Supernatural War of the Sons

by Rebecca Dessertine

  “There are apocalyptic omens here. The attendant says it was straight out of the Book of Revelation... You don’t think that’s worth looking into?”

  Sam pushed open the car door. Then he heard it.

  “What the hell is that?” Dean growled, emerging from the other side of the Impala.

  A cacophony of what sounded like a thousand dying car horns emanated from behind a grove of trees. Sam and Dean looked at each other, the edginess of the last twenty minutes now dropped.

  Sam sprang into action. Ears stinging from the piercing noise, he ran round to the back of the car, popped open the trunk and lifted up the false bottom to reveal their secret stash of weapons and materials. Dean reached in and backhanded Sam a revolver, taking a sawed-off for himself. He slipped the shotgun down the back of his worn Levi’s with practiced ease.

  Sam palmed a quart bag of salt and slipped it into his breast pocket. Never be caught off guard, he thought, hearing his father’s words as if John was standing two feet away.

  They strode through the grass with deliberation, the strange noise getting louder and louder. As they reached a rocky path that led down a slope, they heard a high-pitched voice call out, “Hey! Stop! I said stop!”

  The Winchesters turned and were accosted by a freckled, red-haired youth, several inches shorter than Dean and several years younger than Sam. He came limping toward them, an elaborate-looking air cast on his left leg.

  He managed to get within a few yards of them before he had to start hopping on his good foot. Dean looked the young man up and down, eying his lime-green cast.

  “Wow, that’s some injury there. You get that playing World of Warcraft, or doing some major texting on lonelygeek dot com?”

  Sam saw the guy’s face immediately sour. Smooth, Dean.

  “I got it on duty,” the young man squeaked out.

  “Really. On duty?” Dean said, smirking. “What do you do, exactly?”

  “I’m head junior counselor. Who the hell are you?”

  But Dean had already lost interest and was making his way down the hill.

  “Don’t worry about it, kid.”

  Sam glanced at his brother’s retreating back, then smiled at the young man. “We’re just checking some stuff out. Were you here yesterday? I’m sorry, what’s your name?”

  The young man looked embarrassed and Sam could see sweat bead on his upper lip, despite the breeze.

  “Caleb. It wasn’t my fault,” he stuttered. “The EPA said it was just a freak explosion—”

  “Explosion?” Sam interrupted.

  “Yeah, freak explosion of the population.”

  “The population of what?”

  His answer didn’t come from Caleb, but from the tree line.

  “FROGS!”

  Sam turned to see Dean holding up a large frog. Dean took one of the amphibian’s front legs between his thumb and forefinger and made it wave at his brother to join him. Sam thanked the kid and headed down the hill to meet Dean.

  “Can you believe this?” Dean said, gesturing toward the sea of frogs that were hopping around the forest floor. “Guess Kermit and Miss Piggy have been busy.”

  Sam walked past him toward the lake.

  “Okay, you got your frog-sex joke in, but now are you going to tell me I was right? I mean, this is about as apocalyptic as it gets.”

  “I guess so.” Dean gently put down the frog and caught up with Sam. “Remind me what the deal is with frogs and the Apocalypse?”

  Sam looked toward the lakeshore, where every kid in the camp was sprinting around with buckets, bags, milk crates— anything that could carry more than one frog. He spotted several makeshift frog-racing sites, as well as kids trying to make frogs play badminton, kids having frog tea parties, a couple of kids trying to have frogs play basketball—there was even one lonely kid that had set up frogs for a mock trial. Deep inside him, Sam again wished his childhood had been more normal. The kids here were having a ball, despite the biblical overtones of the situation.

  Sam turned to his brother.

  “In Exodus, God rained frogs down on the Egyptians as punishment for not letting the Israelites free. ‘And if thou refuse to let them go, behold, I will smite all thy borders with frogs.’”

  “Okay, so frogs are bad. But these kids are going apeshit over them. Doesn’t look so terrible to me.”

  Sam shrugged. He didn’t have all the answers.

  Caleb tottered down the hillside and caught up to them.

  “Excuse me, I still didn’t get your names,” he said.

  Dean scowled at him.

  “Why don’t you tell us how all these frogs got here.”

  Caleb threw his hands in the air, exasperated.

  “Like I told Mr. Butler! How many times do I have to explain this?”

  “Who’s Mr. Butler?” Sam asked.

  “My boss,” Caleb said with a hearty eye-roll. “Justin Black’s father showed up out of the blue yesterday. I didn’t exactly realize he wasn’t supposed to see his son. Guy was acting kind of strange, and the next thing I know he’s down at the lake with the kids. Then all hell broke loose.”

  Dean surveyed the children running around in near-hysterical, frog-induced mayhem. A few tired-looking counselors were trying—and for the most-part failing—to keep some kind of control.

  “Where is Justin Black?”

  Dean and Sam made their way toward a large rectangular log cabin dining hall. Inside, little Justin Black sat at a long table. He was pudgy, and wore a striped shirt a size too small and cargo shorts five inches too long, Dean could tell that Justin wasn’t the most popular kid at Camp Witki Niki. Dean himself would have made fun of this kid.

  Justin’s face was red and splotchy from crying. A large frog sat in his lap, and his fingers stroked its flat head like it was a golden retriever.

  “Justin?” Sam said gently.

  The boy looked up suspiciously.

  “Justin, hey. I’m Sam, and this is my brother Dean.”

  Dean gritted his teeth. Aliases, Sam, aliases. Guy has such a soft spot for kids.

  “Justin, we know that your dad came to see you yesterday. Was that the first time you’d seen him in a while?” Sam made his way to the bench next to Justin, and the boy nodded his head.

  “Not supposed to see him till he pays my mom all the supports,” he murmured, and then sniffed and wiped his dripping nose with the back of his hand.

  “You mean child support?” Sam asked.

  “Yeah,” Justin said, keeping his eyes on the table.

  Sam scooted toward Justin a little.

  “You know what kind of frog that is?” he asked.

  “It’s a Rana catesbeiana, American Bullfrog,” Justin said with a short snort.

  “Oh, of course,” Sam said, gently touching the frog’s head. “Justin, did your dad seem... normal yesterday?”

  “Umm. What do you mean?” Justin moved the frog away from Sam’s reach.

  “Did you recognize him right away?” Dean probed. He pressed his hands on the table and leaned toward the boy. Sam gave him a warning stare, indicating that he should take it easy.

  “He’s my dad,” the boy responded.

  “No, I know that, but did you notice anything different about him?” Dean persisted.

  “Well. Like maybe...” Justin trailed off as he inspected his frog.

  “Like maybe what?”

  “Maybe he wasn’t like usual... like... mean.” Justin’s large wet eyes met Dean’s.

  “Do you think that was your dad, Justin?” Dean asked, crouching so his head was level with the boy’s.

  “Of course. He brought me my favorite thing.” Justin rearranged himself on the bench.

  “What’s that?”

  Justin looked at Dean like he was a complete idiot.

  “Frogs. What else?”

  Sam and Dean got back into the Impala.

  “Okay, so the kid’s father shows up, hasn’t seen him for a while. Guy used to be a dick
, now he’s bringing Justin a butt-load of his favorite apocalyptic omen? What, the store was out of Super Soakers?” Dean pressed his fingers into his forehead, soothing a building headache. “Who is this guy?”

  TWO

  Later that day, the Impala rumbled its way through the small town of Waubay, South Dakota. Like so many American factory towns, the place seemed mostly deserted.

  “Keep your eyes open, we may be walking into Hell’s favorite fishing ground,” Dean said as they parked. He tucked the shotgun underneath his worn leather jacket.

  The brothers walked side by side down the empty streets. The facades of the small mom-and-pop stores were mostly run-down. Paint peeled off the clapboard, giving everything a rag-tag look.

  An obnoxiously loud rumble broke the silence, causing Dean and Sam to swivel on their heels, only to see a jacked-up pick-up truck swing around a corner and disappear. No one else was around.

  Then someone screamed. The boys looked at each other.

  “Where did that come from?” Dean exclaimed, sweeping the streets, wide-eyed. They still seemed to be alone.

  They heard another scream. Sam cocked his weapon, aiming at a nearby intersection.

  “This way,” he said.

  The boys took off, their heavy boots pounding the pavement as they turned the corner and heard it again. Sweat ran down their faces as they skidded to a halt in front of—

  The Waubay Community Swimming Pool. The pool was empty and several old women were wandering around in bathing caps and large tent-like bathing suits. Dean looked at Sam, who just shrugged.

  “What just happened here?” Dean called out, one hand shielding his eyes from the bone-chilling display of geriatric flesh.

  Despite his best efforts, Sam was also having trouble dealing with the half-naked old women. He spied a young-looking guy in sweat pants, holding a whistle, and moved toward him.

  “Can you tell us what’s going on?” he asked.

  The guy, whom he assumed must be a swim instructor, squinted at Sam in confusion.

  “I have no idea,” he said helplessly. “I was giving our regular aquatics class, and the pool just started bubbling.”

  “Bubbling like... boiling?” Sam asked.

  Joining them, Dean smirked.

  “You sure one of these lithe young ladies didn’t lay one?” he said.

  The instructor tilted his head sideways at Dean, a look of surprised irritation Sam had seen directed at his brother with some frequency. Without another word, Dean walked away, wisely leaving the interrogation to Sam.

  “Was anyone hurt?” Sam asked, trying to brush past the instructor’s annoyance.

  “No,” the man replied. “No one gets hurt on my watch. It’s just like I said: the pool started bubbling, scared the scream out of everyone here. Who are you guys anyway?”

  Sam smiled. “Inspectors Antilles and Solo, we’re with the NPSS, National Pool Safety Systems. Have you had your filter updated to the latest safety standards?”

  “Of course I have,” the instructor answered, scowling. “What kind of community pool do you think I’m running?”

  Sam took a step back.

  “Fantastic, we’re always happy to see a dedicated guy like yourself take responsibility. Pool safety is...” Sam trailed off. “... important. I guess. Thanks for your time.”

  Sam joined his brother, who was interviewing a large woman with a bellowing voice. Dean nodded at Sam’s approach.

  “Myra, could you tell my partner here what you just told me?” Dean asked.

  Myra pulled her robe tighter around her.

  “We was just doing our morning routine when the water started getting bubbly,” she boomed. “Slowly at first and then more and more, then it got hot. Real hot, but not enough to boil you. The weird thing was, Eunice and me were just saying that the pool was way too cold to be in it.”

  Sam cocked his head. “Wait, you just said you were cold, then the water got warmer by itself?”

  “Uh huh,” Myra said, nodding her bathing cap-clad head.

  Thanking Myra, Sam and Dean walked away and headed back through town to the Impala.

  “There are lots of references to water transformation in the lore,” Sam said. “Turning to blood, floods... and boiling.”

  “So, it’s the frickin’ Apocalypse, the town is lit up with apocalyptic signs, but they’re... jokes?”

  “You think it’s the Trickster?” Sam gulped. “Gabriel, that is.”

  “Not a chance,” Dean said. “Not his M.O. He’s not one to leave survivors, you know?”

  “So what is it?”

  “I don’t know. Is My Little Pony one of the Four Horsemen?”

  Dean parked in front of a battered motel. The neon sign read ‘Two Pines Motel,’ and sported two fluorescent pine trees blinking alternately, so it looked like they were swinging in a stiff wind.

  “Oh good, there’s a fish cleaning station on the premises,” Dean said sarcastically.

  “We’re in prime walleye country,” Sam noted. Dean hopped out of the car and headed for the motel lobby.

  Two minutes later, Sam was startled by the thump of Dean banging on the hood. A key dangled from a fish-shaped key lug in his outstretched hand.

  “Let’s go.”

  Sam pulled his duffel out of the trunk and followed Dean into a wood-paneled, simply appointed motel room.

  Dean threw himself onto one of the beds.

  “So where do we go from here?” he asked.

  Sam pulled out a chair and sat down, tugging his boots off and kicking them underneath the wooden table.

  “I guess we see if we can find anything on Justin’s father. Only real lead we have.”

  An hour later, the boys were knee-deep in research. Dean was sprawled out on the bed, his laptop on his chest.

  “Don Black’s DMV records are clean, so are his credit cards—meaning he doesn’t have any. Guy is just a poor schlub trying to make a living.”

  With a couple of simple clicks, Sam had hacked into the local county records.

  “Listen to this. From the family court records, Don Black owed $15,000 to his ex-wife in back child support. Yesterday he paid it all off, in cash. How do you explain that? And I took a look at the auto sales in a hundred-mile radius. Seems yesterday he walked into a dealership and bought a Prius, also using cash.”

  Dean swung his legs onto the floor.

  “Huh. Can’t say I can picture a demon driving a hybrid,” he said. “Okay, he’s the World’s Number One Earth-Loving Dad. He’s not Lucifer. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  “Can we at least talk to Justin’s mom before we leave?” Sam got up, pulled his boots and coat back on and opened the door.

  Dean stayed where he was.

  “He just paid her fifteen large in cash, you really think she’s gonna sell him down the river?” he asked.

  “Best shot we’ve got,” Sam responded.

  Dean looked at his brother hesitantly. “Where is she?”

  “She works at a restaurant down the road.” Sam nodded his head toward the Impala, visible through the open door.

  Dean dragged himself off the bed. He gave the room a scornful look as he walked outside.

  “As long as it gets us out of this motel. Place smells like Ariel took a dump.”

  A shrill bell announced their arrival at the diner. The small smattering of locals turned Sam and Dean’s way, then quickly went back to their lunches. A pretty redhead stood at the pass-through barking orders at an overweight fry cook.

  “Tommy, how many times do I have to tell you, medium rare ain’t a bloody cow on a bun,” she yelled at him.

  “Kathy Black?” Dean queried. “Ex-wife of Don Black?”

  “Who’s asking?” the redhead demanded, her expression stiffening at the mention of Don. Her reaction was enough to confirm her identity.

  “Listen, I don’t know where he is,” she continued, not waiting for a reply, “but if he owes you money I’m not paying it. And I k
eep a sawed-off under my pillow in case you have any ideas.”

  “We aren’t loan sharks, ma’am,” Sam said. “We just wanted to ask you a couple of questions about your husband.”

  “As he said, ex-husband,” Kathy replied pointedly.

  “Right, ex,” Dean said, stepping in. “My partner apologizes. He doesn’t know how to talk to women. Do you know where Don might be?”

  Kathy frowned, the wrinkles becoming more pronounced on her otherwise attractive face. Years spent trying to wheedle information out of people had taught Dean a couple of things. Never ask questions that are going to waste busy people’s time, and never piss off an ex-wife.

  “You cops?”

  Sam shook his head. “No. Not cops.”

  “’Cause he hates cops.”

  “So do we,” Dean said with a Cheshire-Cat smile. “Do you know if there’s some place he likes to hang out?”

  Kathy’s gaze shifted to one of her tables across the diner.

  “Listen, I gotta get that guy back there more coffee—”

  “Please,” Sam interrupted. “We work at the dealership. My partner forgot to get Don’s signature on his new car’s registration, and our boss is gonna take it out of my ass—”

  Kathy waved at Sam to stop talking.

  “Fine. Whatever. If he’s around, he’s usually at Polly’s Bar, down round the corner, beige building on the right.”

  Sam and Dean thanked her and left.

  A few minutes later they were outside Polly’s Bar, an ugly old establishment squashed between two uglier buildings. Dean pulled open the door and ducked his head as he stepped through the low entrance.

  As his eyes adjusted to the dimly lit room, he made out a narrow dingy-looking interior with a small number of patrons crowded into one corner. A high-pitched, fast-talking voice immediately drew his attention. Dean and Sam crossed to the bar, where a Hawaiian-shirted man was holding court with the townies.

  “So then the priest says, ‘It can’t be my credit card, because I answer to a higher power.’” The townies snorted a laugh. “Okay, next round on me.” The man gestured around the bar wildly. “For everyone!”

  Dean stood watching, Sam beside him, as the guy took in the small collection of half-hearted whoops and claps that followed.