Nevermore (7 page)

“You have kids?” Dean asked, immediately sorry that he asked.

“Not to hear them tell it. Far as they’re concerned, the only father they care about ain’t me, it’s that jackass Becky married in ’ninety-two. Nic-est thing they ever say to me is, ‘Ain’t you got a haircut yet, Dad?’ ”

“Sorry to hear that,” Sam said in a quiet voice.

Manfred shrugged. “Nothin’ I can do about it. I do what I can for ’em, but they don’t need me much.

And hey, I just screwed their mom—that don’t make me a father, since we split when they was just babies.”

Dean might have said something in response to all that, but he was too busy savoring the taste of the finest cup of coffee he’d ever had in his life.

Admittedly, his standards

weren’t all that high.

Generally he and Sam made do with whatever they could get from cheap diners, motel lobbies, and gas stations, which usually amounted to caffein-Never

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ated dishwater. Their father had taken to using the phrase “a cup of caffeine,” since what they usually had was so bad, Dad didn’t want to insult it by calling it “coffee.”

Not this, though. Dean would drink this fl avor-ful wonderfulness even if he didn’t need a caffeine jolt after a day dealing with New York traffi c, Bronx Zoo bureaucracy, and women hitting on Sam instead of him.

“So you’ve never
seen
the spirit?” Sam asked.

Shaking his head, Manfred said, “No, but I ain’t looked, either, y’know? I mean, I hear that yellin’, and I get outta Dodge. I don’t even come home no more, just wait till sunup. That’s a bitch on Mondays, though—I gotta get to work.”

“You said you work as a carpenter for the city?” Sam asked.

Manfred nodded.

“If you don’t mind my asking, then—how can you afford this place?”

Dean blinked at Sam’s question, but now that he thought about it, it was a legit question. If Manfred was divorced, he probably had child support, and he couldn’t believe that a city carpenter got paid enough to buy this place, especially given how much property cost in New York. True, he had the music, but if that was anything great, he wouldn’t need the day job.

Another grin. “It’s handy being the son of two 62 SUPERNATURAL

really rich lawyers. Well, Dad was rich—Mom was always doing pro bono work, but still. I was the shame of the family—doin’ the whole Summer of Love–antiwar–goin’ to Woodstock thing while Dad was representing oil companies—but I was also an only child, so I got the house when they croaked.”

“I’m sorry,” Sam said, again in a quiet voice.

“Nah, s’no biggie. Listen, I’m really grateful to you two for helpin’ me out.”

Dean sipped some more coffee. “We haven’t

done anything yet, Manfred. We’ll check it out, though, see what turns up.”

“Great. And hey, listen, you guys got a place to stay in town? ’Cause if you don’t, I got a couple guest rooms upstairs.”

That almost made Dean sputter his coffee. He managed to hold it in, which was good, as that would’ve been a waste of a fine beverage. “Seriously?”

“That’s very kind of you, Manfred, but—”

“We’d be happy to,” Dean said quickly, before Sam’s politeness got them shoved into yet another motel room. He wasn’t sure what excited him more, the prospect of sleeping in the same house as that record collection, being able to wake up to this coffee, or not having to share a room with Sam. He loved his brother more than anything in the world—

except
maybe
the Impala—but they’d been sleeping in the same room (or, all too often, the same front seat of the car) with each other virtually every night Never

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for over a year now. If the opportunity to get separate rooms—for free, no less—presented itself, he was for damn sure taking it.

“Great! Listen, I got practice tonight—we usually rehearse in Tommy’s garage. He’s the drummer. We used to rehearse here—I got tons’a space in the

attic—but the neighbors started bitching.

Didn’t want ’em callin’ the cops on us, what with the weed and all, so we moved to Tommy’s.” Sam shot Dean a nervous look at the mention of weed, and Dean just rolled his eyes.
Jesus, Sammy,
didja think a musician’s house was only gonna have
coffee in it? Especially a guy who was at Woodstock?

“And tomorrow night, you guys can come up to the Park in Rear and hear us. I’ll get you two in as my guests, so you ain’t gotta pay the cover.

Still gotta buy the beer, though, but they got some good stuff on tap up there.” Manfred gulped down the rest of his coffee in one shot, then put the mug in the sink. “You fellas make yourselves at home. Rooms’re upstairs. The one all the way on the far end from the staircase, that’s mine.

The other three all got beds, so pick whatever you want.”

“Thanks.” Dean looked at Sam. “C’mon, let’s un-pack.” He took a final sip of his coffee, then headed back through the hallway to the front door.

Sam followed him, waiting until they reached 64 SUPERNATURAL

the front porch to speak. “Dean, you sure this is a good idea?”

“What’s the problem, Sammy?”

“This guy’s got a spirit. Maybe this isn’t the best place to stay the night.”

Dean stuck the key in the Impala trunk. “Dude, we’re the guys who kill the spirits. ’Sides, it’s Thursday. Spirit won’t show till tomorrow night, so that gives us time to give the place an EMF once-over and research the house. Maybe we’ll even fi gure out the Poe thing.”

“The thing is, Dean—” Sam hesitated.

After hoisting his backpack out of the back of the trunk, Dean said, “What is it?”

“I’m a little freaked out.”

“C’mon, Manfred’s an okay guy.”

“It’s not Manfred, Dean, it’s
you
. It’s like we’re in Dean Disneyland in there with the Fillmore East posters and the amps and the record collection. I’m worried we’re never gonna get you outta there.” Assuming Sam was just giving him crap, Dean grinned. “Dude, I can focus.”

“Hope so. ’Cause we got a spirit we know’s gonna show Friday night, and a murder that we know’s gonna happen Monday night, and we’re staying with a guy whose house is full of illegal narcotics when we’re both wanted by the feds.” Dean slammed the trunk shut. “Anybody ever tell you you worry too much, Sam?” Never

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Without missing a beat, Sam smirked and said,

“You, about four times a day.”

“Then consider this time number five. We’ll be fine. C’mon, let’s get settled.”

SIX

The Afi ri house

The Bronx, New York

Friday 17 November 2006

. . . Mom pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the
belly, fire consuming her . . .

They’re with Dad, following every one of his
commands. “Boys, don’t forget, you salt the entrance, they can’t get in,” he orders. “Sam, I want
you to shoot each of those bottles off the wall,”
he yells. “Dean, stay with your brother,” he
barks.

. . . Jessica pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from
the belly, fire consuming her . . .

Learning how to fi eld-strip an M-16 before ever
kissing a girl. Unable to get through
Moby-Dick
or
The Scarlet Letter
for school, despite having
Never

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already read the collected works of Aleister
Crowley
—
not to mention Jan Howard Brund-vand. Knowing the exorcism ritual in Latin, but
unable to remember the words to the Pledge of Al-legiance, which earns a detention sentence at one
of the (many) grammar schools.

. . . Cassie pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from
the belly, fire consuming her . . .

“I gotta find Dad.” “He wants us to pick up
where he left off
—
saving people, hunting things.”

“Can we not fight?” “You’re after it, aren’t you?

The thing that killed Mom.” “I don’t understand
the blind faith you have in the man.”

. . . Sarah pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from
the belly, fire consuming her . . .

The fear never dies, never goes away, never
leaves, no matter how many times you put on the
brave face, no matter how many times you lie to
people that everything will be okay, no matter
how often you tell people that you’ll fix it, no matter how close you come to dying or being caught
or being put away forever, and then you won’t be
able to protect
anyone
ever again . . .

. . . Ellen pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from
the belly, fire consuming her . . .

“All right, something like this happens to your
brother, you pick up the phone and you call me.”

“Call you? You kiddin’ me? Dad, I called you
from Lawrence. All right? Sam called you when I
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was
dying
. But gettin’ you on the phone, I got a
better chance’a winnin’ the lottery.”

. . . Jo pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the
belly, fire consuming her . . .

“He’s given us an order.” “I don’t care! We
don’t always have to do what he says.”

. . . Sam pinned to the ceiling, bleeding from the
belly
—

—
but the fi re doesn’t consume him. Instead, his
eyes open, and they’re yellow.

“You have to kill me, Dean. Dad said so.”

“No!”

Dean shot upright, drenched in sweat, pants damp, sheets twisted and soaked.

“Dammit,” he muttered.

Untangling himself from the sheets of Manfred’s guest bed, he walked over to the bureau, on which sat a giant circular mirror with a peace symbol etched into it in red. A haggard, sweaty face looked back at him. Hell, even his hair was mussed, and he barely had enough hair to do the job, but that nightmare—
latest in a freakin’ series, collect ’em
all
—had done the trick.

Since he was a little kid, Dean had seen every kind of horrible thing. Stuff that would make H.R.

Giger throw up his hands and go into aluminum siding. Stuff that made Stephen King look like Jane Austen. Stuff that could—and had—driven other people to drink heavily, or blow their brains out, Never

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or both. And never once did he have nightmares.

Sure, he had bad dreams, especially as a kid, but not the kind of bone-chilling, sweat-inducing, full-on nightmares he was getting now.

And it was all Dad’s fault.

Years on the road. Years of training, of fi ghting, of hunting. Years of obeying Dad’s orders to the letter, no matter how ridiculous.

Years of being the one stuck between Dad’s im-movable object and Sam’s irresistible force, trying desperately to keep family harmony.

Years of living up to the first command Dad had given him after Mom died: “Take your brother outside as fast as you can—don’t look back. Now, Dean,
go
!”

After all that, what were Dad’s last words to him before he let himself be taken by the same demon who’d killed Mom and Sam’s girl? “Good job, son”?

“Keep up the fine work”? “I’m proud of you, Dean”?

No, it was an order for him to protect Sam—

and if he couldn’t, he’d have to kill Sam.

Christ almighty.

Dean stared at his refl ection, partly colored red by the peace-symbol etchings, making it look like blood was streaking down the center of his face.

On the one hand, he had to tell Sam. Leaving aside the fact that it was only fair to Sam, he didn’t 70 SUPERNATURAL

want to keep carrying this by himself. But Dad had said one other thing: “Don’t tell Sam.”
Bastard.

Most of the time he was able to distract himself, lose himself in the job. They did important work, him and Sammy. All the lives they’d saved, all the souls they’d avenged—it was necessary. And dammit, they were good at it.

Most of the time. But then something like this . . .

Dean shook it off. He knew he couldn’t let it get to him. They had a job. In fact, they had two.

He looked over at the clock radio next to the guest bed, which told him it was 6:30 in the morning. He heard the sound of a high-per formance engine in need of a tuneup, and walked over to the window, pulling back the brightly colored curtains.

He saw Manfred’s

four-by- four back out of the

driveway. His heart sank when he realized it was heading straight for the front of the Impala, which was still partly in the driveway, but at the last second Manfred veered out to the right. The two right-side tires clunked down the sidewalk lip while the left tires remained in the driveway, easing out onto the dark pavement of the street.