Count the Headlights on the Highway
4
Vivian opened her eyes just in time to catch Sam closing the door against the morning light, carrying a brown Burger King breakfast bag. He rustled around, pulled out a sandwich and chucked it at Dean’s sleeping face.
Dean sputtered, startled. “What the hell?!?
When he found where the sandwich had fallen on his pillow, annoyance was instantly replaced by satisfaction. “Awww, yeah.” Vivian caught hers. Completely silent aside from chewing, they ate their greasy breakfast lying down. Sam’s typing was heard in the corner. Dean sat up, licking his fingers. “What‘s that, salad boy?”
Vivian leaned against the headboard, yawning. “I didn’t even know they served salad this early.”
Bent over his laptop, Sam ignored the quips. “I’m checking into some folklore about Slender Man.”
“What the hell is Slender Man,” Dean inquired, picking the melted cheese from his empty wrapper.
“It apparently started off in Germany a century or so ago; parents would tell children if they were bad, a skinny, well-dressed, faceless man standing somewhere between seven and ten feet would sneak into their bedrooms, snatch them up, drag them out of their window and take them back to a forest for torture.”
Vivian rubbed at goosebumps on the back of her neck.
Sam walked over to the bed, fishing a stack of photos from his pocket. “It gets way creepier. I’ve been going to the victim’s houses while you tracked the demon. Each night, I noticed that they had photos all taken from this month of the missing children.”
In each photo, he pointed out either a blatant humanoid figure lurking in the background, in a crowd, or blurred in branches or, in one case, a swirled pattern in the wood paneling of a living room wall. A tall man, lingering behind the missing children.
“Jesus,” Dean muttered. His temples flexed as he thought. “This is all in the same neighborhood, right?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, studied the pictures again.
“Are there any more kids in the area at potential risk?”
“I can't find anything on the computer. I was thinking about going over there as a regular joe who just moved in, get acquainted with the neighbors, search the living rooms while their back is turned.”
“You do that,” Dean said simply. Under the blanket, he was tracing light circles on Vivian’s bare thigh. She kicked him, trying not to pull an obvious face of ecstasy or make a sound.
Sam squinted in suspicion. The entire scene pulled Viv back fifteen years. Her dad would go hunting with John, dropping her off with the Winchester boys for company. It happened for as long as she could remember, spending the sporadic week cramped in a hotel with the moody kids at least 6 times a year. She would help watch Sam at the age of 8, making them peanut butter sandwiches with marshmallow fluff instead of jelly while little Dean would help improve her steady aim with the shotgun.
Fifteen years ago, they were fourteen, snuggled up on a rented loveseat. Sam was roaming around bored; each time he looked away, the young Dean would plant a kiss behind Vivian’s ear. “Sammy, let’s play hide and seek. You can hide first, okay?”
Eager Sam told them hotly to wait at least three minutes with their eyes closed while he picked a choice spot to cram himself out of sight. For an hour, baby Sam curled himself under the sink.
Catching on, he had come up from behind the couch. “You guys aren’t even looking!”
He pulled the blankets off of them, revealing an awkward mess of elbows and hair. They sat up grinning. Dean wiped Vivian’s spit from his mouth, “I didn’t call ollie ollie oxen free, Sam.”
“I hate you guys,” he seethed, crossing his arms.
Vivian pulled herself to the present, where Sam was making the same face. “Are you serious?”
“Go on, Sammy! A kid might be in danger. We’ll stay here and keep fort. Call my burner if you need backup, okay?”
Sam rolled his eyes, took the keys off the dresser and left.
Dean turned to Vivian, giving her a toothy smile. She turned her entire body to him, popping her eyebrows up. He slid his hands up her jaw and into her hair, pulling her face to his. They paused, breathing the same hot air for a moment.
There was a flutter of thick feathers, then a man’s voice:
“Dean, I need a word.”
The sudden disturbance made Vivian jerk away, shrieking, “JESUS CHRIST.”
A man in a khaki trench coat stood by the bathroom door, as comfortable as if he had simply been invited in. He pulled a dead-pan tone: “Not exactly.”
Dean sputtered, startled. “What the hell?!?
When he found where the sandwich had fallen on his pillow, annoyance was instantly replaced by satisfaction. “Awww, yeah.” Vivian caught hers. Completely silent aside from chewing, they ate their greasy breakfast lying down. Sam’s typing was heard in the corner. Dean sat up, licking his fingers. “What‘s that, salad boy?”
Vivian leaned against the headboard, yawning. “I didn’t even know they served salad this early.”
Bent over his laptop, Sam ignored the quips. “I’m checking into some folklore about Slender Man.”
“What the hell is Slender Man,” Dean inquired, picking the melted cheese from his empty wrapper.
“It apparently started off in Germany a century or so ago; parents would tell children if they were bad, a skinny, well-dressed, faceless man standing somewhere between seven and ten feet would sneak into their bedrooms, snatch them up, drag them out of their window and take them back to a forest for torture.”
Vivian rubbed at goosebumps on the back of her neck.
Sam walked over to the bed, fishing a stack of photos from his pocket. “It gets way creepier. I’ve been going to the victim’s houses while you tracked the demon. Each night, I noticed that they had photos all taken from this month of the missing children.”
In each photo, he pointed out either a blatant humanoid figure lurking in the background, in a crowd, or blurred in branches or, in one case, a swirled pattern in the wood paneling of a living room wall. A tall man, lingering behind the missing children.
“Jesus,” Dean muttered. His temples flexed as he thought. “This is all in the same neighborhood, right?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, studied the pictures again.
“Are there any more kids in the area at potential risk?”
“I can't find anything on the computer. I was thinking about going over there as a regular joe who just moved in, get acquainted with the neighbors, search the living rooms while their back is turned.”
“You do that,” Dean said simply. Under the blanket, he was tracing light circles on Vivian’s bare thigh. She kicked him, trying not to pull an obvious face of ecstasy or make a sound.
Sam squinted in suspicion. The entire scene pulled Viv back fifteen years. Her dad would go hunting with John, dropping her off with the Winchester boys for company. It happened for as long as she could remember, spending the sporadic week cramped in a hotel with the moody kids at least 6 times a year. She would help watch Sam at the age of 8, making them peanut butter sandwiches with marshmallow fluff instead of jelly while little Dean would help improve her steady aim with the shotgun.
Fifteen years ago, they were fourteen, snuggled up on a rented loveseat. Sam was roaming around bored; each time he looked away, the young Dean would plant a kiss behind Vivian’s ear. “Sammy, let’s play hide and seek. You can hide first, okay?”
Eager Sam told them hotly to wait at least three minutes with their eyes closed while he picked a choice spot to cram himself out of sight. For an hour, baby Sam curled himself under the sink.
Catching on, he had come up from behind the couch. “You guys aren’t even looking!”
He pulled the blankets off of them, revealing an awkward mess of elbows and hair. They sat up grinning. Dean wiped Vivian’s spit from his mouth, “I didn’t call ollie ollie oxen free, Sam.”
“I hate you guys,” he seethed, crossing his arms.
Vivian pulled herself to the present, where Sam was making the same face. “Are you serious?”
“Go on, Sammy! A kid might be in danger. We’ll stay here and keep fort. Call my burner if you need backup, okay?”
Sam rolled his eyes, took the keys off the dresser and left.
Dean turned to Vivian, giving her a toothy smile. She turned her entire body to him, popping her eyebrows up. He slid his hands up her jaw and into her hair, pulling her face to his. They paused, breathing the same hot air for a moment.
There was a flutter of thick feathers, then a man’s voice:
“Dean, I need a word.”
The sudden disturbance made Vivian jerk away, shrieking, “JESUS CHRIST.”
A man in a khaki trench coat stood by the bathroom door, as comfortable as if he had simply been invited in. He pulled a dead-pan tone: “Not exactly.”