Wayward Son

Chapter 12

Sam stayed quiet during the ride back to the motel. They all did. The tension between Dean and Ruthie could have snapped a steel chain. He rubbed his temples. Admittedly, he was no expert in romance. But he'd never seen two people so obviously meant for each other fight it so hard. He didn't know what had set them off this time, and he wasn't going to ask.

Back at the motel, Dean crawled straight into the sofa bed.

"You were on that thing last night," Ruthie said, her voice strangely cold and subdued. "It's my turn."

Dean and Ruthie had agreed to alternate nights. Sam had offered to take a turn, but they ignored him. They all knew there was no direction he could lay without some part of him sticking over the edge of the mattress.

"You keep the bed," Dean told her. "I'm fine." He rolled onto his side, turning his back to them.

Ruthie stared at the back of his head for a moment, then turned without a word and disappeared into the bathroom. Sam sighed and settled in at the little table with his laptop. They could turn in early if they wanted. He was going to search for leads.

Four fruitless hours later, Sam collapsed onto his bed. After what felt like five minutes, Dean shook his shoulder. "Wake up, Sunshine. We got a case to work."

Sam squinted and groaned. "Let me sleep."

The bathroom door opened and Ruthie emerged, wet hair lying on a towel draped across her shoulders.

"Hey, Ruthie," Dean said, sounding especially chipper. "I made breakfast. Your favorite." He gestured at the little round table. Sam's laptop had been replaced by plates piled with scrambled eggs, bacon, and French toast. Sam inhaled, and his stomach rumbled.

Ruthie paused, glancing first at Dean, then Sam, eyebrows raised. "Okay. Um, thanks."

While she rubbed her hair with the towel, Sam rubbed his eyes. Then he hauled himself out of bed and plopped into a chair. "What got into you?" he asked Dean.

"What? A guy can't make breakfast once in awhile?"

Sam shrugged and bit into a piece of bacon. "Do we have anything to drink?"

"Just coffee. And water." Dean went to the kitchenette and came back with two mugs of coffee, one for Sam and one for Ruthie. Dean already had a coffee mug and a glass of water sitting by his plate.

Ruthie joined them at the table. She shot a suspicious glance at Dean, but her brows pulled together when she looked at Sam. "Are you okay? You don't look well."

Sam rubbed his forehead. "I'm fine." He didn't want her wasting time worrying about him when they were nowhere on this case.

"So, what've we got so far?" Dean asked, passing the plate of French toast to Ruthie. "Two vics, twenty-five years apart. Both found in their beds."

"Both with puncture wounds in their mouths," Sam said.

"One just married, one about to be engaged," Ruthie added.

Dean nodded and pushed the plate of eggs toward her. "Both complained about headaches and turned into camels before they died."

"And both changed their schedules, working late," Sam said.

Ruthie stared at her plate for a moment, tapping her fork with her forefinger. "They both felt guilty."

Dean helped himself to the bacon. "Okay. So maybe they...took something? A cursed object? And it started giving them symptoms, driving them nuts."