Supernatural 1 - Nevermore

by Keith R. A. DeCandido

  Sam recoiled as if Dean had slapped him. "I didn't finish it—there's some left."

  Dean glared at Sam. "You gotta be kiddin' me."

  "Anyhow," Sam said as Dean dumped the remains into the sink. "I was thinkin' back to when we were at Bobby's and had Meg trapped in the circle."

  Unsure where Sam was going with this, Dean just grunted noncommittally as he rinsed out the pot.

  "Remember when Bobby told us that Meg was a possessed human?"

  Dean nodded as he filled the pot with cold water. He had only thought of Meg as a demon, presuming that she had simply taken on the form of a cute blonde.

  Sam, still clutching his mug of coffee, said, "I'll never forget the look on Bobby's face when he told us that—and he said, 'Can't you tell?' He couldn't believe that we couldn't recognize the signs."

  "What's that got to do with Dad, Sam?" Dean asked, pouring the water into the coffee maker, though he had a guess.

  "That was something Dad could've taught us, but he didn't. He didn't tell us about other hunters, he didn't tell us about the roadhouse, he didn't tell us about vampires until we actually met some, he didn't tell us about goofer dust. Sure, he taught us the basics, and he taught us how to fight and defend ourselves, but that was it. Hell, most of the lore I know, I learned on my own. And for all that we fought about it—I think Dad was glad I was at Stanford."

  Dean had moved to the freezer, and those words stopped him dead in his tracks. "What?"

  "You don't just get a free ride at Stanford, Dean—or anywhere else. You gotta fill out a ton of forms, and a parent or legal guardian has to sign most of 'em, especially the financial aid ones."

  This shocked Dean. "You mean Dad actually signed all that stuff?"

  "At first, yeah. He bitched and moaned about it, but he signed everything."

  Dean shuddered as he dumped the coffee grounds into the filter, remembering the nasty arguments during that time. Dad accusing Sam of abandoning the family, Sam accusing Dad of either running his life or ruining his life, while he tried desperately (and failed miserably) to get them to calm down and talk to each other instead of at each other. To find out now that Dad had facilitated the proces...

  "Maybe," Dean said slowly, "Dad didn't think it was real. I mean, sure, fill out the forms, humor you, but then when you actually said you were leavin..."

  Sam tilted his head. "I guess that's possible. But still, that's a lot of paperwork just to humor me. And honestly, he could've killed my whole college career at any point just by not filling the stuff out."

  None of this rang right to Dean. "You mean to tell me that Dad filled out that crap every year?"

  "Uh—" Sam hesitated.

  Dean knew that look on his brother's face. He was hiding something. "What'd you do, Sammy?"

  There was a long pause. The coffee maker started gurgling as the boiling water poured through the filter and into the glass pot.

  "I—" Sam gulped down some more coffee to stall, then said: "I got them to declare me independent."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Dad wouldn't speak to me after I left, so I couldn't very well get him to fill out the paperwork for sophomore year, and I'm not a good enough forger to fake his signature. But I would've lost the scholarship, so I provided documentation that my father was missing and couldn't be found—which, by the way, was a pretty easy sell, since Dad was missing from a legal perspective. So they declared me independent. I could fill out all the forms myself."

  "So you're saying you disowned Dad?"

  Sam opened his mouth, closed it, then lamely said, "He disowned me first."

  Anger flared within Dean, but it burned to ashes almost instantly. After the crap Dad pulled on his freakin' deathbed, I'm not about to defend the sonofabitch.

  Besides, it was over and done with. Getting into an argument with Sam about Dad right now would just about kill him, Dean thought.

  "Fine," he said tersely, "so what's all this got to do with him not telling us about McBain?"

  "Remember that air traffic guy, Jerry?"

  Dean nodded. He and Dad had saved Jerry Panowski from a poltergeist, and Jerry later called in him and Sam when a spirit was crashing planes. He wasn't sure what Jerry had to do with anything, though. "What about him?"

  "He said that Dad went on about how proud he was that I was at Stanford. I couldn't believe it, but now I'm starting to understand."

  Having pretty much lost all track of Sam's point—if he even had one—Dean threw up his hands.

  "Understand what?"

  "Even while he was training us, he was protecting us. He yelled at me for going to Stanford, but he was proud of me—and helped me go in the first place. For everything he taught us, there's about fifty things we've had to figure out on our own or got caught off-guard by. Hell, Dean, the whole reason he up and disappeared a year ago was because he was trying to protect us from the demon, and he only let us come with him after we dropped a brick wall on his head."

  Dean found himself staring intently at Manfred's sink, listening to the gurgling of the coffee maker. After several quiet seconds, Sam tentatively said, "Dean?"

  Finally, Dean turned around and stared up at his brother, the man he'd come to find when Dad had disappeared, the man he'd been told to protect at all costs, and kill if he couldn't protect him. In a very soft voice, Dean said, "You know what I think? I think Dad's need to fight evil was constantly fighting with his need to keep you and me safe. And I think he couldn't win that fight, and I think that fight killed him."

  Sam and Dean just stared at each other for a few seconds.

  Manfred's voice sounded from the staircase.

  "You fellas awake?"

  Both brothers said "In here" simultaneously. Unable to help himself, Dean broke into what turned out to be a cathartic grin. Sam returned it. Manfred, wearing a pair of hole-filled sweatpants and a faded tie-dyed T-shirt, shuffled into the kitchen on bare feet. "You fellas all right?"

  "Yeah," Dean said, "just had our daily allotment of emo-angst. We're over it. Oh, and I put in a load of wash. That okay?"

  "No problemo, fellas. My casa is your casa."

  "Thanks."

  "Now, normally I wouldn't be up this early on a Saturday, but I jus' 'membered somethin' you fellas might wanna know about." He walked over to the cabinet, pulled out a pottery mug that had an ugly scrunched-up face carved into the side of it and the word GRUMBLE etched over it, and poured himself some coffee. "A while back Aldo had himself a girlfriend who was a real 'rÿcher."

  Sam squinted. Dean rolled his eyes. "He means a Queensrÿche fan, not the first officer of the Enterprise."

  Before Sam could say anything, Manfred went on: "Her name was Roxy—er, somethin'. I think."

  "Was she a blonde?" Dean asked.

  Manfred gulped down some coffee and then gave a gap-toothed grin. "Aldo only dates blondes. Anyhow, I'm gonna head upstairs and find me some porn on the internet. Talk atcha later, fellas."

  Wincing, Dean said, "Oh, no" after Manfred left.

  "What is it?" Sam asked.

  "We gotta talk to Aldo about Roxy. Which means we gotta go back to the Park in Rear."

  Sam grinned. "It's hell bein' a hero, ain't it, Dean?"

  "Screw you."

  TWELVE

  The Park in Rear

  Larchmont, New York

  Saturday 18, November 2006

  Dean's second trip to the Park in Rear was a marked improvement on his first for two reasons: no sign of Janine, and Jennifer was working the bar again. Better yet, Jennifer was wearing leather pants instead of tight jeans.

  "Well well well," Jennifer said when he approached the bar with Sam, "look who's back."

  They had just come over after helping Manfred lug in his stuff from the four-by-four.

  "Why don'tcha grab us a table, Sam?" Dean asked without looking at his brother.

  Sam smiled. "Plenty of tables, Dean, I wouldn't worry. Besides, I figured I'd help you carry the drinks."

&nb
sp; Now Dean did look at Sam. "I think I can handle carrying two beers—not to mention dumping one of them on your head if you don't get us a table."

  Without another word—but with a particularly annoying smile—Sam went off to find a table in the raised section on the side.

  Jennifer raised an eyebrow. "What, Dean, you don't like hittin' on older women in fronta witnesses?"

  "First of all, I don't buy that you're an older woman. Sure, you pulled that 'food in the freezer' remark last night, but I think that's a load of crap, and you're really twenty-four. I'm thinkin' you get hit on by so many losers in here that you pretend to be a single mom to drive them off and that you're really a hot babe in her twenties who's just fussy."

  By this time Jennifer had started pouring his Brooklyn lager without him even specifying what he wanted. "Y'know, Dean, you gave this a lotta thought."

  "Yeah, I did." In fact, he had only just thought of it, as he'd been too busy breaking into houses, meeting cops, sleeping, psychoanalyzing Dad, and trying to find information on Arthur Gordon Pym. Unfortunately, they couldn't find anybody by that name in any city records. His website admitted to his name change, but it looked like he hadn't done it legally, and there was no indication of what name he was born with.

  Placing Dean's drink on a napkin on the bar, Jennifer said, "Sorry to disappoint you, but it's all true. Took Billy to soccer practice this afternoon and everything. They're makin' him a forward."

  "Good for him." Dean had no idea what that meant, really, but he assumed it not to be a bad thing.

  "So what's Sam getting?"

  "Uh, Bud Light for Mr. Wuss."

  "Hey," Jennifer said, "whatcha got against Bud Light?"

  "Nothing," Dean said, "I just prefer beer."

  That finally got a smile out of her. She poured another pint full of Bud Light from the tap. "So I'm surprised to see you back. I figured you'd run screaming from another night of Scottso."

  "What would you say if I said I came back to see you?"

  "I'd say you're lyin' through your teeth."

  Dean grinned. "And you'd be right. I need to talk to Aldo about somethin'. Getting to see you again was just a nice side benefit."

  "What do you need to talk to Aldo about?"

  "An old girlfriend of his."

  Jennifer snorted. "Which one?"

  "Blond girl named Roxy."

  Another snort. "Roxy Carmichael? She ain't no girl. Hell, she was older than me."

  That got Dean's attention. "Was?"

  "Well, I guess she still is. She broke up with Aldo a couple years back, and I ain't seen her since. Too bad, they were a good couple—neither of 'em drank or smoked or nothin'. No, wait, I remember she and I used to go outside to smoke right after they made it illegal to smoke in bars."

  Knowing that those laws varied from state to state, Dean asked, "When was this?"

  Jennifer shrugged. "Couple years ago. Right before they broke up. Anyhow, she always drank ginger ale."

  Before Dean could say anything else, the other bartender—not Harry, but another guy half his age and twice his height—said, "Hey, Jenny, move your ass, willya, I'm dyin' over here."

  "Sorry," Dean said. "How much?"

  "Catch me later." Again Jennifer smiled, but it wasn't the snarky one she usually used. This one was nicer.

  A warm, pleasant feeling in his chest, Dean walked over to the table with the two beers. That feeling got cold and clammy by the time Scottso reached the second verse of their opener, "Smoke on the Water." Dean swore right then and there he was changing his ringtone as soon as he figured out a way to ask Sam how to do it so Sam wouldn't tease him about it.

  That may take a while, he thought forlornly. By the time the set was over, he had gone back to the bar three times, the third time again talking with Jennifer until the other bartender screamed for help. He definitely had a good feeling about this.

  Now, however, there was business to take care of. He made a beeline for Aldo, who was making a beeline of his own for the restroom. This worked out nicely, as Dean's own bladder was pretty loaded with Brooklyn lager at that point.

  The men's room only had two urinals, and with the set just ended, there was actually a line. He got in behind Aldo and said, "Damn, I thought it was only women's rooms had lines."

  "Haw haw haw!" Aldo said. "That's a good one there, Sam."

  "I'm Dean."

  "S'what I said, Dean. Good t'see you guys back."

  "Thanks. You really kicked some ass tonight. Loved the way you nailed 'Sunshine of Your Love.'"

  "They didn't call Eric Clapton God for nothin', my friend," Aldo said.

  "Hey, listen, Aldo, Manfred was telling me you used to date someone named Roxy."

  Aldo frowned. "Uh, yeah."

  "Said she was a major 'rÿcher. I used to know a blond chick named Roxy who was a major 'rÿcher, and I was wonderin' if she was the same one."

  "Coulda been, I guess," Aldo said with a shrug.

  "Name was Roxanne Carmichael." The two people at the urinals both flushed and left, and Dean and Aldo took their places.

  Dean unzippered his jeans, and moments later it was as if a great weight had been lifted off his—well, not shoulders, exactly, but damn if he didn't feel ten pounds lighter after just peeing for two seconds.

  "You know what they say about beer—the better it is, the sooner you have to give it back."

  "I guess," Aldo said. "I just got my three-year cake from AA. Fact, that's where Roxy 'n' I met."

  "Hey, I'm sorry," Dean said quickly.

  "Nah, s'no biggie, Sam."

  "I'm Dean."

  "Right, s'what I said, Dean. Wouldn't last two seconds playin' tunes if I had a problem with booze and dope, y'know what I'm sayin'? Anyhow, 'bout Roxy—she was just some chick I dated. She up and disappeared one day, no forwardin' address, an' it was right after we had this big-ass fight, so I didn't really give a damn, y'know what I'm sayin'?"

  Dean managed not to smile. "This fight wasn't at Manfred's house, was it?"

  "No." Aldo zipped up. "Look, why you askin'?"

  Realizing he had pushed it too far, Dean backed off. "No biggie, I just thought it mighta been the same girl." He finished off and zipped up himself, elbowing the handle to flush it. "In fact, she was bigtime into the whole temperance thing, y'know?"

  Aldo smiled, as if remembering something.

  "Yea..." He shook it off. "Anyhow, I ain't seen her in, like, two years."

  "Yeah, okay."

  With that, Aldo walked over to the sink to wash his hands. Dean made for the exit, thinking, Yahtzee. Someone else—the bass player, Dean realized, whose name he suddenly couldn't remember—said, "What, you don't wash your hands?"

  "My dad was a Marine," Dean said. The bass player's blank expression indicated that he didn't get the connection—though with this guy, it was hard to tell, as that seemed to be his default look. So Dean explained: "Dad had this story. A Marine and a Navy guy walk into a bathroom together. They both take a piss, and then the sailor goes to the sink. The Marine heads for the door, and the sailor says, 'Hey—in the Navy they teach us to wash up after we take a leak.' And the Marine turns around and says, 'Yeah? Well, in the Marines they teach us not to piss on our hands.' "

  The bass player actually cracked a half smile at that. "That's funny." And then he walked toward the stage.

  Dean headed back to the table, where Sam was chatting with Manfred and the drummer, whose name Dean also couldn't remember. Sam still had the remains of a light beer—he hadn't even tried ordering a gin and tonic again in his presence—while Manfred and the drummer had thick-bottomed glasses with clear liquids that Dean assumed to be ordinary vodka or good tequila.

  The drummer was shaking his head and whistling. "Man, she was a bitch—but a hot bitch, I'm tellin' you that right now."

  "What're we talkin' about?" Dean asked as he took a seat on the stool next to Sam, which was the only free one at the table.

  Manfred said, "We was just
wonderin' 'bout this old lady'a Aldo's, Roxy, the one I mentioned to you."

  "Yeah," Sam said. "Tommy was just talking about her."

  Tommy, the drummer, threw back some of his drink. "Wish I knew what happened to 'er, man. 'Cause if she wasn't Aldo's old lady, I woulda done 'er in a heartbeat, I'm tellin' you that right now."

  Even more curious as to the answer to the question, Dean asked, "So what happened to her?"

  "Nobody knows," Manfred said. "Aldo told us they broke up, and we never saw 'er again."

  Tommy started pounding the table and laughing. "God, Manfred, 'member how she used t'get when we went t'your place?"

  "How'd she get?" Sam asked.

  Raising the pitch of his voice to sound girlish, Tommy said, " 'Oh, wow, Manny, I wish I could marry somebody with a house like this.' Surprised you didn't propose, 'Manny.'"

  Manfred shuddered. "I couldn't marry nobody that called me 'Manny.'"

  They chatted awhile longer, and then Manfred and Tommy went back to the stage to set up for the second set.

  Once they were gone, Dean filled Sam in on what he'd gotten from Aldo.

  Sam had his fist on his chin. "So you're thinking maybe Aldo killed Roxy?"

  "What, and you're not? C'mon, Sammy, it's the same old story. And things only become same old stories 'cause they happen all the time. They have a fight, he kills her, and he buries her somewhere."

  Sam nodded. "And she comes back to haunt—Manfred? See, that's the part I don't get."

  Dean shrugged. "Maybe Manfred's the one who killed her."

  Shaking his head, Sam said, "Manfred didn't even remember her until this morning."

  "He said it himself: He doesn't remember last week." He got up. "I'm gonna get another beer. Let's see if Roxy comes back tonight. Maybe if we call her by name, she might respond."

  It was a long shot, but some spirits were communicative, at least to some extent. Unfortunately, her only words to date—"Love me!"—weren't very helpful, though they supported his working theory of death-by-spurned-lover, which kept Aldo as prime suspect number one.

  He went over to the bar, muscling his way between two older guys who looked like they went to grammar school with Manfred, and signaled Jennifer.