Supernatural 1 - Nevermore

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  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 unpack." 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 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 figure 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?"

  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 Afiri 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 field-strip an M-16 before ever kissing a girl. Unable to get through Moby-Dick or The Scarlet Letter for school, despite having already read the collected works of Aleister Crowley—not to mention Jan Howard Brundvand. Knowing the exorcism ritual in Latin, but unable to remember the words to the Pledge of Allegiance, 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 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 fire 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, 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 fighting, of hunting. Years of obeying Dad's orders to the letter, no matter how ridiculous.

  Years of being the one stuck between Dad's immovable 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 reflection, 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 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-performance 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.

  Forcing himself to breathe regularly again, Dean turned away and looked at the rumpled bed. No way in hell I'm going back to sleep. Much as it pained him to be up at this hour, it seemed he was st
uck. Besides, he had the world's best coffee waiting for him. One piping hot shower in Manfred's incredibly cool claw-foot bathtub later, Dean changed into the last set of fresh clothes he had and, making a mental note to ask Manfred where the nearest laundromat was, went downstairs in search of coffee, being sure to grab Dad's journal on the way.

  Of course, once the coffee was made, he just had to explore Manfred's vinyl collection in more depth. He'd taken a glance last night—well, okay, more than a glance. Sam had yelled at him for only checking the EMF readings in the living room and neglecting the rest of the house, to the point where his younger brother almost took the EMF reader away from him.

  They hadn't actually found any EMF, but that wasn't completely unexpected. The spirit hadn't shown since Sunday. Not all spirits left a ton of EMF around, and this one wasn't a constant presence, but a recurring one. Tonight, after Scottso's show, would be the acid test.

  Until then he intended to hear music the way it was meant to be played.

  The problem was picking just one. Every time he saw one LP, he was all set to put it on when another caught his eye. He'd made a pile that included Dark Side of the Moon, The Most of the Animals, Houses of the Holy, Dressed to Kill, Metallica, The Who By Numbers, the Australian version of Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap, Thick as a Brick, and In-A-Gada-Da-Vida—and he hadn't even gotten to the blues albums yet. He kept flipping through the records even after he settled on putting In-A-Gada-Da-Vida on, playing air guitar to the classic riff that opened the seventeen-minute title track.

  Sam's voice came from upstairs, getting louder alongside the creak of the old wood of the stairs under his brother's weight. "Yeah, okay. Thanks so much, I really appreciate you letting me come on such short notice. Yeah. Great. Thanks! 'Bye."

  Dean looked up to see Sam pocketing his Treo and walking into the living room while saying,

  "You're up early. Not used to you walking around before ten."

  "Yeah, I been up for a little bit." Dean looked down at his watch and realized that it was almost nine-thirty. He'd completely lost track of time looking at the albums. While he intellectually understood the value of digital recording, the death of the vinyl record had seriously messed with the ability of artists to create cool album covers. No booklet in a dinky CD jewel case was ever going to match the artistry of the woodcut in Stand Up or the complexity of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. Would anybody have remembered the prism on the cover of Dark Side of the Moon if it had only been a few inches big?

  He didn't bother sharing these thoughts with Sam, though, as it would only serve to piss him off. The boy didn't appreciate real music. So he asked, "Who was that on the phone?"

  "A guy named Anthony who works for the Bronx County Historical Society and gives tours of the Poe Cottage. I looked it up on the web—Manfred's got a wireless network, and he gave me the key—and they're only open by appointment. So I called, and they're free today. I'll be heading over around noon." He grinned. "I'd ask if you wanna come with, but seeing as how you've been reunited with your one true love and all..."

  Dean pulled down Zoso and said, "Look, Sammy, you can have your CDs, your MP3s, your AVIs, but I'm telling you—"

  "AVIs are movies, Dean," Sam said with a grin. Ignoring him, Dean went on: "But I'm telling you, there is no substitute, none, for the beautiful sound of a needle on vinyl."

  Just then the record started to skip, Doug Ingle singing "always be" over and over again. Sam's grin practically split his face in half. Dean scowled at him, then walked over to the turntable and nudged the needle, and it skipped ahead to a guitar chord.

  "Let me guess," Sam said, "next you're gonna extol the virtues of leeches as a method of healing the sick? Or, I know! Why horse-drawn chariots are better than cars!"

  "Bite me, Sammich." Dean went over to the easy chair. "I'm gonna go through Dad's journal, see if I can find anything that matches this ritual."

  Sam nodded. "After I'm done at the cottage, I'll check the house where the guy was bricked up and the street where the kids were beaten to death."

  "Yeah," Dean said, "maybe you'll find something the cops missed."

  "I doubt it," Sam said sincerely. "Dude, we're talking about the NYPD here."

  "So?" Dean had a lot more experience with cops than Sam, and his considered opinion was that they were fine as long as a case followed a pattern. The thing was, what he and Sam dealt with didn't follow any kind of pattern—or at least not a pattern any cop would ever look for—so police always looked in the wrong places, didn't see the right things, and jumped to the wrong conclusions.

  "Sam, cops go for the familiar. Don't believe the crap you see on TV—most of the time, the first suspect they have is the one they arrest. Something like this, they're not gonna see the forest or the trees. Trust me, I'm willing to bet you ten bucks you find something they didn't."

  Sam just snorted, and then went into the kitchen, Dean assumed in search of a cup of coffee that he would violate with too much milk and sugar. Dean turned his attention back to the record collection. Is that actually a copy of Music from Big Pink? Awesome!

  The hardest part was finding somewhere to park the Impala.

  The Poe Cottage was located at the intersection of the largest thoroughfare in the Bronx, the aptly named Grand Concourse, and another major street, Kingsbridge Road. According to the internet research Sam had done before leaving Manfred's place, Kingsbridge Road used to be a horse path that led to the King's Bridge, which went over the Harlem River to Manhattan. He had also found a Poe enthusiast's web site, which had actually mentioned both murders and their connection to the author. He left it up on the screen for Dean to look at—assuming his brother could tear himself from Manfred's record collection, which Sam fiercely doubted.

  A park sat in the midst of the intersection, stretching across several blocks, and it included a bandstand and a playground, both looking rather new, and a small white cottage that looked incredibly out of place. He understood why Dean had been so reluctant to believe that there was such a place in the Bronx. The whole city—aside from Manfred's neighborhood in Riverdale—seemed geared toward cramming as many buildings as close together as possible. Even in neighborhoods with houses, they tended to be rammed up against each other.

  And yet, there in the midst of a tangle of streets that were lined with apartment buildings at least five stories high, and often higher, was this park and this cottage.

  Sam maneuvered around several side streets, most of them one-way, as well as the two big streets, and tried desperately to find a spot in which the Impala would fit. He drove around for ten minutes, getting particularly frustrated with the roller coaster of emotions as he'd see an empty space, only to discover that it was a fire hydrant, then find another, only to see another hydrant. How many damn hydrants does this city need, anyhow? On those rare occasions when the empty space wasn't a hydrant, it was way too small to fit the Impala.

  While he was driving, Sam also noticed that the people were making the best of the crowded situation. While he and Dean moved around a lot with Dad, they tended toward smaller towns, in part because Dad felt that they had better public school systems than the ones in big cities—though Sam's later research revealed that not to be nearly the universal constant Dad had insisted. As a result, his experiences with big cities were few and far between.

  The thing that struck him the most was the diversity and the harmony, which was on par with what he'd seen at Stanford—but you expected that at a college campus, especially somewhere like Stanford. Here, he saw people from about twelve different nationalities walking the streets, using the small storefronts on the ground floors of the apartment buildings, playing in the playground in the Poe Park, chatting with each other, saying hi on the street, and so on. His (admittedly minimal) experience with larger cities was that ethnic groups tended to congregate in particular neighborhoods, but he wasn't seeing as much of that here in the Bronx as he'd expected.

  Like Dean, his primary reference
point for the borough was the infamous 1981 movie Fort Apache, the Bronx, so he'd imagined a place filled with burned-out buildings, roving street gangs, and the like. What he'd seen so far, though, indicated a place that had the crowds of a big city, but within the neighborhoods were still communities. Or maybe I'm just romanticizing the whole thing, he thought with a laugh as he passed yet another open spot in which maybe a Mini Cooper could fit, but not any car built in 1967. Finally, he saw someone pulling out of a spot at the corner of East 192nd Street and Valentine Avenue, right on the border of the park. It was a spot with a parking meter, which was annoying, but at least that meant the Impala would fit. The meters had been installed decades ago and were spaced according to typical car size at the time. The Impala was pretty close to normal size when it was first released, so he was easily able to slide into the spot.

  Dipping into the laundry supply, he put in two quarters, which would keep the spot legal for an hour. Given the size of the place, he couldn't imagine his tour would last any longer than that. Sam locked the Impala and then walked through the Poe Park, past the bandstand—empty on this chilly November afternoon—and the playground—where six kids were playing and screaming and giggling, while four women kept an eye on them. As he passed, he heard the women conversing with each other in what he was pretty sure was Spanish. The Poe Cottage stood out even more close up than it did from the road. From what he'd seen on the Bronx County Historical Society's website, it had been built in 1812, and Poe lived in it with his wife and mother-in-law from 1846 to 1849. As he approached the front door, he reached into his coat pocket and turned on the EMF meter. He wouldn't take it out in front of the tour guide, but hoped he might have a chance to glance at it when the man wasn't looking.

  Standing in the doorway was the tour guide in question: a short African-American man wearing a beige trench coat. "You Anthony?" Sam asked as he approached.