Black Velocities and Shining Movements Part 7

[dime_liora]

“Betrayal is the only truth that sticks.”  ― Arthur Miller



Sam stares out the Impala’s window, watching the village he has only seen from above glide by and wondering. Wondering just how much more fight he could put up if he wasn’t being drugged at night. If he’d have been able to protect himself just a little bit better. How deep inside of him the well has gotten thanks to the drugs.

Dean hasn’t spoken since “great”. Sam lets him have the last word, because once the guilt hits having that will only make it worse.

The bookshop looms, and Sam wonders if Hal had the same feeling when he rode up to it the first time. Or strolled, depending on the period and whether or not Campbell had the money for it.

He adds this to the list of things that Dean would have questioned if his head was clear. Who called the ambulance, Dean? How did he survive on the money brought in from selling books to such a small village, Dean? Have you ever even seen a book sold there, Dean?

And come to think of it, will money just show up? Campbell was self-aware, to some extent, but Dean is completely disconnected from logic. How will it trick him into thinking that he’s doing it on his own? That everything is normal?

And what the fuck is it?

Burnt Offerings was some kind of hint. The Bradbury story was another. But while both of them include people being fed on in one manner or another there is no deeper link than that. Campbell called it a well, and that might be accurate but it might also be his interpretation of it.

Whatever it is, it’s in the hospital. And Sam is facing it alone. Even if Dean could be trusted, and he obviously can’t, it’s not safe to reason with him. Sam can still feel the bits of Campbell on the skin of his hand.

Dean wheels him into the shop, and Sam finally gets to see the place his brother has been spending so much time. It’s nice. Super old fashioned, just like described, but comfortable. In any other situation Sam would take the time to really look at the offerings. He’s willing to bet there’s a lot in here that wouldn’t be available in Barnes and Noble, and possibly more than even Amazon would offer.

Maybe he’ll raid the place before they leave.

Where do the books come from, Dean?

There’s a lift chair on the stairs. Dean has the decency to look away as he helps Sam into it, and Sam lets him without argument. The thing is relatively quiet, and that lets Sam listen to Dean quietly cursing as he tries to fold the chair up and get it up the stairs behind Sam.

Why is everything so old-fashioned, Dean?

At the top of the stairs is a little apartment. There’s no TV, but there is a big couch and a kitchenette. A bachelor pad. Campbell said that he and his brother lived here, and Sam takes note that there are only two doors branching off of the living space and one of them has to be a bathroom. If there’s only one bedroom why did he tell you there was a room for rent here, Dean?

Did the town recognize them as boyfriends as well? Or due to the time period was it an entirely different honeypot that they were sucked into?

There are no books up here, but there’s little pieces of Campbell and Hal everywhere. Sam lets Dean help him into the wheelchair and then rolls his way to the door. He can see that Dean hates him moving himself, but fuck him.

One door leads to a bedroom with a big bed and the other to the bathroom he predicted.

What’s the chance of you ending up with the one man who knows what it’s like to fuck his little brother, Dean?

He says nothing about the place. He rolls his way to the bed, and then lets Dean help him into it. It’s soft, comfortable. Of course it is.

Dean is finishing up stocking the new shipment that came in on Campbell’s last day while he considers Sam’s reaction.

It was so much worse than he was prepared for. Dean knew that he would be angry, he knew that he would say something that would get under Dean’s skin, but he was unprepared for how disconnected Sam was.

After several hours Dean finally has all the new books up. He stretches slowly and looks at the clock. Sam is gonna need lunch. There’s no avoiding it. He turns the sign to closed and then heads up the narrow stairs into the apartment.

Sam is on the floor, covered in sweat, pulling his injured leg up into a deep stretch that would probably normally be very easy for Sam. And which also really shows off Sam’s ass.

Dean takes a deep breath and walks past his brother into the kitchen, digging in the fridge to put together sandwiches for both of them. Sam’s get extra lettuce, less mayo, more cheese. No one can be a healthy eater around cheese.

He drops two pickles on Sam’s plate, pours water from the Brita pitcher that Campbell left them, and then heads over to put everything on the coffee table. Sam is stretching his uninjured leg now, has the goddamn thing hooked up to his chest, and Dean considers that before biting viciously into his own pickle and chewing until the urge to compliment passes.

Sam pushes himself up with his left arm and starts eating with just as much hatred as Dean is mustering. It’s impressive honestly. And Dean knows that this won’t go anywhere. Sam can outlast him.

“You want help with a bath?”

“You want to go fuck yourself?”

“Witty, Sammy.”

Sam gives him the finger with a trembling arm. Goes back to eating as if Dean isn’t even there. So the cycle continues, and Dean finishes his meal and takes both dishes to the sink to wash before coming back to Sam sitting on the floor.

He could walk away. Sam would appreciate that. But fuck what Sam appreciates. Dean hooks his arms under Sam’s pits and lifts him into the wheelchair.

For his trouble Sam gives him more of the same silent treatment. Which leaves Dean to head back down the stairs and re-open the shop before he starts stocking the new shipment Campbell got in on his last day.





Sam listens to Dean moving things around downstairs again. He thinks of the robotic nature of sleepwalkers as he pushes himself into the bathroom and fills the sink with hot water.

At least that’s one question answered.

It takes time for him to get clean enough to feel better about himself. With Dean’s self-imposed (well-imposed?) schedule it’s not hard to sneak in more activity than his brother knows about. It was much harder to swallow down the pain when Dean came up the stairs and stretch his legs after the five steps he took had him on the floor.

Five steps though is a lot further unassisted than Sam is supposed to be able to take. And every day Dean is going to go down into that shop and Sam is going to add a few steps. Unless the well tries to stop him.

Sam rolls back out, the muscles on the right side of his chest screaming from all the activity. He digs for his laptop and then opens it up on the two-person table to start researching. He has bits and pieces, but not much. He starts by trying the GPS on the laptop to see if Google can tell him where the fuck they are.

The browser informs him his location is not available. He tries it on the phone next, but with no luck. When he can make himself talk to Dean again Sam will ask him what the place is called. Until then he goes more general with the issue.

It’s not a ghost, it’s not a demon, it’s not any of the things they’re used to. There’re thousands of monsters that feed on people, which makes this infinitely harder. It evolves with its meals, and it seems to have a taste for “sensitive” people.

There’s a couple of promising prospects. It could be a deity attached to wells or water that is feeding on tricked worshippers. There’s a list of legends regarding wells that Sam bookmarks for later reading on another day that Dean is working.

He can’t take notes, there’s no way to assure that the thing won’t make Dean read them. He has to try to keep everything in his head, and right now that means absorbing information in bits and pieces instead of huge chunks. When he closes the laptop he mentally goes over the first list of possibilities multiple times to make sure that it sticks before he moves on to the next chore.

Campbell left all sorts of personal items, but if there’s a diary or a journal Sam can’t find it. He can, on the other hand, find pictures. Tons of pictures of Campbell and Hal. With the new information he’s received he can see even more dead giveaways about the two of them. It’s too bad Campbell had no earthly remains here to haunt them. Maybe Dean would pay attention to a ghost.

And that gives him an idea.






Dean takes extra time before he turns the sign to closed again. He figures that if he gives Sam enough of a wait he’ll either burn himself out and be asleep, or be hungry enough he stops arguing to eat. Either way Dean kind of wins.

Kind of, but not by much.

Except what he finds when he gets upstairs is Sam sitting in front of the coffee table with a wealth of pictures spread out in front of him. His brother nods in his direction when Dean says his name, but continues to focus on the spread.

He debates going to look, and then decides instead to start making dinner. He half fills a pot and then starts up the water.

“Sam?”

There’s a little hum from the couch, and Sam’s head dips just briefly before coming back up.

“Sammy?”

Now just silence, and Sam is still actively moving photos around loudly enough for Dean to hear it. Which feels a little targeted.

“So, I got all of the stock put up today. Campbell would have lectured me on the sorting.”

At this, Sam’s head turns just enough to show he’s listening even if he’s not fully looking. Dean dumps the hot dogs into the water and then adds the noodles.

“I think it works though. It’s a little more accessible. He had a weird sorting system.”

“Hal.”

Dean looks up from the pot to see that Sam is now staring directly at him.

“What?”

“Hal. Hal had a weird sorting system.”

There’s a twist in his gut, but Dean doesn’t feel like chasing it. He stirs the noodles and then pulls out the strainer.

“You get that name from the pictures?”

“Nope.” Sam is still sorting, moving, and looking as if there’s nothing odd about this at all. He watches the noodles hit peak and then strains them, fishes out the hot dogs, and starts mixing in the milk and butter before the cheese mixture.

“You want buns or just them cut in?”

“Buns.”

He sorts it all out, brings everything over to the coffee table, and then grabs them both a beer. With the meds Sam probably shouldn’t have one. Dean kind of hopes the thing will be a peace offering.

“What are you looking for?”

Sam takes a bite of the first hot dog, and then points at the first stack.

“I want to make a timeline. I need something to keep me busy.”

Dean leans in and picks up the first stack. It’s all Campbell and Hal when they were young. Every picture is carefully taken in the way older photos had to be. Posed shots on a grand lawn, in fancy rooms, in any number of settings that suggest a much more upscale childhood than Dean would have guessed.

His interest is officially peaked.

“Campbell didn’t strike me as a trust fund baby.”

Sam keeps sorting, dropping one photo into the empty space as he goes. It has Campbell staring at Hal, face full of little boy responsibility and pride. Dean’s hand itches to pick it up, but he doesn’t do that. He can feel Sam preparing to psychoanalyze him.

“It looks like they were really rich as kids. I haven’t figured out the story, but I guess they decided to leave it.”

Dean can literally feel the goddamn thing staring at him.

“Tell me when you figure it out?” Casual. So casual.

“Of course.” Sam goes back to sorting. “It’ll probably take a couple days, but I have time.”

“You do. Although, when you feel up to it, you’re more than welcome to come down into the shop part. You could hang out. Read.”

Sam looks up from the pictures, smiles once, an honest one that Dean likes a lot.

“Sure. I can do that.”





Sam waits three days before he rolls himself to the lift and takes it down. Dean meets him at the base of the stairs with wide and wild eyes.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I want to read.”

Dean’s face is a hundred times bitchier than Sam’s could ever be. But this is a delicate part of his plan and he needs Dean to work with him.

“You couldn’t call down? You couldn’t just wait for help?”

Sam grins, one that he knows will shut Dean up for just a moment, and then unbuckles the belt on the chair lift.

“I thought you needed the adrenaline spike. Go get the wheelchair?”

And Dean does, because he has to, leaving Sam alone in the chair lift to study the store. He eyes all the different sections carefully, looking for one that fits the bill he needs. It’s not a big shop, but it takes him a second since he’s squinting at everything from the back hallway. When he finally spots it, Sam can’t contain the little victory thrill that increases his smile.

His brother comes back downstairs to find it.

“What, bitch?”

“Nothing, jerk.”

He takes the help from Dean to get out of the chair lift and into the wheelchair. The aisles are narrow, and Dean insists on pushing Sam to an open space next to the counter.

“What do you want to read?”

Sam points at the biographical section and Dean picks one at random and brings it back over. Savage Beauty. He looks up at Dean, who shrugs.

“I read the summary when I was shelving it. Sounds like there’ll be a lot of sex. I have to go grab a box from the back, you settled ok?”

He nods, waits, and then when Dean is gone he wheels himself forward and tucks the photo into a nonfiction novel about the social impact of train stations. It might be a little on the nose, but if he used one of the books Campbell gave him Dean would pick up on it too quickly.

It’s a close thing, but Sam’s been working on this for a few days now and that lets him make it back to his spot before Dean gets back. He opens the Edna St. Vincent Millay book and starts reading. Dean’s not wrong, it is interesting, but Sam’s brain is everywhere at the same time.

Because if this doesn’t work.

Sam watches out of the corner of his eye as Dean sorts and shelves the books. He watches Dean put the new ones up, replace them with the old ones, and then redo the whole thing. Every now and then Dean says something to him, casual conversation, nothing that would be memorable enough for Sam to bring it up later if he was so inclined.

And he is not.

Instead he simply waits, chatting back and trying to fight the increasing panic as he watches his brother sleepwalk through his day.

Dean is gone. Sam knew that, logically, but it’s fucking hard to see. His brother has barely been able to keep himself out of any fight that came his way, and now he’s here shelving and re-shelving books like a mindless drone.

It’s heartbreaking.

When the day is over Dean turns the sign to closed, a huge grin on his face, and Sam is surprised to realize he never considered the difference between Dean happy and Dean brainwashed.

As far as he can tell the thing can influence his behavior, and his patterns of thought, but this big, stupid smile is all Dean. It’s the look he gives when he’s pulled off a particularly good prank, when he gets a triple decker cheeseburger, the first time Sam said “I love you” while they were naked together.

Despite all the taunts and the complaints here it is, plain and simple. Dean is fucking happy here. Dean is happy to run a bookshop, to look over at Sam in it with him, to be here. And maybe that will all go away when Sam kills whatever runs this town, but he’s not so sure anymore.

It takes a lot of the smug out of him, and he finds himself quiet as Dean wheels him to the lift and helps him in. Quiet as Dean cooks and Sam stretches his injured muscles. Quiet while he eats what Dean made and wonders what winning will really mean.





They’ve been together in the bookshop for a week when Dean finds the photo. It’s in a book about train stations, one he’s moving out of stock and replacing with something a little more interesting. Even before the picture falls out Dean thinks that it’s something Campbell must’ve bought for himself, but the picture seals the deal.

The picture changes things.

It’s Campbell and Hal, standing at attention, in uniforms. Dean knows the look, knows the pose, knows exactly when and how this photo was taken. Dad always had a soft spot for this photo. When a civilian had it in their house his tone would get a little warmer, a little kinder.

Sam is at physical therapy, and Dean can’t get wrapped up and miss picking him up, but he finds himself staring at the image for a long time before he starts pulling out other books to cross-reference. There’s more than enough research material here to work with.

After half an hour Dean has learned three important things. Campbell was in a historical Army division with his brother, one that was famous for being involved in and winning major battles in both World Wars. Two, that Campbell and his brother had been very lucky to both come back home alive and whole considering the number of casualties the 78^th division incurred.

Three, Campbell and Hal aren’t wearing a shoulder patch. Which means they joined the Lightning Division before 1922 when the insignia was commissioned. And Campbell looks like he’s out of his twenties in the photo.

How could he have been so old?

It’s impossible. Utterly impossible. Campbell couldn’t have still been alive, let alone mobile. And yet, Dean met him. Dean met him, worked with him, befriended him. Now he lives in Campbell’s home, owns his shop, and he’s not entirely sure who left it all to him. Or what.

Dean looks up to see that he’s ten minutes late to go get Sam. He flips the sign to closed and runs to the Impala hoping against hope that the fragile truce they’ve found after Sam learned that Dean was drugging him hasn’t been destroyed already. Sam is sitting outside the hospital, with his face tilted up towards the sun.

His brother doesn’t hassle him at all. Instead Sam leans extra heavy on him, obviously exhausted from his stint with Jack. He smells bad, still slightly wet with sweat, and collapses into the passenger seat when Dean lets him go.

He waits until he’s in the driver’s seat to ask.

“You ok, Sammy? You look beaten up.”

Sam nods. Wipes his face with his shirt showing off unbroken skin leading up to the gauze covering his chest. Dean finds himself fascinated by the visual.

“Yeah. Long session.”

Dean wants to ask, but he’s not sure he should. If Sam wanted to share he would have by now. That’s the only reason, it has nothing to do with the next thing out of his mouth.

“So, when are you finishing that timeline project? With the pictures?”

Sam smiles, bright and wide, rolling his head from side to side and stretching out his good leg.

“I dunno. I got really wrapped up in some of the books. I think I’ll pick it back up in a couple months.”

That takes a minute to sink in.

“What do you mean a couple months?”

“I’ve got time. I just want to finish up the books Campbell picked for me. It was just a hobby anyway.”

He cannot possibly explain to Sam why this bothers him. Sam’s mental state has been fragile enough, and Dean is worried that whatever he’s stumbled onto is going to send Sam back into a paranoid frenzy. His brother has been sleeping peacefully, taking his meds, and following all the rules of his recovery.

Telling Sam he suspects that Campbell was over 120 years old will only ruin all of that progress. He does it to protect his brother. Just one more lie on a mountain of them.

“Huh. Ok. What do you want for dinner?”

Sam’s smile stays bright, and he hooks his arm over the driver’s seat and behind Dean’s head.

“Chicken salad?”

“Hell yeah.”


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