in the house all day long writing. He died a year to the day after Brad. They found him hanging in the family room. Official line is he killed himself."
"But you don't believe it was suicide?" Dean asked.
"Someone could have come in and murdered him just as easy."
"What did the police say?"
Buck snorted. "The police! Our sheriff's department couldn't investigate their way out of a paper bag. They said they couldn't find any evidence that anyone else was in the house – no finger or shoeprints. But that doesn't mean anything. If it hadn't been for the journal …"
"There was a journal?" Sam prompted.
"Yeah. Seems the kid kept a kind of diary. Don't know what was in it, but it convinced the sheriff."
Dean raised an eyebrow at Sam, who shrugged.
Weadle plowed on. "And Martin... Martin just accepted it. Almost killed him, losing two sons within a year of each other. He still lives in town, though, works as a lecturer at the college." He swallowed the last mouthful of his whiskey and expectantly held out his glass.
Dean nodded to the bartender before exchanging a glance with Sam. They needed to get the rest of the information before Weadle was too tanked to make any sense.
"And the others?" Sam prompted.
"Rhonda, she was a local girl, left to make her way in the big city. Artist. I didn't really know her. But she was planning to come back. That's why she was at the cottage. She was thinking about renting it and wanted to check it out. They found her covered with glass, cuts all over her body, and a large piece of glass sticking out of her throat. They said she must have tripped and fallen through the window in the family room."
"But you think it was murder?" Dean asked.
"That's my theory. Don't know why a girl like that would want to kill herself, so murder makes more sense. I tried talking to her best friend, Amber. She works down at a coffee shop on Walnut – but she wouldn't talk to me. Still too upset about her friend, I guess."
"When did she die?" Sam asked.
"About six months ago."
"Ok, so what about the others?" Dean wanted to move things along. Weadle's theories might be flawed, but they were getting good information. Sam was furiously scribbling notes, ensuring they had all the facts recorded.
Weadle downed half his glass and licked his lips in appreciation before continuing. "Wendy Metzler was a Realtor at Parker Wilkinson. The cottage had been on the market for a year, but they couldn't sell it. Hardly surprising with that history. So, they were aiming to fix it up a bit to encourage buyers. She was over there noting things that needed doing. Anyway, she drowned in the fish pond in the garden a month after Rhonda. Again, they say she must have tripped and stunned herself when she went in.
"Bill Turner's the most recent. He died two weeks ago. He was doing some odd jobs for Parker Wilkinson; they still thought they could sell it, even after Wendy's death. They said Bill's death was an accident."
"Because?" Dean prompted.
"Because he'd been fixing some damaged tiles on the roof. He fell and broke his neck. But someone could easily have pushed him off, set it up as a suicide, right?"
"Right," Dean said dryly. The whole serial killer theory was getting more and more unlikely by the minute. Weadle had not one shred of evidence to support it. Dean was beginning to wonder how many drinks the Weasel had had when he worked out his theory and wrote his editorial.
Weadle stared gloomily into his drink while Dean caught Sam's eye. Sam rolled his eyes, and Dean nodded. They had all they needed for now.
"Coincidences," Weadle mumbled into his drink. "I never did believe in coincidences."
Dean nodded. "Neither do we."