Wayward Son

Chapter 16

Buck's question about Dean brought unpleasant recent memories curling up through Sam's mind like smoke from a doused fire. "I don't know where he is right now."

Buck's eyes narrowed. "When's the last time you saw 'im?"

Sam shifted on the hard bench. "Last night. It's fine. I'm sure he's just..." He trailed off. He couldn't think of a good excuse.

Buck sat up straight. "He been actin' strange at all?"

Sam eyed the old hunter, whose whole demeanor now telegraphed alarm. He scrambled to think of something reassuring to say, to get his stomach to stop swinging like the kids on the playground. But instead, rapid-fire images burst across his mind's eye: Dean rubbing his head at the table last night, the glass of water at breakfast, Ruthie leaving in tears. Dean, slumped forward, saying it was better for her that way.

His heart spasmed. He saw it again, as clearly as if they were standing in front of him: Monica pressing against Dean, stretching up toward him, her face against the side of his neck as though she were whispering in his ear. Dean's blank, checked out expression.

"Oh my God." Sam snatched the notebook and jumped up from the table. "I have to go."

Buck rose and put a hand on Sam's arm. "Hang on. You probably don't have one of these handy." He reached into his jacket again and pulled out a bundle wrapped in brown paper. "Here." He held it out to Sam. "Stone knife."

Sam took it. "Thanks." He turned to go, then spun around, panic gripping his stomach. "He has the car!"

Buck stuffed his hand in his pocket and tossed Sam a set of keys. He jerked his head toward the road at the nearest edge of the park. "The old green Chevy."

"Thank you," Sam called over his shoulder, already sprinting. He dialed Dean as he ran. It rang until voicemail picked up. "Dean, call me as soon as you get this." He reached the battered green pickup and jumped in, tossing his supplies onto the passenger seat. He paused, hands on the steering wheel, trying to calm his racing thoughts enough to make a plan. He had to find Dean, obviously. He had the knife now, but the weapon alone wasn't enough. Would Amy's blood even work anymore, now that Brandon wasn't the current victim? He doubted it.

He knew who he needed. But she might not be inclined to help Dean at the moment.

Sam would just have to explain. She'd understand. She'd help. It's who she was.

He grabbed his phone, but it rang before he could dial. "Ruthie!"

Gasping, panicked breathing filled his ear. Her voice shook like dry grass in the wind. "Sam, he's dead. It killed him."

A concussion grenade exploded in Sam's chest. The steering wheel retreated into the distance; everything around him shrank and went dim. A high-pitched buzzing drowned out Ruthie's terrified breaths.

All he saw was his brother's face. Then, a second blast wave shoved him back in his seat. His last words to Dean thrummed through his head, threatening to burst his eardrums. "You're a coward."

Her voice, distant and muffled, dueled against his own echoing words and the ringing in his ears. "Sam? I can't stay here. Please come get me."

Her desperation pierced through his cloud of numb grief. He answered robotically. "Where are you?"

"Wadsworth and Taft. Mike's apartment. I'll wait for you at the entrance."

His heart gave one little throb of hope. "Wait. Ruthie...who's dead?"