Orlando: Part One
Nov. 27th, 2018 02:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ellerkayMasterlist
***
Watertown, Massachusetts
“DUDE! Check out my TITS!”
Sam kept his eyes on the road. In his peripheral vision, he could see Dean in the passenger seat, enthusiastically grabbing his own chest. Sam had insisted on driving, afraid of more sudden changes to Dean’s body. Dean had agreed with only a token protest, clearly eager to look himself over. He bounced his breasts in his palms and then let go of them to pull the neck of his t-shirt away from his body and stare down.
“It’s too dark,” he complained. His voice was so strange in Sam’s ears; unmistakably Dean, yet pitched much higher than he was used to. “Where’s your flashlight?”
“Just wait till we get back to the motel room,” Sam said irritably. “And call Bobby, would you?”
Dean stopped trying to ogle his own breasts and pulled out his cell phone.
“Voicemail,” he reported to Sam, after a moment. “Hey Bobby, it’s Dean. I know it doesn’t sound like it, but it’s me. Call us back, it’s been such a fucked up night.” He was actually giggling as he hung up. The long earring in his left ear caught the light as it swung, streetlights glinting off the silver and the jewel.
Sam shook his head, bemused. “I really would’ve thought you’d be completely freaked out by this. Crying about missing your dick, or something.”
“Nah, we’ll figure out how to turn me back. In the meantime, this is awesome. Who doesn’t want to know how the other half lives?” Dean’s eyes lit up. “Speaking of my dick, I gotta investigate this new situation.” He started to unzip his jeans, and Sam grabbed his wrist.
“You are not,” Sam said through gritted teeth, “going to check out your vagina while I’m in the car.” To his relief, he saw the sign for the Super 8 where they were staying. “Wait two minutes.”
Dean made a grumpy noise and sat back against the seat. He looked down at his chest again.
“Okay, fine,” he said. “But dude, seriously. Check out my tits.”
***
Sixteen hours earlier
The stage manager at the local theater, Anne, was pale and shaken as she told Sam and Dean about the flickering lights and mysterious drops in temperature which had preceded the murder of their leading man.
“At first, we thought it was kind of cool,” she said. “I mean, what theater doesn’t want a friendly ghost?”
Sam glanced around the modern theater. “Have…many people passed away here?” he asked doubtfully.
“Oh, no,” Anne said, looking confused. “It was just renovated and turned into a theater a few years ago. The building’s old, though. I don’t know if it’s from the original Arsenal, but – ”
“Sorry – arsenal?” Dean interrupted.
“Yeah, this whole complex was a US Army arsenal for a hundred and fifty years,” Anne said.
Sam and Dean exchanged glances.
“Anyway, I guess you’ll want to see where we found him, Agents?” Anne asked. She looked nauseous at the thought.
“Yes, please,” Sam replied.
She led them backstage, which was in chaos from the police, and pointed wordlessly.
“Is it okay if I wait outside?” she asked, voice trembling. “I can’t look at it again.”
“Of course,” Sam said.
The body had been cleared away hours ago, but written in blood on the wall were the words, “BLASTING HIS WHOLESOME BROTHER.”
“So. Soldier who died bloody?” Dean said, after the theater door shut behind Anne.
“I’m not sure,” Sam said, taking pictures of the writing with his phone. “We don’t know if anyone even died here when this place was an arsenal. And this doesn’t really sound like an angry soldier. Also, why attack an actor all of a sudden?”
“Maybe he was a shitty actor.” Dean pulled out his EMF meter and turned it on. It immediately went crazy, and Dean shut it off. “Okay, between the cold spots and the lights and the EMF…”
“It must be a ghost,” Sam concluded. He stared at the writing, frowning.
“Blasting sounds soldier-y,” Dean pointed out.
“Maybe,” Sam murmured. “The words sound kind of familiar…Okay. Let’s hit the library.”
They left the theater. Anne was waiting for them outside.
“Thank you for your help,” Sam said, as Dean walked on ahead. She nodded.
“Who would do something like this?” she said. Sam gave her a sympathetic face. “You know, it’s Macbeth that’s supposed to be cursed.”
“What play were you doing?” Sam asked.
“Hamlet.” Anne had a haunted expression. “Jeff – he was playing Hamlet.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sam said.
He caught up with Dean, and they got into the Impala and headed for the local library, which was very close – Watertown was quite small, though densely populated. The town square was a nightmare intersection of five busy roads. Dean accidentally got in the wrong lane to turn onto Main Street and complained vociferously about Massachusetts drivers, flipping the bird to a couple people who honked at him.
There were no free parking spots in the small lot at the library (due, Sam suspected, less to library patronage and more to the football practice going on in the field next to the lot), and Sam suggested that Dean go back to the motel. Sam knew his brother would be happier after a nap; he’d driven all night to get them to Massachusetts, brushing off Sam’s offer to take a turn, as he so often did. They’d arrived early in the morning and taken just enough time to shower and change into their FBI suits before they’d gone to meet the stage manager. And Sam could use a little alone time, and the space to enjoy the library without being called a nerd every two minutes. Dean happily agreed to let Sam research on his own.
Like the theater, the library had clearly been renovated not too long ago. Sam got a cup of coffee in the little café they had installed, and sipped it while browsing the cheap used books which lined the shelves on the café’s walls. He ended up buying a trashy mystery, which was his go-to light reading.
When he was done with his coffee, Sam headed up to the library’s reading room. It was in the old half of the building, which was beautiful, and Sam was glad it hadn’t been bulldozed during the renovations. The walls were lined with books about the town, which had been founded in 1620, and its long history. Sam browsed for a minute, just for fun, then took a seat and fired up his laptop.
It didn’t take him long to confirm that the quote on the wall was from Hamlet, as he’d suspected. He began looking into the Arsenal buildings, finding the local history books useful, but failing to turn up any suspicious deaths.
He switched to local actors, and for a while that didn’t yield any results, either. But finally, it occurred to him to cross-reference with Hamlet, and there was his answer.
Sam smiled at the computer screen and looked up a couple other things, then packed up his bag and left the library. The sun was bright and the sky was a beautiful blue, the October day crisp and pleasant. So, instead of calling Dean, Sam walked back to the motel along the Charles River for a ways, before crossing a few streets to reach the motel. It wasn’t the most direct route, but the foliage was beautiful, and Sam liked a walk, anyway.
***
Dean had been glad for a little time alone, while Sam did his nerd thing. He was tired from the long night, and he jerked off slow and lazy before falling asleep for a couple hours. When he woke up, he turned on the TV and was pleased to find Die Hard airing on a cable channel. Once it went to commercial, he looked for good local restaurants on his phone.
Sam arrived back at the motel not long after, breathing a little hard – from a fast walk, Dean figured – a pink flush spread across his face, the result of the chill air and the exertion. Dean’s stomach did a little flip, and he was suddenly glad he’d jerked off earlier. Sometimes the sight of Sam looking especially good did things to his dick that should never, ever happen from seeing your little brother.
Dean shoved the thrill of attraction down, fast. “I would’ve come and gotten you, dude,” he said.
“The library’s so close, it wasn’t worth it,” Sam said. “And it’s a beautiful day. Anyway.” He grinned triumphantly. “Edwin Booth.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“He was a 19th century actor. Brother of John Wilkes Booth.”
“Wait – the guy who shot Lincoln?”
“Yeah, exactly. And his signature role? Hamlet.” Sam looked extremely pleased with himself. “He’s buried in Mount Auburn Cemetery, less than a mile from here.”
“Damn,” Dean said, impressed despite himself. “Yeah, that does sound plausible…Dude’s mad that history remembers his dick brother better than him, and then someone else is daring to do Hamlet.”
“Exactly.”
“So, what – go to the cemetery tonight, do a salt-and-burn?”
“Yeah, but I think we should go find his grave this afternoon. Make sure we know where it is, and have an idea of the surrounding terrain.”
Dean scoffed. “How hard can it be? And what do you mean, the terrain? It’s a fucking graveyard.”
“Yeah, a hundred and seventy-four acre graveyard, with a lot of hills, which is also an arboretum, and has coyotes living in it,” Sam said.
Dean blinked. “Oh. All right, we’ll case it. But first – lunch,” he said. “At Wild Willy’s.”
Sam made a face. “Dean, I’m not eating a meal in a strip club. Once was more than enough.”
“It’s not a strip club! It’s a burger joint and it’s right down the street. Kinda pricey for burgers, but it’s got great reviews. It’s even got salad for you and your weird rabbit-food ways.”
Sam looked resigned. “All right, fine.”
***
When they arrived at the restaurant, Sam rolled his eyes at Dean’s exclamations of joy over the Western-themed décor, but smiled fondly when Dean’s back was turned. Annoying as he could be – and often was – Dean’s enthusiasm was one of his most charming qualities, and even Sam wasn’t immune to it. He ignored the little ache of love in his heart that Dean’s smile brought on, that bit that was more than brotherly. It was an old wound, and he was so used to the pain that most of the time he hardly felt it.
Even though there were plenty of tables available, Dean insisted on sitting at the counter, because one of the stools had a saddle instead of a normal top. He made ecstatic noises over his “Bubba BBQ” burger (half a pound of meat with bacon, cheddar cheese, red onion, pickles, and barbeque sauce), and Sam enjoyed his salad more quietly. Although it actually was surprisingly good. Most burger joints didn’t really bother with decent salad, but the ingredients were fresh, and the grilled chicken he’d gotten on top was good quality. And he stole a few of Dean’s fries, which Dean pretended to be mad about, and they were good, too, freshly made from whole potatoes.
After lunch, they drove to the cemetery, which was only minutes away. They parked inside, near a little chapel, and Sam found a map in the small visitor’s center inside the Egyptian Revival-style gates which listed the graves of famous people interred there. After studying it for a moment, Sam got his bearings, and they set off.
The foliage here was even more varied and spectacular than along the river. They’d obviously come at peak season, and there were plenty of visitors to the graveyard on that beautiful Saturday. Sam looked around, quietly enjoying it, while Dean complained about walking, obviously ready for another nap after his huge lunch.
“We could have driven closer,” Dean grumped.
“Shut up, walking is good for you,” Sam said. “And, it’s gorgeous here.” He regretted adding that as soon as the words left his mouth.
Sure enough, Dean scoffed loudly. “Sure, yeah, buncha dead leaves,” he said. “Amazing. And hey, trees! Graves! We’ve never seen those before.”
Sam said nothing. Dean, too, fell silent for a couple minutes.
“I mean, I guess it’s better than those really depressing cemeteries we see a lot,” he said suddenly. “The ones that are just, like, rows of headstones. At least here they tried.”
Sam glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. For Dean, that was practically a ringing endorsement of the beauty of the place. He considered calling Dean on it, but decided to just be glad Dean wasn’t bitching about the walk anymore.
“Yeah,” was all he said, and they lapsed into silence again, looking around and taking in the autumn sights as they made their way toward Booth’s grave.
The grave, as it turned out, was up a hill and along a steep, only partially paved path, and Sam was glad they weren’t trying to fumble their way there for the first time in the dark. He looked around carefully, trying to take note of any really uneven ground, and of how exposed they would be, in case this place had nighttime security. Dean was doing the same thing.
They scouted around the area for hiding places, in case the need arose, and then walked clear to the far end of the cemetery, opposite its main entrance. There, they found a chain-link gate, which would be much easier to scale than the thick concrete walls surrounding most of the graveyard. They returned to Booth’s grave, to be certain they knew how to get to it from that entrance, and finally headed back towards the Impala.
Not far from Booth’s grave, Dean nudged him. “Check out Gothy McGee hanging out in the cemetery,” he said, jerking his chin towards a woman in her mid-thirties a ways down the road. She was dressed in all black and dripping with silver jewelry. Beside her was another, taller woman; the two talked animatedly.
“Don’t most people get over that in high school?” Dean said snidely. Sam rolled his eyes. Admittedly, the woman was kind of overdoing it, but she looked happy, and the older Sam got, the more he felt the urge to just live and let live.
“I bet she loves this place,” he said. It was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes.
“We’ll do it down here,” the woman was saying to her companion as Sam and Dean passed them. The pair turned down a path which, Sam remembered from the map, led to Consecration Dell, a small vernal pool in the valley beneath a large hill, where the cemetery consecration ceremony had taken place back in 1831. Sam had found when researching the cemetery that the top of the hill had a tower you could climb up, and he suggested that they visit it and take in the view.
“Oh my god, you are such a leaf-peeping dork,” Dean groaned, but he went along without further comment, and Sam knew he must really be enjoying himself.
Dean did complain as they climbed the 62-foot spiral staircase inside the feudal-style granite tower, but abruptly stopped when they reached the top. Sam stood in one spot, drinking in the view of downtown Boston in the distance and the colorful trees surrounding them, while Dean moved around the circumference of the tower, checking out the whole panorama.
“Not bad,” he concluded, when he got back to Sam. Sam smiled, enjoying the vista and the wind in his hair and the happy look in Dean’s green eyes, and feeling for a minute like they were just tourists in a beautiful place.
***
They got a pizza for dinner. Dean loved the Greek-style pizza common to the area, with its thick layer of cheese; Sam preferred Italian style, which had a thinner crust and less cheese, but didn’t bitch about what they had.
A little before eleven, they drove to the back entrance of the cemetery. Dean parked in an office building parking lot across the street from the gate. The street was a little busier than Dean would have liked, but they timed it carefully and both managed to scramble over the fence between cars.
They made their way back to Booth’s grave. The cemetery was different at night. Dean was too used to graveyards to find them particularly spooky, although he was always aware of the danger they might pose. Mount Auburn Cemetery, though, felt a little otherworldly. Despite the careful maintenance which obviously went into it, there was something just a bit wild about it; all the more so at night. There were bits where if it weren’t for the paved path or cropped grass under his feet, Dean could almost think he was in the woods.
They briefly took a wrong turn, but Sam realized it and quickly found the right way again. Dean didn’t say it out loud, but he was grateful that Sam had insisted they scout it out in the daytime. It was kind of a labyrinth, and Booth’s grave wasn’t exactly on one of the main drags.
Besides, it had been kind of pretty. If you were into trees and junk, which Dean wasn’t, but hey, he liked a little sunshine sometimes.
The salt-and-burn was routine; Booth didn’t even put in an appearance, which made Dean frown.
“You sure it was him?” he said to Sam, as they shoveled dirt back into the open grave. “You sure he’s not tied to something at the theater?”
“No,” Sam said, sounding exasperated. “Of course I’m not sure. So we’ll stay in town for a couple days. Make sure the killing stops.”
“Cool,” Dean said. “I haven’t even had clam chowder yet.”
They were just about to head back to the car when Sam frowned and half-turned, sniffing the air. He looked so much like a deer that Dean almost started laughing.
“Do you smell smoke?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, dude, we just burned a corpse,” Dean said.
“No – not that kind of smoke. Woodsmoke.” Sam pointed in the approximate direction of the main entrance. “Coming from over there.”
Dean took a deep breath, and then he did smell it. He looked back at Sam. “Want to check it out?”
“Probably a good idea.”
Dean nodded, and they set off carefully down the steep path.
The smoke was coming from Consecration Dell. They went in the closest entrance, but quickly realized that the path there was steep and unpaved, and covered with leaves, and would have far too treacherous footing in the dark. Sam remembered a different, paved entrance a little ways away, and they walked along the edge until they found it.
As they got closer, they saw the flicker of firelight through the greenery. A voice was chanting, low but clear. Sam and Dean exchanged a look and wordlessly drew their guns.
They walked down the path for a few yards, and then cut across the grass and made their way as quietly as they could towards the light. They crouched behind a couple of old gravestones in a burial plot, and, peering through some bushes, saw a small fire burning on the path near the pond. In a grass clearing was a woman, the source of the chanting. She stood in a circle of stones. In front of her lay another figure, unbound, but motionless. Sam and Dean could faintly see a small object floating in the air above the woman, but couldn’t make out what it was.
The woman’s chanting grew louder, and she raised her arms. The object started to descend towards the still figure on the ground.
“Shit,” Dean muttered. He stepped out from behind the gravestone.
“Dean – ” Sam hissed, but Dean wasn’t waiting to see what the witch was up to.
“Hey!” he shouted, raising his gun and charging down the stone steps which led from the burial plot to the path by the clearing. “These are WITCH-KILLING BULLETS, so – ”
Dean’s foot slipped on some wet leaves on the bottom step; he stumbled and landed hard in the circle. A sharp pain pierced his left earlobe, which was bizarre, because he’d fallen on his right side. There were screams – one high-pitched, one lower – and the recumbent figure was scrambling upright.
“DEAN!” came Sam’s familiar shout, but Dean felt very strange and could hardly focus on Sam’s voice.
The witch yelled something and there was a brilliant flash of white light, which seared his eyes. It lasted for a full ten seconds. Dean lay still; the weird feeling was fading as his vision slowly cleared. Seconds after he could kind of see again, Sam was by his side, shaking him.
“Dean. Dean!” Sam said, tone frantic.
“I’m okay,” Dean said. His voice sounded high in his ears. Sam was touching him gently all over, their practiced check for broken bones or other serious injury.
“Get off me, I’m fine,” Dean said. Sam ignored him, and when he touched Dean’s chest, he pulled his hand away like he’d been burned.
“Dean…” Sam said, voice puzzled.
“What?” Dean’s hand lfew to his chest, where he found…a lot more than normal.
“What the fuck?” Dean yelped, rolling to his feet. “Did I get hit with a boob job spell?!”
He looked up at Sam, and realized that although they were on level ground, he was looking up noticeably further than usual. Sam clicked on his flashlight and pointed it at Dean.
“I don’t think it was just for breasts,” he said slowly.
Dean looked down at himself, touching his suddenly wider hips, bigger thighs...
“Oh, shit,” he said, dumbfounded. A thought occurred to him, and he groped for his junk through his jeans, which were suddenly too loose in the waist and stretched a little tight in the thighs.
Nothing.
“Oh, shit,” Dean repeated, staring openmouthed at Sam. “Dude…” He started laughing, almost hysterically. “Dude looks like a lady!”
Sam exhaled with an annoyed huff, and Dean could practically feel the bitchface he couldn’t see Sam making in the dark.
***
Part Two
***
Watertown, Massachusetts
“DUDE! Check out my TITS!”
Sam kept his eyes on the road. In his peripheral vision, he could see Dean in the passenger seat, enthusiastically grabbing his own chest. Sam had insisted on driving, afraid of more sudden changes to Dean’s body. Dean had agreed with only a token protest, clearly eager to look himself over. He bounced his breasts in his palms and then let go of them to pull the neck of his t-shirt away from his body and stare down.
“It’s too dark,” he complained. His voice was so strange in Sam’s ears; unmistakably Dean, yet pitched much higher than he was used to. “Where’s your flashlight?”
“Just wait till we get back to the motel room,” Sam said irritably. “And call Bobby, would you?”
Dean stopped trying to ogle his own breasts and pulled out his cell phone.
“Voicemail,” he reported to Sam, after a moment. “Hey Bobby, it’s Dean. I know it doesn’t sound like it, but it’s me. Call us back, it’s been such a fucked up night.” He was actually giggling as he hung up. The long earring in his left ear caught the light as it swung, streetlights glinting off the silver and the jewel.
Sam shook his head, bemused. “I really would’ve thought you’d be completely freaked out by this. Crying about missing your dick, or something.”
“Nah, we’ll figure out how to turn me back. In the meantime, this is awesome. Who doesn’t want to know how the other half lives?” Dean’s eyes lit up. “Speaking of my dick, I gotta investigate this new situation.” He started to unzip his jeans, and Sam grabbed his wrist.
“You are not,” Sam said through gritted teeth, “going to check out your vagina while I’m in the car.” To his relief, he saw the sign for the Super 8 where they were staying. “Wait two minutes.”
Dean made a grumpy noise and sat back against the seat. He looked down at his chest again.
“Okay, fine,” he said. “But dude, seriously. Check out my tits.”
***
Sixteen hours earlier
The stage manager at the local theater, Anne, was pale and shaken as she told Sam and Dean about the flickering lights and mysterious drops in temperature which had preceded the murder of their leading man.
“At first, we thought it was kind of cool,” she said. “I mean, what theater doesn’t want a friendly ghost?”
Sam glanced around the modern theater. “Have…many people passed away here?” he asked doubtfully.
“Oh, no,” Anne said, looking confused. “It was just renovated and turned into a theater a few years ago. The building’s old, though. I don’t know if it’s from the original Arsenal, but – ”
“Sorry – arsenal?” Dean interrupted.
“Yeah, this whole complex was a US Army arsenal for a hundred and fifty years,” Anne said.
Sam and Dean exchanged glances.
“Anyway, I guess you’ll want to see where we found him, Agents?” Anne asked. She looked nauseous at the thought.
“Yes, please,” Sam replied.
She led them backstage, which was in chaos from the police, and pointed wordlessly.
“Is it okay if I wait outside?” she asked, voice trembling. “I can’t look at it again.”
“Of course,” Sam said.
The body had been cleared away hours ago, but written in blood on the wall were the words, “BLASTING HIS WHOLESOME BROTHER.”
“So. Soldier who died bloody?” Dean said, after the theater door shut behind Anne.
“I’m not sure,” Sam said, taking pictures of the writing with his phone. “We don’t know if anyone even died here when this place was an arsenal. And this doesn’t really sound like an angry soldier. Also, why attack an actor all of a sudden?”
“Maybe he was a shitty actor.” Dean pulled out his EMF meter and turned it on. It immediately went crazy, and Dean shut it off. “Okay, between the cold spots and the lights and the EMF…”
“It must be a ghost,” Sam concluded. He stared at the writing, frowning.
“Blasting sounds soldier-y,” Dean pointed out.
“Maybe,” Sam murmured. “The words sound kind of familiar…Okay. Let’s hit the library.”
They left the theater. Anne was waiting for them outside.
“Thank you for your help,” Sam said, as Dean walked on ahead. She nodded.
“Who would do something like this?” she said. Sam gave her a sympathetic face. “You know, it’s Macbeth that’s supposed to be cursed.”
“What play were you doing?” Sam asked.
“Hamlet.” Anne had a haunted expression. “Jeff – he was playing Hamlet.”
“I’m so sorry,” Sam said.
He caught up with Dean, and they got into the Impala and headed for the local library, which was very close – Watertown was quite small, though densely populated. The town square was a nightmare intersection of five busy roads. Dean accidentally got in the wrong lane to turn onto Main Street and complained vociferously about Massachusetts drivers, flipping the bird to a couple people who honked at him.
There were no free parking spots in the small lot at the library (due, Sam suspected, less to library patronage and more to the football practice going on in the field next to the lot), and Sam suggested that Dean go back to the motel. Sam knew his brother would be happier after a nap; he’d driven all night to get them to Massachusetts, brushing off Sam’s offer to take a turn, as he so often did. They’d arrived early in the morning and taken just enough time to shower and change into their FBI suits before they’d gone to meet the stage manager. And Sam could use a little alone time, and the space to enjoy the library without being called a nerd every two minutes. Dean happily agreed to let Sam research on his own.
Like the theater, the library had clearly been renovated not too long ago. Sam got a cup of coffee in the little café they had installed, and sipped it while browsing the cheap used books which lined the shelves on the café’s walls. He ended up buying a trashy mystery, which was his go-to light reading.
When he was done with his coffee, Sam headed up to the library’s reading room. It was in the old half of the building, which was beautiful, and Sam was glad it hadn’t been bulldozed during the renovations. The walls were lined with books about the town, which had been founded in 1620, and its long history. Sam browsed for a minute, just for fun, then took a seat and fired up his laptop.
It didn’t take him long to confirm that the quote on the wall was from Hamlet, as he’d suspected. He began looking into the Arsenal buildings, finding the local history books useful, but failing to turn up any suspicious deaths.
He switched to local actors, and for a while that didn’t yield any results, either. But finally, it occurred to him to cross-reference with Hamlet, and there was his answer.
Sam smiled at the computer screen and looked up a couple other things, then packed up his bag and left the library. The sun was bright and the sky was a beautiful blue, the October day crisp and pleasant. So, instead of calling Dean, Sam walked back to the motel along the Charles River for a ways, before crossing a few streets to reach the motel. It wasn’t the most direct route, but the foliage was beautiful, and Sam liked a walk, anyway.
***
Dean had been glad for a little time alone, while Sam did his nerd thing. He was tired from the long night, and he jerked off slow and lazy before falling asleep for a couple hours. When he woke up, he turned on the TV and was pleased to find Die Hard airing on a cable channel. Once it went to commercial, he looked for good local restaurants on his phone.
Sam arrived back at the motel not long after, breathing a little hard – from a fast walk, Dean figured – a pink flush spread across his face, the result of the chill air and the exertion. Dean’s stomach did a little flip, and he was suddenly glad he’d jerked off earlier. Sometimes the sight of Sam looking especially good did things to his dick that should never, ever happen from seeing your little brother.
Dean shoved the thrill of attraction down, fast. “I would’ve come and gotten you, dude,” he said.
“The library’s so close, it wasn’t worth it,” Sam said. “And it’s a beautiful day. Anyway.” He grinned triumphantly. “Edwin Booth.”
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”
“He was a 19th century actor. Brother of John Wilkes Booth.”
“Wait – the guy who shot Lincoln?”
“Yeah, exactly. And his signature role? Hamlet.” Sam looked extremely pleased with himself. “He’s buried in Mount Auburn Cemetery, less than a mile from here.”
“Damn,” Dean said, impressed despite himself. “Yeah, that does sound plausible…Dude’s mad that history remembers his dick brother better than him, and then someone else is daring to do Hamlet.”
“Exactly.”
“So, what – go to the cemetery tonight, do a salt-and-burn?”
“Yeah, but I think we should go find his grave this afternoon. Make sure we know where it is, and have an idea of the surrounding terrain.”
Dean scoffed. “How hard can it be? And what do you mean, the terrain? It’s a fucking graveyard.”
“Yeah, a hundred and seventy-four acre graveyard, with a lot of hills, which is also an arboretum, and has coyotes living in it,” Sam said.
Dean blinked. “Oh. All right, we’ll case it. But first – lunch,” he said. “At Wild Willy’s.”
Sam made a face. “Dean, I’m not eating a meal in a strip club. Once was more than enough.”
“It’s not a strip club! It’s a burger joint and it’s right down the street. Kinda pricey for burgers, but it’s got great reviews. It’s even got salad for you and your weird rabbit-food ways.”
Sam looked resigned. “All right, fine.”
***
When they arrived at the restaurant, Sam rolled his eyes at Dean’s exclamations of joy over the Western-themed décor, but smiled fondly when Dean’s back was turned. Annoying as he could be – and often was – Dean’s enthusiasm was one of his most charming qualities, and even Sam wasn’t immune to it. He ignored the little ache of love in his heart that Dean’s smile brought on, that bit that was more than brotherly. It was an old wound, and he was so used to the pain that most of the time he hardly felt it.
Even though there were plenty of tables available, Dean insisted on sitting at the counter, because one of the stools had a saddle instead of a normal top. He made ecstatic noises over his “Bubba BBQ” burger (half a pound of meat with bacon, cheddar cheese, red onion, pickles, and barbeque sauce), and Sam enjoyed his salad more quietly. Although it actually was surprisingly good. Most burger joints didn’t really bother with decent salad, but the ingredients were fresh, and the grilled chicken he’d gotten on top was good quality. And he stole a few of Dean’s fries, which Dean pretended to be mad about, and they were good, too, freshly made from whole potatoes.
After lunch, they drove to the cemetery, which was only minutes away. They parked inside, near a little chapel, and Sam found a map in the small visitor’s center inside the Egyptian Revival-style gates which listed the graves of famous people interred there. After studying it for a moment, Sam got his bearings, and they set off.
The foliage here was even more varied and spectacular than along the river. They’d obviously come at peak season, and there were plenty of visitors to the graveyard on that beautiful Saturday. Sam looked around, quietly enjoying it, while Dean complained about walking, obviously ready for another nap after his huge lunch.
“We could have driven closer,” Dean grumped.
“Shut up, walking is good for you,” Sam said. “And, it’s gorgeous here.” He regretted adding that as soon as the words left his mouth.
Sure enough, Dean scoffed loudly. “Sure, yeah, buncha dead leaves,” he said. “Amazing. And hey, trees! Graves! We’ve never seen those before.”
Sam said nothing. Dean, too, fell silent for a couple minutes.
“I mean, I guess it’s better than those really depressing cemeteries we see a lot,” he said suddenly. “The ones that are just, like, rows of headstones. At least here they tried.”
Sam glanced at him and raised an eyebrow. For Dean, that was practically a ringing endorsement of the beauty of the place. He considered calling Dean on it, but decided to just be glad Dean wasn’t bitching about the walk anymore.
“Yeah,” was all he said, and they lapsed into silence again, looking around and taking in the autumn sights as they made their way toward Booth’s grave.
The grave, as it turned out, was up a hill and along a steep, only partially paved path, and Sam was glad they weren’t trying to fumble their way there for the first time in the dark. He looked around carefully, trying to take note of any really uneven ground, and of how exposed they would be, in case this place had nighttime security. Dean was doing the same thing.
They scouted around the area for hiding places, in case the need arose, and then walked clear to the far end of the cemetery, opposite its main entrance. There, they found a chain-link gate, which would be much easier to scale than the thick concrete walls surrounding most of the graveyard. They returned to Booth’s grave, to be certain they knew how to get to it from that entrance, and finally headed back towards the Impala.
Not far from Booth’s grave, Dean nudged him. “Check out Gothy McGee hanging out in the cemetery,” he said, jerking his chin towards a woman in her mid-thirties a ways down the road. She was dressed in all black and dripping with silver jewelry. Beside her was another, taller woman; the two talked animatedly.
“Don’t most people get over that in high school?” Dean said snidely. Sam rolled his eyes. Admittedly, the woman was kind of overdoing it, but she looked happy, and the older Sam got, the more he felt the urge to just live and let live.
“I bet she loves this place,” he said. It was Dean’s turn to roll his eyes.
“We’ll do it down here,” the woman was saying to her companion as Sam and Dean passed them. The pair turned down a path which, Sam remembered from the map, led to Consecration Dell, a small vernal pool in the valley beneath a large hill, where the cemetery consecration ceremony had taken place back in 1831. Sam had found when researching the cemetery that the top of the hill had a tower you could climb up, and he suggested that they visit it and take in the view.
“Oh my god, you are such a leaf-peeping dork,” Dean groaned, but he went along without further comment, and Sam knew he must really be enjoying himself.
Dean did complain as they climbed the 62-foot spiral staircase inside the feudal-style granite tower, but abruptly stopped when they reached the top. Sam stood in one spot, drinking in the view of downtown Boston in the distance and the colorful trees surrounding them, while Dean moved around the circumference of the tower, checking out the whole panorama.
“Not bad,” he concluded, when he got back to Sam. Sam smiled, enjoying the vista and the wind in his hair and the happy look in Dean’s green eyes, and feeling for a minute like they were just tourists in a beautiful place.
***
They got a pizza for dinner. Dean loved the Greek-style pizza common to the area, with its thick layer of cheese; Sam preferred Italian style, which had a thinner crust and less cheese, but didn’t bitch about what they had.
A little before eleven, they drove to the back entrance of the cemetery. Dean parked in an office building parking lot across the street from the gate. The street was a little busier than Dean would have liked, but they timed it carefully and both managed to scramble over the fence between cars.
They made their way back to Booth’s grave. The cemetery was different at night. Dean was too used to graveyards to find them particularly spooky, although he was always aware of the danger they might pose. Mount Auburn Cemetery, though, felt a little otherworldly. Despite the careful maintenance which obviously went into it, there was something just a bit wild about it; all the more so at night. There were bits where if it weren’t for the paved path or cropped grass under his feet, Dean could almost think he was in the woods.
They briefly took a wrong turn, but Sam realized it and quickly found the right way again. Dean didn’t say it out loud, but he was grateful that Sam had insisted they scout it out in the daytime. It was kind of a labyrinth, and Booth’s grave wasn’t exactly on one of the main drags.
Besides, it had been kind of pretty. If you were into trees and junk, which Dean wasn’t, but hey, he liked a little sunshine sometimes.
The salt-and-burn was routine; Booth didn’t even put in an appearance, which made Dean frown.
“You sure it was him?” he said to Sam, as they shoveled dirt back into the open grave. “You sure he’s not tied to something at the theater?”
“No,” Sam said, sounding exasperated. “Of course I’m not sure. So we’ll stay in town for a couple days. Make sure the killing stops.”
“Cool,” Dean said. “I haven’t even had clam chowder yet.”
They were just about to head back to the car when Sam frowned and half-turned, sniffing the air. He looked so much like a deer that Dean almost started laughing.
“Do you smell smoke?” Sam asked.
“Yeah, dude, we just burned a corpse,” Dean said.
“No – not that kind of smoke. Woodsmoke.” Sam pointed in the approximate direction of the main entrance. “Coming from over there.”
Dean took a deep breath, and then he did smell it. He looked back at Sam. “Want to check it out?”
“Probably a good idea.”
Dean nodded, and they set off carefully down the steep path.
The smoke was coming from Consecration Dell. They went in the closest entrance, but quickly realized that the path there was steep and unpaved, and covered with leaves, and would have far too treacherous footing in the dark. Sam remembered a different, paved entrance a little ways away, and they walked along the edge until they found it.
As they got closer, they saw the flicker of firelight through the greenery. A voice was chanting, low but clear. Sam and Dean exchanged a look and wordlessly drew their guns.
They walked down the path for a few yards, and then cut across the grass and made their way as quietly as they could towards the light. They crouched behind a couple of old gravestones in a burial plot, and, peering through some bushes, saw a small fire burning on the path near the pond. In a grass clearing was a woman, the source of the chanting. She stood in a circle of stones. In front of her lay another figure, unbound, but motionless. Sam and Dean could faintly see a small object floating in the air above the woman, but couldn’t make out what it was.
The woman’s chanting grew louder, and she raised her arms. The object started to descend towards the still figure on the ground.
“Shit,” Dean muttered. He stepped out from behind the gravestone.
“Dean – ” Sam hissed, but Dean wasn’t waiting to see what the witch was up to.
“Hey!” he shouted, raising his gun and charging down the stone steps which led from the burial plot to the path by the clearing. “These are WITCH-KILLING BULLETS, so – ”
Dean’s foot slipped on some wet leaves on the bottom step; he stumbled and landed hard in the circle. A sharp pain pierced his left earlobe, which was bizarre, because he’d fallen on his right side. There were screams – one high-pitched, one lower – and the recumbent figure was scrambling upright.
“DEAN!” came Sam’s familiar shout, but Dean felt very strange and could hardly focus on Sam’s voice.
The witch yelled something and there was a brilliant flash of white light, which seared his eyes. It lasted for a full ten seconds. Dean lay still; the weird feeling was fading as his vision slowly cleared. Seconds after he could kind of see again, Sam was by his side, shaking him.
“Dean. Dean!” Sam said, tone frantic.
“I’m okay,” Dean said. His voice sounded high in his ears. Sam was touching him gently all over, their practiced check for broken bones or other serious injury.
“Get off me, I’m fine,” Dean said. Sam ignored him, and when he touched Dean’s chest, he pulled his hand away like he’d been burned.
“Dean…” Sam said, voice puzzled.
“What?” Dean’s hand lfew to his chest, where he found…a lot more than normal.
“What the fuck?” Dean yelped, rolling to his feet. “Did I get hit with a boob job spell?!”
He looked up at Sam, and realized that although they were on level ground, he was looking up noticeably further than usual. Sam clicked on his flashlight and pointed it at Dean.
“I don’t think it was just for breasts,” he said slowly.
Dean looked down at himself, touching his suddenly wider hips, bigger thighs...
“Oh, shit,” he said, dumbfounded. A thought occurred to him, and he groped for his junk through his jeans, which were suddenly too loose in the waist and stretched a little tight in the thighs.
Nothing.
“Oh, shit,” Dean repeated, staring openmouthed at Sam. “Dude…” He started laughing, almost hysterically. “Dude looks like a lady!”
Sam exhaled with an annoyed huff, and Dean could practically feel the bitchface he couldn’t see Sam making in the dark.
***
Part Two
