Devastation and Reform 3/15

[faye_dartmouth]

 

A/N: More exposition! It never ends! Thanks to those of you sticking with it :) After this week's ep, the rest of this fic is quite definitely AU, but like I've said, I started this too long ago to abandon. So I hope you humor me. Also keep the late S2 mindset for the boys when reading this fic. Oh, and this story deals a little with a Native American ritual. It has some minimal basis in reality, but it is mostly made up. It is not my intention to offend anyone. All other notes and disclaimers in chapter one.  Previous chapters here.

-o-

Chapter Three

Michael's address was not in town, much to Dean's dismay. In fact, as Sam scoured the Internet, they discovered that Michael's address actually fell into an Indian reservation about thirty miles outside of town.

"Gas is too expensive for this kind of thing," Dean grumbled.

Sam just shook his head dismissively. "We drive all over the country and you're complaining about driving thirty miles?"

Sam's logic was always well, logical but that didn't matter much to Dean. There were principles, and the fact was that one of the benefits to being on a case meant less time in the car. Not that he didn't love his car, because he did, but even his legs began to cramp in the small front seat. He could only imagine how Sam's Sasquatch-legs felt.

Besides, this was Sam's hunt. That meant he got to be the petulant one. That was just one of the rules. Driver picks the music, and tagalong whines the whole time. And since he was usually the one heading up the hunt, he usually had to listen to Sam's incessant questions and complaints.

Revenge was so very sweet.

Still didn't mean he liked driving all that way.

Sam, however, seemed oblivious to Dean's complaints, which made it far less fun. Half the fun of whining was the reaction it got out of Sam. When Sam was focused, Dean's source of entertainment went right out the window. Dean was so demoralized, he let the rest of the trip pass in silence.

The reservation stood out, stark and lonely, against the backdrop of the desert horizon. The streets were quiet, mostly deserted except for a few children playing kickball in the street who stopped to stare at them as they drove by.

Beyond the small town center, which was sparsely populated and grimy with sand, they found the residential streets. The houses were all small, looking vaguely similar in size and layout. The only distinguishing factor was the colors, which varied in faded and muted pale colors.

The sidewalks ran long and straight and cracked, stretching over the flat ground. Past the rows of houses, barren landscape spanned in front of them. The yards were as desolate as the desert, many fenced in and minimally accentuated.

They parked the car on the far end of the street. After Sam's little suggestion about the Impala, Dean had conceded to at least park it in out of the way locations to minimize the risk of being seen with it. Not that he'd let on to Sam. At his brother's questioning glance, Dean shrugged. "It seems like a nice day for a walk."

Stepping out of the car onto the street, Dean felt a sheen of sweat threaten to break out over his forehead. It was hot and there didn't seem to be a piece of foliage in sight to lessen its effects. He refused to wipe his brow, though; he'd never give Sam the satisfaction.

"Kind of looks like someplace we would have lived," Sam commented quietly, sympathy veiled in his words.

"Even Dad had better class than this," Dean countered, moving toward the sidewalk.

Sam fell into step beside him, his eyes still scanning the vacant street.

"What's the address again?" Dean asked, hoping to take his mind of the fact that Sam was probably right. Their childhoods had been spent in and out of seedy motels and rundown apartments. Occasionally they took up residence in vacant houses, effectively squatting in them until the hunt necessitated a move. Dean didn't doubt that part of Sam's quest for "normal" involved living in a place that didn't have cockroaches coming out of the walls.

That was something even Dean could contend would have been nice. Too bad the budget didn't permit it.

"210 Walnut," Sam said, looking at his paper. "You have your notebook?"

Dean pulled the small notebook from his back pocket and flashed it at his brother. "Out and ready," Dean said. The notebook seemed superfluous--Dean would remember any really important facts, but at least this time Sam hadn't made him play dress up.

Sam stopped them in front of a white house. The shutters were blue and peeling, one hanging precariously forward on a strained nail. The small yard was encased in a simple wire fence, enclosing a multitude of toddler toys. "This is it," he said, more than a slight hint of hesitation in his voice.

Dean didn't know quite why his brother would hesitate, but at this point, he didn't care. The sun was hot, the air was stifling, and just wanted to get out of here as fast as he could. "Let's just do this," he muttered, stalking quickly up the driveway, Sam quickly on his heels.

The concrete stoop was cracked and sagging, and Sam had to stand on the lower step as Dean took up the majority of the landing. There was a crooked and faded welcome sign on the other side of the screen, but Dean didn't exactly feel welcomed.

It didn't matter. They had work to do, and not much ever kept them from doing it.

Dean rang the doorbell.

Nothing happened.

Dean glanced over his shoulder at Sam, who shrugged. Refusing to accept that they'd driven all the way out there for nothing, Dean tried again.

This time there was the sound of creaking footsteps. The doorknob moved, and the door cracked opened. Behind it, a young woman was staring up at them, her face scrunched with insecurity and cynicism.

“Yeah?” she asked with more than a hint of impatience. Clearly this girl didn’t particularly relish the idea of company.

That was her problem, though, not Dean's. He didn’t drive all the way out here to have the door shut in his face; it was time for some patented Dean Winchester charm.

"My name's Dean, and this is Sam," Dean began with a wide smile. "We're reporters with the Flat Rock Gazette. We were hoping to talk to Michael Whitefoot about his friend, Ryan."

She was staring at them intensely. Her brow furrowed. "Is this about the murders?"

The skepticism in her voice was evident, as was the hesitation. "The police are calling them attacks," Dean said, trying to gauge her response.

She remained mostly impassive, her uncertainty still strong. "So what does Michael have to do with it?"

Sensing her distrust of Dean's questioning, Sam inserted himself into the conversation. "We've learned that Michael and Ryan were close. We were just hoping Michael could give us some insight into who Ryan was. We're writing a piece that highlights the victims as people."

This seemed to soften her some. "That's a good idea," she said. "So many people are scared of what's happening that they forget that the people who died were people too. It's always death people want. They never want to know about life."

Sam smiled slightly, not to overplay his hand. "So do you think we could talk to Michael?"

Their success was short lived. Something clenched in her jaw and she looked away.

Dean studied at her, taking her in. She was young, but looked weary for her age. Her long black hair was tied up sloppily and her clothes were stained and ill fitting. "Are you his..." Dean hesitated.

She didn't even flinch. "His sister," she said. "Or one of them. He has quite a few." She offered a wry smile as she surveyed the lawn strewn with toys.

Dean kept his smile broad and inviting. "Do you think we could talk to him?"

She squinted at them, studying them in the sunlight. "Michael doesn't live here anymore," she said. "He moved out two months ago."

Before Dean could ask another question, another voice sounded from within the house. "Laurel, who's there?"

Laurel--as Dean deduced from her not-so-patience smile and the gritting of her teeth--barely had time to react before the door was wrenched back farther, and a little girl about eight years of age stood staring in fascination up at the brothers.

"Who are you?" she asked. Her long black hair was in twin braids, falling heavily down her back. Her dark eyes shone with excitement and curiosity.

The bluntness made Dean stutter. Lying to adults was easy. It wasn't so comfortable with children, not even for him. Normally, he had no qualms about it. He lied to do his job. It kept people safe, it kept him safe. But the openness, the trusting nature of a kid-it threw him completely.

He stole a glance at Sam and found the kid blushing, scratching the back of his neck while looking at his feet. His brother did not exactly enjoy this kidn of thing, either.

Luckily, no one seemed to notice their fumbling. They were too involved in social faux-pauxs of their own.

"Mia, that's not very polite," Laurel said evenly to the girl, being sure to make eye contact. Then she looked up. "Another one of Michael's sisters."

It was Sam who managed a smile and a polite nod.

"You're here to see Michael?" Mia asked, latching onto the new tidbit of information.

Dean turned on his charm again, hoping to put the young girl at ease despite her sister's warnings. "Sure. Can you help us?"

"Michael went to go find his destiny," the little girl piped up, her voice knowing and filled with awe.

Dean exchanged a glance with Sam, before looking curiously back down at the little girl.

"Mia," the older girl hushed.

"He did," Mia insisted, her eyes wide as she looked back up at Sam and Dean. "He wanted to do good things, better things, but he couldn't do that here. It was too hard here. He needed a place where he could be with himself. So he could perform his vision quest."

"Stop being ridiculous," Laurel chastised, obviously trying to shoo her away.

"I'm not-"

Laurel shot the little girl a glare that effectively silenced her. "Look, don't mind Mia. She's just got a very active imagination," Laurel explained, a trace of apology in her voice.

Again, it was Sam who took the time to nod at her; Dean didn't spare the effort. Clearly Mia knew something, and they needed to zero in on her words. Children often were more forthcoming about the supernatural than adults. Adults, in their seemingly infinite wisdom, were far too quick to discredit children, but for the Winchesters, that wasn't a mistake they commonly made.

But Laurel did not want the conversation to happen. "It's a problem with most of my siblings."

"I didn't imagine it," Mia said insistently, her voice hurt and sharp. "You're just upset because Michael left, just like he said he would, and you should have stopped him."

"Mia, quiet," the older sister ordered.

"But Laurel-"

"Mia, go play now," she suggested harshly, with a stern stiffening of her brow.

The young girl looked cross, almost ready to protest, before she slinked out the door past Sam and Dean and into the cluttered yard.

Laurel waited until she was gone to smile up at them. "Kids believe the strangest things," she said, sounding almost wistful.

Sam smiled and Dean forced a chuckle, resisting the impolite urge to follow after the girl. But he figured that would only prompt suspicion from Laurel, which was something he didn't need. But his interest was piqued now--kids did believe the strangest things, often the things strange enough for adults to deny, even when they were true. Mia's outburst was raw enough, was real enough-maybe they were barking up the right tree.

"Why don't you come inside and we sit down?" Laurel suggested suddenly, as if she just remembered her manners.

Dean cringed internally, but Sam shot him a glare that subdued him into following Laurel to the living room. She sat herself in a faded chair, leaving the tattered couch for the brothers.

Sam settled back in the seat, and Dean tried to lean back but found himself feeling awkward.

"Sounds like she really looked up to Michael," Sam commented, trying to restart the conversation.

"Of course she did," Laurel said. "Michael is a very likable guy."

The tone of her voice was ambiguous, and they waited, but she didn't elaborate. "But...?" Dean asked.

She sighed, rolling her eyes some. "But nothing. He always wanted to do the right thing. It's just he didn't always go about it in the most practical way. And when there are six kids in the family, practical is kind of important."

Sam pursed his lips. "What do you mean?"

"Michael always had his own views on things," Laurel explained vaguely. "He was really adamant about it."

"About what?"

Laurel laughed, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "The most random things. I mean, Mia wasn't making it all up. He was always talking about his destiny, about how he was going to attain it. He'd do anything for anyone-he just felt like it was his calling, like he was meant to help people. He was almost old fashioned about it, even talked about our ancestors and the ancient ways. He was always the one who wanted to study how things were, wanted to participate in the ceremonies-and Mia's right-he even wanted to do a vision quest."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "What's a vision quest?"

She looked surprised. "A vision quest? It's like a...spiritual journey. A chance to commune with other spirits in nature. It's a ritual our tribe performed for centuries to enter manhood, to find one's spiritual connection and define oneself." She stopped with a shrug. "They've been mostly banned because of the drugs used for the ceremony. Seems like all we really did was get kids high."

"But Michael didn't think so?"

She sighed. "Michael just wanted something more. To be something better. It's been so hard since our father died. The kid has been trying to live up to all these expectations, and he just can't do it. He's a 19-year-old trying to play man of the house. He just thought that if he could get in touch with his inner strength that maybe he could do it better." She laughed humorlessly. "He thought he was meant to be more of a puma, not a field mouse."

"Have you talked to him recently?" Sam asked softly.

She shook her head, a wry smile on her lips. "No, he stopped returning our calls about a month ago." She paused and looked thoughtful. "Guess he got tired of trying at all," she said finally.

There was an awkward pause. Laurel's eyes were downcast and her expression vacant. Sam and Dean exchanged glances. Dean shrugged, letting Sam take the lead. Grieving and guilt-ridden types were always Sam's forte; Dean was better with the overburdened and sexy.

"I know this is difficult for you," Sam finally said.

Laurel's eyes flashed up at him, hesitant and hurt. "I just want things to get back to normal," she said.

"We're sorry to bother you," he apologized. "We'll be leaving."

She nodded, silently, not looking up as Sam rose. Dean hurried to follow, a bit perplexed by his brother's tactic. They still needed an address.

"Do you think you could give us Michael's address?" Sam asked, so gently, that the request seemed to be one of sympathy.

Laurel blinked, swallowing. "Yeah," she said. "He moved in the same building as Ryan. Ryan was his only friend. I even tried to go over because I was so worried about him-how he was coping and all, but nothing." She shook her head morosely. "I can't help him if he doesn't let me."

That was all they needed, and Dean knew it. Now it was time to extract themselves from this awkward family situation. Crying victims never really made him feel comfortable, and he didn't really have much patience when no one had even died in the family. Not that he begrudged her her tears, but that didn't mean he needed to sit there and hear them. "It's not your fault," Dean assured her. "There's not much you can do with little brothers when they've got their minds set on something."

Sam glared at him, albeit discreetly, and she smiled slightly, as though not sure what to make of his comment.

"Just give me a sec while I write it down," she said, disappearing down the hall.

Dean felt relieved that she was gone, that he could let up on his serious, sympathetic face for a second, but the relief was turned to annoyance when Sam slugged him in the arm.

"Hey," Dean complained.

"Try being a little sincere here, Dean," Sam admonished.

Dean tempered his look, the feelings of incredulity and annoyance coursing through him. Sam always wanted to sympathize with people, to hold their hand, to make things better. Dean just wanted in and out, clean and easy. Sometimes his brother could be such a girl.

Sam frowned back at him.

Dean raised his eyebrows in mock innocence.

Before their silent conversation could continue, Laurel came back into the room.

"There you go," she said, holding the paper out to Sam. "Good luck finding him."

Dean took that as their cue to leave. They had nursed as much information out of her as they would, they had the address-it was time to book. He pushed himself up, smiling conciliatorily. "Well, thank you very much for your time."

Sam followed his lead, also rising. "I know this has been difficult," he said. "Thanks for speaking with us about it."

She smiled a little. "Just don't make him look bad, okay?"

Dean stared at her, blankly for a moment, and Sam stammered next to him, before he remembered their cover story. "Right," Dean said quickly. "We're nothing if not professionals at the Flat Rock Daily News."

She cocked her head. "I thought it was the Gazette."

"We recently merged," Dean assured her quickly. He shook his head dismissively. "Name changes. You know--politics or something."

She looked confused.

Sam swooped in with a hand on her shoulder. "Take care of yourself," he said.

One look into Sam's eyes and her questions faded. "No problem."

Dean inched them to the door. Sam may be good at smoothing things over, but he certainly wasn't making headway on getting them out of there. "Look, thanks again, we'll call you if we need anything else," Dean said. What he lacked in subtlety, he made up for with efficiency, and he totally ignored Sam's discreet gaze of annoyance at him.

Nonetheless, his brother smiled one last time, murmuring a thanks, and allowed himself to be pulled outside, back into the blazing sun.

Relieved, Dean took a deep breath, only to turn around and be greeted by the curious and suspicious eyes of Mia.

"Are you really reporters?" she asked.

Dean grinned. "Of course we are, sweetheart." He held up his unused notebook. "See?"

Her eyes traveled from Dean to Sam and back again. "You don't act like reporters."

"How do you know what a reporter should act like?"

She didn't seem to have an answer for that one, but she also didn't seem to really care. "Why do you want to find Michael?"

Dean's face softened and he dropped down to her level. "We think your brother might know some things."

Mia looked solemn. "He's really smart," she said. "He knows lots of things."

Sam plunked down next to him, using his most gentle voice for the girl. "What kind of things does he know, Mia?"

"He knows all about the old ways," she said. "He wanted to bring back times of peace and harmony."

The hope in her voice was evident, and Dean felt his heart clench. He could remember such hope in his little brother once upon a time, a hope that had driven him out the door, a hope that had nearly died with Jessica, a hope that had been practically burned with their father's corpse.

Dean shook away the memories. There wasn't time for that. "And how was he going to do that?" Dean prompted her.

"The vision quest," she said. "He studied it for so long. I asked if I could help, but he told me I was too young."

Dean smiled tightly, patting her gently on the shoulder. "I'm sure Michael will show you some day."

Standing, Sam following him up, the little girl's eyes followed him. "If you find Michael," she said, "will you tell him to come home?"

"Of course," Dean said.

At that, she smiled, trotting off into the yard.

Dean gave his brother a glance over his shoulder. Sam shrugged, and they made their way back to the car.

He waited until they were both settled in the car before he turned to his brother. "So what do you think?"

Sam sighed. "I think we need to try to find Michael."

Dean turned the key. "You know, you owe me money for gas."

Sam huffed in annoyance. "Just drive the car."

Pulling away from the curb, Dean muttered, "Cheapskate."

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