Chapter Text
They ran into traffic about four miles outside of Pleasant Hill, Tennessee. Sam consulted the directions (all four lines of them; Dean had checked) Leigh Ann Sue had given them. She’d been the effusive type—big hair, big personality, big waist, bigger bosom, and no real conception of personal space or TMI. Dean had steered clear. Since Dad, he didn’t feel up to that much—person. All the touching had weirded him out, even if it’d been more mother hen than flirty. The motherly types tended to take better to Sam, anyway.
After a moment, Sam switched to peering out the window, leaning forward with a squint Dean hoped didn’t mean the guy needed glasses. Then Sam shrugged. “Looks right, man. There’s bound to be another way, but it’s probably just as backed up.”
“Awesome,” Dean griped.
“I think the turn-off is only about half a mile up, anyway. Shouldn’t be too much longer.”
“Took you that long to figure that out?” Dean complained. He’d been able to see that without any of Sam’s contortions.
“You think all these people are going to the carnival?” Sam threw an arm over the back of the bench seat as if Dean hadn’t spoken, turning bodily to peer at the line of cars behind them.
Dean didn’t have a great view through the rear-view, but he could see the stretch of cars trailing them just fine in the side-view. “What? You really think all these people actually live out here?” He frowned at the open fields, the strings of trees, the lack of houses. “This is farming country, Sam. Most of these people aren’t in spitting distance of this many people in a month of Sundays.”
Sam side-eyed him, amused smile tucked in the corner of his mouth. “A month of Sundays?”
“Shut up. The old biddies at the farmer’s mart could totally make better time than we are.”
“Right.” Sam smirked, the eyeroll not subtle enough to hide from Dean. And, ok, fine, ten miles per hour was fast even for a granny in a motorized scooter (when they were moving), but thirty minutes to drive a mile was criminal.
Dean draped his arm out of the window but didn’t leave it there long. Even in the winter, with the sun beating down and no breeze, black metal got hot. He draped his wrists over top the steering wheel, instead. Wasn’t like he needed a firm grip, what with them no going nowhere fast. Highway to Hell popped into his head, so he drummed a few lines before glancing at Sam. What his brother found so fascinating, Dean had no idea, but he could probably use a break from it.
He slapped Sam’s leg to get his attention. “Give me the info again.”
Sam’s eyebrows went up—yes, he knew they’d already gone over everything a dozen times; no, he didn’t care. He was bored, ok. To his mild surprise, Sam pulled the file into his lap without further comment. Huh. Maybe Sammy was bored, too.
“All right,” Sam said. “We have eighty unconfirmed disappearances over the course of five years, none of which have been directly linked to the carnival itself.”
“Probably because the carnival had nothing to do with the disappearances,” Dean interjected.
Sam spared him an aggrieved glance but continued anyway. “Each individual was last seen in or around one of four cities: Pleasant Hill, Tennessee; Cushing, Oklahoma; Sandpoint, Idaho; or Bonne Terre, Missouri, around the days when Sam’s Traveling Carnival set up shop.”
“Sam’s Traveling Carnival Extravaganza,” Dean corrected, because he could.
Sam dropped the file on his lap, bitchface at full power. “Seriously?”
He shrugged, playing innocent. “What? It’s the proper name of the thing, Sam. You should call things by their proper name.”
“You don’t.”
“I do now.”
Sam’s eyebrows climbed his forehead in sheer disbelief. Dean cleared his throat and looked at the really fascinating white bird—owl?—flapping madly about ten feet off the ground a couple dozen yards ahead. Except owls were nocturnal. What others birds were white? Maybe an osprey? How was he supposed to tell with only the tail to judge by?
Sam turned back to his file before Dean could ask his opinion, and by then the osprey-owl wasn’t visible.
“The worst part is the string of murders connected to the carnival. Ten kids under five, all found covered in cuts with their hearts cut out. The ME reports can’t identify the weapon, but one—the guy in Cushing—said it could be an animal. All were reported missing by the parents from the carnival or surrounding properties.”
Dean tapped his fingers on the steering wheel absently as they crept forward. “I don’t know, Sam. That still sounds garden variety serial killer to me.”
“The FBI hasn’t turned up any leads or connections.”
“Which isn’t all that surprising for a temporary gathering with limited to non-existent security and minimal attendance records. Any dude with half a brain could come up here and walk out with a kid without anyone being the wiser. People just don’t pay attention.”
Sam stared at him with that soft, sympathetic worried look that had gotten way too much work since Dad had died. Wasn’t like Dean needed his little brother to tell him things were off. Dean knew he was off. Sam would be, too, if Dad had sprung that message on him. Dean rolled his shoulders uncomfortably.
“Tell me again why you think the two things are connected,” he ordered to head off whatever touchy-feel mush Sam wanted to offer up, or another demand to tell him what was wrong.
“I’m not the only one who thinks there was a connection. Dad did, too.”
How did he keep forgetting that bit? “Duh, Sam,” came out hoarse. He cleared his throat. “It was Dad’s case, man. If he didn’t believe there was a connection, he wouldn’t have noted it.” He gripped the steering wheel tight, trying to force his shoulders down from around his ears. You gotta save him, Dean, John’s voice rumbled in his ear, or you’re gonna have to kill him.
He forced that thought away, along with the newfound knowledge that Sam was immune to some freak demonic virus.
“It was Dad’s file,” Sam corrected, like the distinction made a difference. “He handed it off to Pritchard last year. The guy went to Cushing, Oklahoma, and was never heard from again.”
“Why aren’t we going to Cushing, then?”
“Because they do Cushing in April, and it’s January.” Sam stared at him like that should have been obvious, and, okay, yes, fine, it was pretty obvious they couldn’t check out the carnival in Cushing when it was in Pleasant Hill.
“Then why aren’t we checking out the carnival in April?”
Sam shrugged, going back to his notes to read who-knew-what. He had to have the thing memorized as many times as he’d read it. “Finnegan already checked out Cushing when he went looking for Pritchard. The carnival’s the only place left to check. And if it’s attached to the carnival, the city won’t matter.”
“Great.” They reached the corner where everyone was turning, and he could finally see the carnival—or at least the ferris wheel—on the left. The three-story farmhouse set well back from the road looked seriously out of place next to all the machines and gaudy colors. “Who lives there?”
“Hm?” Sam followed the jut of his chin. “Um. That’s probably the Westgate farmstead.”
“Westgate?”
Sam shrugged. “This land all belongs to them, but they lease it to Sam Chambers for the carnival.”
“Weird.” He still thought people with that much money wouldn’t welcome the intrusion of a carnival. Wouldn’t want it spoiling their view.
“Not really,” Sam disagreed.
It so was, but he didn’t have the energy for that argument again. “Whatever. You know what you still haven’t told me?”
“For the sixth time?”
Dean flicked his ear for the jibe.
“Dean! What the hell, man?”
“You still haven’t told me why you think they’re connected, dude.”
“Gee, I don’t know, Dean. Maybe because the murders and the carnival started at the same time?”
“Coincidence.”
“Maybe.”
Dean followed the car in front of him to the turn-off, where a kid in neon blue and khaki waved him into a right-hand turn into a field. Another kid directed them to make a left just beyond the first parked car and he followed the line down to the first open spot. Which ended up, once the vehicle behind him parked, being between two vans.
“If Baby ends up dinged because of this, it’s coming out of your allowance.”
“What allowance?” Sam asked.
Dean opened his door carefully and climbed out, rather answer. He closed the door firmly and waited for Sam to join him behind Baby. “What is your fascination with carnivals, anyway?”
Sam’s face pinched. “I don’t have a fascination with carnivals. It’s not my fault we caught two cases—
“In the same year,” Dean interjected.
“—that both happen to be at carnivals.”
“Except for the fact that you’re the one who picked both cases, sure,” Dean agreed. “Unless you want to tell me your Shining picked this one?”
“It doesn’t work that, and you’re a jerk.”
“Bitch.”
The line for the carnival stretched back to the street and took almost as long as the line to park. By the time they made it to the ticket booth, Dean had decided to give up lines for Lent (“Lent isn’t until March, Dean, and you’re not Catholic.”), but the charming and buxom Lola who handed him their tickets (entrance and rides), map, fliers, and coupons convinced him to hold off at least until the end of the carnival.
“Thank you for coming to Sam’s,” she said.
“No,” Dean answered with a charming smile, “thank you.”
She giggled.
Sam rolled his eyes, waiting until they’d put some distance between the booth to say: “You do remember we’re here to work a case, right?”
“Nothing says we can’t have a little fun while we work, right? Nothing’s supposed to happen until at least tomorrow night.”
“If the pattern holds,” Sam agreed—reluctant agreement still counted.
“Great!” He clapped his hand on Sam’s shoulder, held on tight, and steered his bigger little brother to the table set up just inside the entrance. Draped in rich, purple fabric, it matched the shawl pulled around the woman standing behind it, and the skirt, at least in color. “Let’s start here. Hi.”
He kept his best smile hitched on even when the gray eyes that stared back felt like they were staring through him. The woman had a round, flat, fine-featured face topping a tall, willowy form she seemed determined to show off even in the middle of winter, if the bare feet under the thin skirt and tank top were anything to by. “Welcome to Sam’s Traveling Carnival Extravaganza, gentlemen,” she intoned, voice caressing every syllable fully. “I am Madame Fortune. Do you want a reading?”
Her attention shifted to Sam for the question, which relieved Dean too much for him to take exception to it. “Absolutely,” he announced over Sam’s objection, blithely ignoring the puckered bithcface Sam threw him and immediately tried to hide. He smirked. “How does it work?”
The woman stared at Sam intently, no expression Dean could read on her young-looking face, but her eyes hungry. “You cut the deck and choose a card,” she answered after a too-long pause. “Then I read the energy passing from you to the card, and from the galaxy to the card, and I tell you what it reveals about your future.”
Hocus-pocus nonsense and a scam, but whatever. “Awesome. How much does that cost?”
A Mona Lisa smile curled her pink lips. “Express, that is, what I call one-card readings are included with the price of admission. In-depth readings are available in my tent after four if you wish to hear more than what our brief time can offer.”
“Sounds good.” He nudged Sam in the side with his elbow, jolting his brother, whose eyes flashed irritation. “Right, Sammy?”
“Right,” Sam agreed with a tight smile.
Dean smiled extra broad to make up for his brother. “Do I need to ask a question first?” He waggled his fingers over the deck. “About my future or whatever?”
“You can, if you have a particular question in mind, but such is not necessary for the reading.”
He pursed his lips in thought, which earned a (not at all subtle, thanks, Sam) eyeroll from the peanut gallery. “I guess I do, at that, but not about my future.”
“Ask your question. It may yet inform your reading.”
“Those kids, the ones who were kidnapped from the carnival and killed. Can you tell me anything about that?”
Her eyes flashed angrily. “I can tell you no one has died at Sam’s in five years. This company is a family. We take care of each other, and our guests, as if they were our own. Those boys’ deaths were a horrible tragedy, but they were not of our making.”
“They are,” Dean agreed amiably, nodding. “Funny how I don’t see any additional security, though, considering how protective you are of your family.”
“Just because you do not see it, Dean Winchester,” she stated with cutting clarity, “does not mean it is not there.”
He jolted, cold trickling down his spine like melting ice. “How do you know my name?”
Something sharp, predatory hid under her genteel smile. “Would you expect something different from a professed psychic?”
He’d only known one real psychic—well, two, if he counted Sam, or three, really, because of Andy—“You know,” Dean answered with determined laziness to short-circuit his spiraling thoughts. “I don’t really believe in psychics.”
Abruptly, the menace disappeared. But the knowing arch of her precisely plucked eyebrows wasn’t anymore comfortable. “I doubt that. But let us see if we can alter your beliefs.” Her hand swept over the deck of cards palm down, turned at the edge to offer them palm-up.
Trepidation dropped into his gut, totally unexpected and totally stupid. They’re just cards, he reminded himself, irritated, but he still hesitated to touch them and felt Sam’s impatience at his back in the sharp jab of his fingers. “I just cut the deck?”
“Just cut the deck and select a card.”
Dean skimmed his fingers up the sides of the cards, top to bottom. No irregularities stood out. No charge snapped against his fingers. No tingle went up his arm. Not that he’d expected it to. He chose a card about two-thirds down, caught it between his fingers, and lifted the section away. He shifted the bottom of the deck on top of the new stack and pulled the top card.
Some sort of king on a golden throne with roaring lions on the armrests grinned back at him, flowering staff in the man’s right hand.
Madame Fortune accepted the card without overlapping their fingers. “The King of Wands,” she announced. Then she pinched the sides between the thumb and forefinger of both hands and closed her eyes.
Behind him, Sam shifted restlessly, his arm and shoulder brushing Dean’s back. When he turned to look at him, however, Sam’s focus rested solely on the fortune teller, surprisingly intent. Like calling to like?
The madame took a deep breath. Her chest expanded, briefly drawing Dean’s gaze down. When he looked up, her eyes locked on his. “This card represents leadership, vision, control. You are a natural leader, Dean Winchester, with all the charisma and confidence that implies. You take great risks with admirable success, but take care. You will soon have big decisions to make. Decisions that will affect not only you, but will also spread to affect everyone within your sphere. You need to have your wits about you,” seemed to echo in his head.
He shook it sharply, like he was trying to dispel water trapped in his ear. That was about what it felt like.
The psychics eyes gleamed like silver dollars. “You have taken daring chances in the past and achieved great things, Dean Winchester, but take care that your decisions are based not in selfishness and greed. Selfishness will impel you to make rash, impulsive decisions to the detriment of all you love.”
He couldn’t move as it felt like a great chasm opened within him, grief unfurling like a black hole that sucked in everything around it. He cleared his throat, shook off the strange sensation, and deliberately broke eye contact. “Ok, then.” He clapped his hands, bright, empty smile firmly in place as he turned to his brother. “Your turn, Sammy. Make it good.”
“I don’t think—”
“Oh, come on. We already paid for it, and you’re holding up the line.”
Abruptly churlish, Sam’s lips pinched. He glared at Dean as he halved the deck and re-stacked it. Plucking the top card free, he pulled his attention from Dean as he held the card in front of his face. Dean glimpsed criss-crossing red lines—spears? Arrows?—topped top and bottom with crescents, before Sam stretched the card to Madame Fortune.
Madame Fortune’s eyes seemed to glow as she took it. “The Nine of Wands,” she breathed without breaking her gaze from Sam’s. “The Nine of Wands represents strife, apprehension, and moments of insecurity to the point of hopelessness, but it also represents the strength to overcome them. If you have the mental fortitude and will to face the challenges.”
Silence stretched while psychic stared at psychic. Dean glanced between Sam and Madame Fortune as something seemed to pass between them. He shifted uncomfortably, almost pinching Sam’s side to break the connection before Madame Fortune spoke again.
“A great Darkness awaits you, Sam Winchester. You see but its shadow and the form breeds fear in your mind. You have become mistrustful, not just of those around you, but of your own strength and will. Your fear and mistrust build boundaries between yourself and those around you. You must beware, Sam, lest walls become a cage, for they will lock you into your worst fears, if you let them.
“I know what haunts you. You fear you do not have the fortitude or resources to face his darkness, but you do. You need only seize them. You must find a way to release your fear, to embrace the options laid before you, and to accept the parts of you that you have denied, if you are to reach your full potential and defeat this Darkness. Be brave, my son.”
Sam’s throat worked as he swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing. His eyes gaped like a black hole, the iris swallowed almost completely by the pupil.
“O-kay!” Dean bounced into Sam, snapping and clapping, breaking the freaky stare-down the psychics had going. “I think that means we’re done here. Are all your predictions so cheery, lady?”
It didn’t comfort Dean at all that the fortune teller needed a moment to reorient, her pupils slowly releasing from a pinprick. She inhaled, exhaled, and managed to refocus on Dean. “I am merely the conduit,” she said, calmly picking up the deck of cards. “You bring your future with you. I only impart what I am given.”
“Right. Awesome.” Next to him, Sam blinked owlishly, like a man stepping out of a dark room into the sun. “Time to go,” he decided and pulled Sam away with an arm over his shoulders. “Thanks for the reading!” Go jump off a bridge.
It took a few minutes for Sam to shake him off, minutes where Dean grew increasingly concerned. “Dude,” Sam finally complained. “I can walk.”
“What happened back there?” A group of teenagers brushed his side. Dean shoved Sam into the lee of some spinning kiddie ride, out of the way of the pedestrians, and followed.
“What are you talking about?” Sam scowled. His eyes looked normal. Now.
“I’m talking about that weird staring thing you two had going on.” At Sam’s blank look, he flung his arms wide in exasperation. And fear, but he wasn’t acknowledging that. “You couldn’t look away from her, dude! And your eyes dilated. You doing drugs I don’t know about?”
“No!” Sam shoved him off—he didn’t remember crowding that close—with a scowl. “Dude, back off. I’m fine. Nothing happened.”
“You’re sure?” Sue him for being skeptical.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Sam bit out, tight with annoyance. “Now, can we get on with it? We’ve kind of got a lot of ground to cover.”
Reluctantly, Dean let it go. Wasn’t like they were going to go back to the fortune teller for any more mind games. And Sam seemed like he was back to himself, if a touch more moody and emo than he had been, but that could be Sam just being Sam and over-thinking the reading’s focus on darkness. No way she could have been talking about the demon or his so-called plans.
Right. Dean pulled the map out of his pocket to literally and metaphorically refocus, eyebrows jumping in surprise when he had to unfold it to unveil the entire carnival. “Impressive.”
Sam peered over his shoulder. “Great.” He sighed. “This isn’t going to take forever.”
Dean grinned, bounced a little on the balls of his feet. This was going to be awesome. “So. Questions as we go?”
Sam frowned.
“Dude, how else are you planning to spend time with something like fifty-plus employees who all have better things to be doing than standing around answering uncomfortable questions?”
Sam’s jaw worked a moment, chewing over his arguments before he swallowed them with a sigh. “Fine. We can do the rides, too.”
“Sweet!”