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A Miracles/Supernatural Cross-over Fanfic by Laurel (Sailorhathor) Chapters: 2 of 5 Rating: Adult for homoerotic overtones and bad language (including multiple uses of the F word) See Parts I and V for Author's Notes and Credits. Part II: These Hands Next thing Paul knew, his hands had been placed on Dean's chest, and Dean was climbing on the bed with him, kissing him hard. The sex was back on! Yes! Paul definitely kissed back, running his hands over the defined lines in Dean's chest through his shirt. He slipped his hands under the t-shirt and started pulling it off over Dean's head. With a bothered grunt, Dean leaned up a bit, yanked the unwanted shirt off, and tossed it carelessly on the floor. Paul made a little bit of a face, looking after the discarded piece of clothing, but his attention was quickly stolen back by Dean trying to take off his shirt too. Dean had a hold of the bottom hem, but Paul lightly pushed his hands off. "Nuh uh," he hummed, then took a small amount of time to put the rosary inside his shirt so it wouldn't get in the way. He reached over his head, grabbed the back of his collar, and carefully pulled the shirt off over his head. Dean looked confused, then chuckled heartily. "I've never seen a person take their shirt off that way." "Keeps it from turning inside out." Paul shrugged. He couldn't get to the chair near the bed with Dean on top of him, so he held the shirt out. "Would you lay this across that chair?" "Why, so it doesn't get wrinkled?" Dean said with a smirk. "Exactly." Chuckling harder, he asked, "It's covered in blood flecks and you're worried about it getting wrinkled?" "Would you just do it?" Paul's lust was making him impatient. Dean, amused, said, "Metrosexual," and, just to rub the joke in, extended his pinkies like the shirt was a fine cup of tea before tossing it as carefully as he cared to onto the chair. Paul seemed satisfied, although he gave Dean a brief, scolding glare. Dean now wore nothing above the waist but his watch and jewelry. He liked the sight of Paul shirtless in that rosary; there was something wicked sexy about doing this guy while he was wearing it. How bad was that? Guy was supposed to be Catholic and he had a hellion like Dean Winchester on top of him. Hot. Although Dean's build was a heavy distraction from any other visual stimulation, Paul still noticed a scattering of scars on his body. Most were small; Dean could thank the first aid his father taught him for that. But there was a long, thin burn on his shoulder that was still healing. Paul wondered where it came from, and just how violent Dean's daily life had to be to mark him that much. Paul worked at removing Dean's belt... Temporary Fade to Black... ...Paul heard a gasp in the corner. A long, shocked gasp. It startled him, so he quickly turned his head, breaking the kiss, to look. The teenage ghost girl who seemed to be related to Keel stood in the corner, hands over her mouth, watching Dean and Paul in shock. She definitely didn't expect to see that. The girl slapped her hands over her eyes. Paul was instantly angry. Today had been all about invasions to his privacy, and apparently, now was no exception. This was the ultimate slap to the face. There had to be limits to when these ghosts could barge in, there had to be. "What is it?" Dean asked. Paul suddenly remembered the abilities Diane McNeal had passed on to him. He'd found that he could only use them when he focused his will in certain ways, or was under extreme duress and the powers burst from him involuntarily. Grasping Dean's wrist, Paul concentrated on making him see the girl. Dean looked where Paul was looking. He abruptly gasped, pulling away from Paul by reflex. "I saw... some girl. Did you do that? Make me see her?" Paul nodded. "Yeah. It's called projective clairvoyance." "I've never seen an ability like that. What's she doing in here?" Dean could tell the appearance of the ghost had rattled Paul, and that made him mad. Just because you were dead didn't mean you had the right to be openly rude. And her presence threatened the continuance of the nookie, he just knew it! Dean got off the bed, sauntering on his feet, and undid his jeans. He pushed them down a bit along with his boxers to briefly expose himself. "Is this what you came to see? Fuck off, bitch. You're killing the mood." Dean could no longer see the girl, but Paul could. She looked at Dean in horror. "Reprobate! You... you rakehell!" she screamed, and sprang forward, slapping him across the face. Dean recoiled, putting his hand to his chin. "Whoa, cold blast. What'd she do?" "Slapped you." Usually, Paul would have been extremely offended to hear a man talk to a woman like that, but in this case, he simply felt too violated to care. Grinding his teeth, Paul said to the girl, "Just because I can see you doesn't mean you can come in here whenever you want like I'm a 24-hour buffet. I need time to myself to do the things live people do. Remember those things?" It was like he was rubbing it in that she was dead, and could no longer share in Earthly pleasures. She again looked at him like he'd betrayed her, then dissolved from view. That was all Paul could take. Why did he have to be available all the time, just because they needed someone to talk to? Some things had to wait. Paul shook with anger. He put his bandaged hands into his hair. "Why can't I have the things everyone else has?" Dean, who had become fairly comfortable with his abnormal life for the most part, recognized the signs of a man about to lose it, and got back on the bed with Paul. "Hey, shhhhh, you can have them." He wrapped his arms around him and held him, touching his hair, easing his arms down. Dean was used to being the strong, protective comforter, which is exactly what Paul needed at that moment. Still shaking in a bad way, Paul begged Dean to explain it to him. "Why can't I be normal, Dean? They just come in here whenever they feel like and show me horrible things. Sometimes I think I'll go crazy." He'd never thought about the life of a medium that way. Paul was really suffering! He needed a good outlet for his anger today. Dean wanted to make that sacrifice for him, to put Paul's sexual needs before his own. He took Paul's face in his hands again and placed several kisses on his lips. Paul took a few seconds to begin to melt and respond. "It's okay, Paul. There are things that can be done to lessen all your problems with the ghosts, I promise. We can make this better. But now..." Temporary Fade to Black... ...From the moment they stepped into the shower until he gave Paul the first kiss, Dean could not stop chuckling over all of Paul's haircare products laid out on the window shelf. "Metrosexual," he teased. Paul rolled his eyes with good humor. "I like to take care of my hair, is all." "Vanity, thy name is Paul." He helped him close the shower curtain around them. "But I like it. It's cute." As they backed under the warm spray, Dean cradled Paul's face in his hands again and kissed him without reserve. It was Paul's softer qualities that brought out the natural protector in Dean, and the way he was plagued by visions he couldn't control, just like Sam... Dean had a pang of regret just then, remembering his missing brother. Holding Paul's gentle face brought back fuzzy, ancient memories of holding his baby brother to his little pajama clad chest as he ran for both their lives. Touching Paul was comforting, almost like Sam was still with him, instead of missing. Dean's eyes took on a sad cast before he resumed kissing Paul. Sex had always been one of the ways Dean unwound, a way he comforted himself, a way to block out the world. For Paul's part, although he rarely talked about it, he was just plain starved for affection. Growing up in an orphanage had been responsible for that. No amount of cuddling with other kids after lights out and the occasional hug from Poppi or one of the nuns could make up for all he had missed when his mother died. It was the reason he was so clingy and jealous in relationships. It was the reason he now did little to discourage Dean from prolonging the shower with a little petting. The affection felt so good; Paul drank it all in, not realizing for a while that he had unconsciously connected to Dean empathically, and was feeding off his emotions. Paul was happy with the things he could glean off Dean, the fact that Dean felt protective over him because of all he'd seen of Paul's life so far, the love he felt for his baby brother, the raw lust mixed with a strange caring for Paul (after all, they'd just met) - it all came through as an intensely pleasant warmth for him to wade through. He supposed their shared need for comfort had a lot to do with the emotions coming off Dean right now. Paul had to be the one to move Dean away, whispering, "Okay, okay, stop stop stop." Why'd he have to whisper like that, that would never make Dean want to stop! "The water's going cold, I want to get out. Come 'ere." Soon after, the two men were satisfied, clean, and dried off. Both put on only underwear because they knew they were going to sleep. Dean rewrapped Paul's hands with fresh, dry bandages. They got into Paul's bed; something about the atmosphere between them made Dean chatty. He put both arms under his pillow and alternated between studying the ceiling and occasionally glancing at Paul. Paul was rubbing at the beads of his rosary. "You're Catholic?" "Yeah." Damn scratches would never come off. "I'm sorry." The joke caught Paul off guard; he snickered and rolled his eyes. "Very funny." "Where does our little tryst fall into your religion?" asked Dean. "Oh, you want to ask the hard questions now?" "Sorry, I'm just curious how you reconcile it all," Dean said with a wicked smile. Paul shrugged. "We're all sinners, Dean. It's how you deal with it that makes all the difference." Dean could be a bit too morbidly fascinated with people like Paul, those who were devoutly religious, but also did things that were clearly against their religion. Most of them seemed to be hypocrites to Dean, but Paul was different, not as judgmental as what Dean was used to. "Will you go to confession?" His eyebrows rising, Paul replied, "Yeah. Just not to Father Calero." "Who's he?" Dean asked. "A priest I grew up with in the orphanage. He's always been like a father to me." Dean would have teased him about not wanting to confess his tryst to his father figure, but he was stuck on one word. "You grew up in an orphanage?" "Yes." "Where'd your parents go?" Paul had to grin, though he hid it behind his hand, at the way Dean had phrased that question. "My father didn't seem to want to have anything to do with me. I don't even know his name. Father Calero said my mother refused to reveal who he was because she thought my father would be a bad influence for me. I think, in ways, that she was a little afraid of my dad." Paul rested a hand across his forehead and gazed up at the ceiling that Dean found so interesting. "She said he lived very far away from us, and that was a good thing. So it was just me and mom against the world. No brothers or sisters. Then she died." Dean felt kind of bad for him; at least he had Dad and Sammy. "How?" "Cancer. When I was four. Just a week from my fifth birthday." Paul's eyes gazed far off, as if he saw the past before him instead of the ceiling of his bedroom. Dean looked at him in disbelief. "I was four too." That got Paul's attention. "What?" "I said, I was four too. When my mom was killed." Dean gazed up at the ceiling again. "There was an intruder in our house, and... if he'd been just a burglar, it would have been better." Dean blew out a heavy breath. "But he was some kind of demon. He did something horrible to my mom." The pain and anguish he still felt over this incident showed plainly in his eyes. Now it was Paul's turn to feel bad for him. "My dad found her with a bloody stomach, like she'd been gutted or something." Paul flinched. "That's awful." "You'd think maybe it was your run-of-the-mill serial killing, except for the fact that she was on the ceiling at the time that Dad found her." Dean reached up, as if trying to touch his mother. Paul furrowed his brow in stunned confusion. "Then my mom suddenly burst into flame." He slowly lowered his arm. "Kinda tipped Dad off to the fact that it wasn't a normal killing." "And that's what started the hunting," Paul stated more than asked. "Yeah." Finally turning his head from the phantoms of memory above him, Dean looked at Paul. "You believe me?" "Of course." Dean just smiled, a small, closed-mouth smile just for Paul. "That's another thing we have in common. Both four, both lost our moms." Not sure what to say, Paul just made a, "Hm," sound. He was starting to drift off, but apparently, Dean wasn't done. "When did you discover you could see the dead?" he asked. Paul opened one eye, looked at Dean, and opened the other. "Um, when Tommy died. I saw him at his funeral, standing in the doorway of the church. Keel thinks there could have been incidents before that, but I just didn't recognize them for what they were. That's most likely true. Like, when I was a kid, there was this couple who kept coming around the orphanage, making noise about adopting me. But eventually, they just stopped coming. It never occurred to me back then that I didn't see them talk to anyone else, ever, except me. Then late last year, they came back. I was at St. Jerome's spending time with some of the kids and the couple showed up there. They didn't look any different than they had when I was young." Dean's eyes were wide as he added, "And no one else could see them." "You guessed it." "Did they still want to adopt you?" he joked. Paul shrugged with a big grin. "Yes. They reacted to me as if they still saw me as a child." "Whoa. Weird," Dean commented. "So you were a medium even back then." Nodding, he continued, "We investigated this doctor once. He had a possessed patient, and his daughter helped us every step of the way. But Keel and Evelyn never saw her. I had no idea she was dead. She looked and felt completely real to me." Paul allowed himself a brief smile as he thought of sweet, beautiful Raina. He asked himself, "The only thing I can't understand is why Tommy came back. He said I wasn't going to see him anymore." "I don't know, man, but I'd be careful," Dean warned. "I don't trust healers." They both fell silent, thinking, and starting to doze off. Paul watched Dean for a minute, grateful that they had encountered each other, because the man's touch had brought him back from the brink. His firm, strong touch. Maybe now that he'd had his release, he could deal with what had happened in Mountaineer. Paul noticed that Dean was now looking back at him sleepily, his brow furrowed. "You know... you look a lot like this guy I knew in high school. Back when we lived in Southern California for a year. One of the time periods we weren't totally nomadic, living out of a car. You might be surprised how many demons you can kill just standing in one place in Cali. Earthquakes and Hollywood stir 'em up. That and there was a Hellmouth there. And a huge Chaos cult." Dean yawned like a mighty canyon. Chucking lightly, Paul said, "A Hellmouth? What's that?" "Mouth to Hell." "Oh. I should have known." He wasn't even going to allow himself to think about that one. A mouth to Hell on Earth?! "Go to sleep." "Do you think we'll hear from Tommy in the morning?" "Yes." "If the phone rings, will you wake up? 'Cause I kinda sleep like a rock, especially after sex," Dean said. "Yeah, I'll wake up. Keel's always calling me at the crack of dawn with some theory or another, and it always wakes me up," Paul replied with a bit of annoyance in his voice at the memory of many early mornings spent listening to Keel blab. "Dude, someone calls me at the asscrack of dawn, that's the last call they ever make. Only two people are allowed to wake me up that early." Paul suddenly started chuckling. "Why are you concerned about that anyway? You think Tommy's going to call me?" "No, but that guy could call again. The guy who saw Sammy hitchhiking." He pointed to his cell phone on the bedside table. "If I don't wake up, you answer it." "Okay." Dean went silent long enough for Paul to think he had fallen asleep, until he suddenly started talking again, and nearly startled Paul right out of bed. "You asleep?" "No," Paul replied sharply. "Sorry, I had another question." He stopped and cleared his throat. "You can see all kinds of ghosts, right?" "That's been established." "Okay, sure." Dean ached to just get the words out of his mouth. "Do you see anyone around me?" Ah, the question Paul got from every person eventually, once they found out he could see the dead. He didn't mind so much as long as they understood he couldn't command any particular dead person to speak; he could only talk to those who came to him. "Hmm." He scanned the area around Dean, the bed, the space behind him, and the rest of the room, and finally spotted something. "There's a floating patch of flame over there by the chair." Paul suddenly heard Tommy's voice in his head again, feeding him information that he wouldn't have known otherwise. "It's... it's, ah, your mother. She's trying to regain her energy, the energy she expended fighting off a malevolent spirit. She's hoping to use the power that killed her to her advantage, to become a fire elemental." He said all this as gently as he could because he could imagine that to hear such things about someone you loved was overwhelming, even for someone as tough as Dean. "It may be her only choice, since she was weakened by the attack that killed her, and the fight with this evil spirit." Dean's eyes shimmered with unshed tears. "Really? She's working to come back?" Paul smiled warmly, trying to be comforting. He ran the backs of his fingers over Dean's cheek. "Yeah." Dean smiled too. "Then I'll probably get to see her again." "I bet you will." Paul felt a little like he had that night in Shadow Valley, Virginia, when those kids asked him what Heaven was like and he told them, among other things, that it was full of cotton candy houses with clowns living in them. How the heck was he supposed to know the answers to these questions? Everything he'd just said had been fed to him by Tommy. But he hated to disappoint people when they desperately needed answers. Paul said another thing he didn't totally feel. "You can trust my instincts about spiritual matters. I was almost a priest. Now go to sleep." Feeling all warm inside, Dean settled into the pillow, but raised his head again just a few seconds later. "You were almost a priest?!" The sun had been up for an hour when someone stirred in Paul's apartment. It wasn't him or Dean, though, as they were still sleeping. A crystal paperweight holding down some bills on top of Paul's dresser suddenly flew through the air and thumped against the wall over Paul's head. He flinched when the paperweight rolled down his pillow and came to rest against his cheek. Within seconds, several empty hangers lifted off the closet rod and flung themselves at the bed, spreading all over the two men and making a loud racket. Paul came awake with a start. "Guh!" Dean stirred, beginning to awaken. "Whuzadeal?" he murmured. Rubbing one eye, Paul looked at the closet. There was Mrs. Keel, breathing hard and looking angry, her hair mussed, her make-up smudged and run. "Mrs. Keel? What's the matter?" She snatched up another hanger. Paul had a flashback of that scandalous movie about Joan Crawford. "Why wasn't I ever enough?" Vivian Keel shook the hanger with a trembling hand. "What?" "Paul, who ya talkin' to? Mrs. Keel?" Dean asked, still barely awake. Vivian shrieked, "Why wasn't I ever enough?!" She threw the hanger at Paul. It winged him in the side of the head. The movement was enough to get Dean's head off the pillow. "What was that?!" "Mrs. Keel, calm down!" Paul started to sit up. She grabbed a jar of pennies off the dresser and flung it at them. The jar clonked Paul a good one in the forehead. He covered it with his hands and moaned in pain. "Hey!" Dean barked. He could see no assailant, but Paul had said "Mrs. Keel" twice. The ghost must be back. She was trying to hurt Paul, for some reason. That kid, Tommy, had said to be wary of her, hadn't he? Dean jumped up and started going through his bag. "What was that for?!" Paul yelled. "Like you don't know! You men are all alike." She looked at Dean with critical eyes and scoffed. "Always a wandering eye. Always thinking with your lowest parts. You tell me, why wasn't I enough?! Didn't I keep up a good appearance?" Vivian sunk her hands into her hair and yanked. "Didn't I take care of the children and keep up the house? Still, he blamed me. He was never there, always at the hospital or away at a seminar, and it was my fault? That must've been convenient. I did everything he wanted. Even the disgusting things in bed." Vivian eyed a heavy pencil holder made of pewter sitting on top of the chest of drawers, just barely touching it so it inched along the wooden surface. "Still, he had a whole album full of whores." Dean watched that pencil holder slide a few centimeters at a time across the chest; that told him where she was. He pulled the sawed-off shotgun from his bag. "Don't even think about it, bitch." "Dean, what are you doing?!" Paul said, shocked. "You're going to shoot a ghost?!" "Just trust me." The gun was full of rock salt rounds. He aimed it at where he thought Mrs. Keel was, but unfortunately, Dean had her placed on the left side of the dresser, when she was on the right. She could have reached the pencil holder from either side, so it was an easy mistake. Vivian laughed at him mockingly. "How can you shoot someone who's already dead, you foul-mouthed hooligan?" She picked up the pencil holder. "Wait Dean, wrong - " It all happened too fast for Paul to properly warn Dean that he was aiming at the wrong side of the dresser. Dean saw the object move, and put up his arm to block the pencil holder as it was launched in the air - as Vivian threw it. He squeezed off a round at the space on the left side of the dresser, intending to repel Mrs. Keel's ghost, but of course, he missed her. The fact that she only allowed herself to be seen by Paul was a hindrance. Paul flinched at the sound of the gunshot. Because Dean's round didn't hit her, Vivian was free to unleash the abilities she'd gained as a ghost. She moved with supernatural speed across the room. The rushing created a wind so strong it overwhelmed Dean. He was caught off guard, and subsequently, was unable to block the heavy pencil holder. It bounced off his eyebrow, scratching him, bringing blood. Dean fell back into the chair near the bed with a groan. "Mrs. Keel, stop it!" Paul pleaded. He started to crawl off the bed. Vivian leaned over the chair, eye to eye with Dean. "Boo." She narrowed her eyes at him. "Don't you ever talk to my daughter like that again." "Paul, where is she?" Dean asked, since he couldn't even see the woman when she was inches from his face. "She's - " Vivian turned a furious eye on Paul, and suddenly, she was ghost-rushing him. He was thrown back on the bed with her on top of him. Paul, simply not knowing what to do, stared up at her raging face and gaped helplessly while she repeatedly slammed her hand into the mattress next to his head. "My greatest shame! Bas' little seeeecret!" she screeched into his face. "Nothing but a thorn in my side!" Vivian had begun to weep. "Why, why wasn't I enough!" Dean knew without a doubt where she was this time. He could see the mattress caving in under her weight, could see the imprint of her invisible palm in the sheets as she smacked the bed over and over. He got on one knee, aimed, and shot a rock salt round into Vivian Keel. She squeezed her eyes shut and screamed as the projectile ripped through her. The scream faded as Vivian seemed to be torn apart on a molecular level, simply dissolving. Paul cringed violently, and slowly realized that it was over, that she was gone. "Dean... how did you do that?" He stood up, showing him the gun. "It's loaded with rounds of rock salt. Salt is a natural spirit deterrent." He grinned. "Worked pretty well, huh? That is one pissed off bitch. Tell me something - why hasn't your boss taught you how to repel ghosts from your apartment with salt circles?" Before Paul could answer, someone began knocking frantically at his front door. Dean looked at him wide-eyed. "That could be about Sam! Let's get it." "No, Dean." He pointed to his eyebrow. "You're bleeding." A muffled voice came through the door. "Paul, Paul, are you okay?" "It's just my neighbor, Mrs. Bongiovi. Stay here." Paul called to the door as he threw on some jeans. "I'm fine, Mrs. Bongiovi. I'm coming! Give me a minute; I'm not decent!" Dean had to grin at the ways that comment could be taken out of context. While Paul got the door, Dean retrieved a tissue to put to his eyebrow, and stood near the bedroom door to eavesdrop. "Paul, are you alright?" Mrs. Bongiovi asked warmly, touching his face. "I heard gunshots." "Oh, I'm sorry. I had my TV up too loud. I was watching an action movie." "The shots, they were so loud!" She seemed to accept his explanation, though. "Are you sure you're alright? Your forehead is all red here, and your hands...!" "Oh, you know me. Always bumping into doors. Clumsy," Paul tried to explain, though it was all lies. He held up his bandaged hands. "This happened when I forgot the iron was on. Just grabbed it in both hands. Can you believe it?" "Agh, Paul, you need a nice girl to look after you. Did you enjoy the lasagna I brought you?" "Yes, it was delicious, Mrs. Bongiovi." "Did your friend Keel enjoy it?" she asked. "You should have seen how much he ate," Paul laughed. Boring. Blah blah blah, Dean thought. He checked; the bleeding had stopped. Just a shallow scratch. This Paul guy sure was chummy with his neighbor. Every older person seemed to be a mother or father figure to him. Mrs. Bongiovi was mommying the hell out of Paul, and he just seemed to wallow in it. Dean didn't need another mother. He had one, and she died, and he would rather live with her memory than replace her. He decided to speed things along; Dean needed this message to come in so he could find Sam. He put on his jeans and stepped out into the living room. "You have a friend visiting?" Paul seemed surprised at the question, then realized Dean had cleaned up his face and come into the room. "Yes, this is Dean." "Oh, he is a handsome one. I've never seen you here before." She had always wondered about Paul. Such a nice boy, but very pretty. Dean put on his best charming smile. "Thank you, ma'am." He made no comment about her second statement, because it was just nosy fishing for gossip. The black-haired Italian woman seemed nice, though. "Paul, we've got that thing we need to do..." "Uh, right. Just let me get Mrs. Bongiovi's casserole dish. I washed it and everything." Paul headed for the kitchen. "You are such a good boy." While he was gone, she smiled at Dean, looking like she had more to say. "You are a new friend of Paul's?" "You could say that. Haven't known him long." "Do you care about his safety?" she asked quietly. That was an odd question. What was even stranger was the answer, given that Dean barely knew Paul. "Yes." "Will you watch out for him when you're with him, then?" Mrs. Bongiovi leaned forward and said in a hushed voice, "Lui colloqui a sè." "Huh?" Like many people whose first language was not English, she slipped into her native language when saying something that could be considered gossip. "Sometimes he talks to himself in here. My husband and I can hear him through the walls. I think he is lonely." Paul wasn't talking to himself. He was speaking to ghosts. But of course, Dean couldn't tell her that. "What really worries me is what happens at night, much too often. Cammina nel suo sonno," she whispered, then remembered that he did not seem to know Italian. "Oh, I'm sorry, it is so natural for me." Dean blinked several times; it was a fidgety motion out of concern. "What does he do at night, Mrs. Bongiovi?" "He sleepwalks," she said at a whisper. Troubled, he looked for clarification. "Paul leaves his apartment when he does this?" "Yes, sometimes. We try to direct him back into his bed, but we don't always hear him. I've found him out here in the hall more than once. I'm afraid he's going to fall down the stairs. His friend Evelyn was very concerned, but Mr. Keel... I don't know about him sometimes. He and Paul travel a lot and they stay in the same hotel room, Paul told me, so I thought he should know so he could look out for Paul. Hotels have stairs, and elevator shafts, and are often located near busy highways. It scares me," Mrs. Bongiovi fretted with a sigh. "But Mr. Keel... he almost seemed to want it to continue. Told me to write down anything that Paul said while he was out walking in his sleep. Very strange, don't you think? Why does he want to know such things? You'll look after Paul when you are sleeping over, won't you?" Dean wasn't staying in Boston forever... how could he look after him? "I'll do what I can." They both shut their mouths when Paul reentered the room with the empty, clean casserole dish. "Here you go." "Thank you." She gave Dean a meaningful look and left. Paul barely had the door locked when his apartment phone began to ring. Dean looked desperate for him to answer it. Checking the caller ID, Paul shook his head. "It's just Keel." He considered not answering. Obviously disappointed, Dean put his hands in his pockets and trudged into the bedroom to finish dressing. Paul sighed and picked up the phone. "Hello." "Paul. Are you alright?" He instantly thought about Vivian Keel and the things she'd said during her tantrum. Was the woman that unhinged in life? Is that what Keel had to grow up with? A part of him wanted to be sympathetic, but the other part still couldn't deal with Keel and his methods. "I'm okay." "I heard quite a bit of noise in your apartment before I left, sounded like you were tearing up the place. Are you sure you're okay?" Alva asked. "Well, you try being a human bug light and see if it doesn't make you a little crazy now and then," Paul said sarcastically. Dean couldn't help himself; he eavesdropped again on Paul's end of the conversation while getting dressed. He grinned to himself at the joke. "I understand your anxiety, Paul," Alva said. "I just wanted to make sure you didn't hurt yourself." "I did, as usual, but it's alright. My hands are wrapped up." "Your hands?" "Yeah. I punched the hell out of my coffee table." Paul couldn't see him, but Alva visibly winced. "Didn't break any bones, I hope." "No, it doesn't seem so." There was an uncomfortable pause. "Is that all?" Alva cleared his throat. "Why do you sound angry at me?" Good, that was the exact question Paul needed to launch into the tirade he'd been waiting for since he recovered these memories. "I just don't understand how you do it, Keel. How do you make life and death decisions and live with yourself when innocent people die because you did nothing to save them?" Whoa, what was that all about, Dean wondered. He tried to stay quiet so he could hear better. Alva sighed. "Who did I kill now?" Sarcasm wasn't exactly what Paul wanted to hear at that moment. He snapped, "The Mothman told you that Danielle Franklin would come to a bad end years before she was murdered. Why didn't you warn her? You knew she was in danger." Alva put a hand over his eyes and almost laughed, but verbalizing anything that sounded like amusement would be misinterpreted, with the way Paul felt, so he held it back. "Paul, be reasonable. What was I supposed to tell the woman? 'Hello, Mrs. Franklin, will you tell me about your hemography experience, and by the way, a giant moth said you might come to a bad end. His comment was very vague, could have meant several different things, but just thought you'd like to know about it.' Something like that?" Not allowing the sarcasm to faze him, Paul said, "When Chad Goodwell started killing the 'God is Nowhere' people, you should have said something about it. That should have been a giant red flag that this is what the Mothman meant! We could have warned her, and she could have gone into hiding like Mr. Webster." "For all the good it did him." In the bedroom, Dean was reeling from what he'd heard. Sounded like a pretty major case these people had been involved in. Some pretty intense shit, a lot like what he and Sam got into all the time. The Mothman had predicted some woman's death? Why did that term 'God is Nowhere' sound so familiar? Alva continued, "Paul, you have to accept that sometimes, good is not going to win out. You'll just make yourself crazy, and there isn't enough furniture in your apartment to beat up for all the times we're going to lose. In this case, evil was going to triumph until Chad Goodwell was caught - he was always one step ahead of us. You have to accept that no matter how hard we try, we can't save everyone. How many times do we need to discuss this? "Even if Mrs. Franklin had known the danger, there's no guarantee that would have saved her life. The things we deal with would seem insane to the untrained eye. Sometimes we have to lie, like you did to Mrs. Murtaugh yesterday morning. Sometimes, we tell the truth. Other times, we can do nothing but sit back and let a thing run its course." "But I can't do that, Keel. I'm not like you. I need to be able to help." "Do you think I don't feel guilty?" Alva asked. "Do you think I don't regret when my decisions go wrong? You can't let it eat you alive, Paul, or you'll be no good to anyone. When one deals so closely with death and its aftereffects, there are bound to be impossible decisions to make. Sometimes, they are the wrong ones. But even if I had put Danielle Franklin on her guard, she still probably would have died. After all, Chad was given the information to find Mr. Webster from his supernatural contacts; do you think Mrs. Franklin could have hidden from that? You can't over think it, Paul. You'll wind up destroying coffee tables in a rubber room." Paul let out a long sigh. "I got her on the phone, Keel. I had her. Danielle Franklin, still alive. Then the police had to go and muck it all up." Dean let out a quiet little scoff; the police were always mucking it up. "Don't beat yourself up about it anymore. Life is full of those kinds of disappointments. Close, but yet so far. One of the bitterest things we experience in life. Let it go," Alva coaxed. Sighing again, Paul replied, "I'll try." He paused, thinking. "Keel, I think I need help on a case I stumbled upon." "What kind of case?" "Missing person." Dean knew he was talking about Sam. He listened, all of his attention on what he could hear. "Why is that our kind of case?" Alva asked. "Because Tommy has been feeding me information about it." There was a meaningful pause on Alva's end. "That's amazing. He's talking to you again?" "Yeah. Can you come over?" "I've got that meeting with Mr. Yamashita in an hour. About the copy of the Book of Revolution we're trying to acquire. That's an ancient, rare book. It's very important." "I know. You have to keep that appointment," Paul agreed. "I'll come over right after. In the meantime, I'll send Evie over," said Alva. "Good. Tell her to bring the laptop. And, uh, Keel?" He looked toward the bedroom. "We need to try to stop assuming that every person we deal with doesn't believe in the paranormal. There are believers out there. Maybe we should give them the benefit of the doubt." "I'll attempt to do that as long as you promise to stop biting my head off so much." Alva's tone was a bit playful, though he meant it. Paul had to grin. "Stop making it so tasty and I will." Chuckling, Alva said, "See you in a few hours," and hung up. Dean, hearing Paul put the phone in the cradle, emerged from the bedroom. "Hey, uh, I heard a little of that. Sorry. What is 'God is Nowhere'? The phrase is familiar. I think my dad wrote about it in his journal." Paul's face drained of color. "Let me see it. Do you have it with you?" "Always." Dean pulled the journal from an inside pocket of his jacket. He put it on Paul's dining room table and began to flip through it. "You okay? You look freaked. Sit down." Paul did, folding his hands in front of his mouth while he waited, hardly breathing, for Dean to find the passage. He located it and showed Paul the page. "There. 'God is Nowhere.' My dad chronicled all the evil and bizarre things he's dealt with in this journal. Looks like he was keeping a record of all the people who saw this message written in blood. It's a list of six people. It doesn't seem he knew much more about it than that." Paul exhaled with relief. "He was just keeping a case file." "Yeah. What's this all about, Paul? What's the big deal about this message written in blood? I've seen that a bunch of times," Dean said with a shrug. "I don't think you understand. This is hemography. The messages wrote themselves." It dawned on him just what Paul meant. Dean's face took on an expression of confoundment. "Dude." "Yeah. Dude. People hurt themselves, they bled, the blood flowed or was soaked into towels or bandages, and later, sometimes very quickly, people looked at those puddles of blood or soaked fabrics, and saw that the blood had formed words," Paul explained. "All of these people on the list saw the message 'God is Nowhere.' The night I was hit by the train, and Tommy saved me, my blood flowed out onto a piece of metal from my car. It spelled, 'God is Now Here.'" "The message was different." "Yes. I thought I was the only one who saw the words that way. Then came Chad Goodwell." Paul glanced at John Winchester's journal to see if he had any record of Chad. He didn't. There was nothing there about Paul, either. "He was a kid who - " Someone knocked at Paul's door. "Uh... this place is Grand Central Station this morning. Hold that thought. That's probably Evie." Paul got the door. "Hey Paul, Alva called me and said you needed help tracking someone down." Evie stepped inside. "I was only a few blocks away, taking Matty to school." "Thought you got here awfully fast," Paul laughed. Evie glanced over at the table area, noticing someone was there. The smile dropped from her face. It was replaced by a look of pure shock and panic. Any hint of welcome for the gorgeous Latina babe faded from Dean's person at that look. What the fuck? He tensed up, ready for fight or flight. "Evie, this is - " Paul noticed her expression. "Evie? What's the matter?" "Paul I need to talk to you in the hall for a moment," she blurted, almost completely running the words together, and dragged him by the arm out the still-open door, closing it behind them. Something was up. Dean closed the journal, pocketed it, and reached behind his back to the waistband of his jeans to make sure his Glock was there, although he knew it was. The chick had the hair on the back of his neck standing on end, after the way she'd looked at him. Dean went to the door and put his ear to it. Paul was laughing awkwardly. "What's up, Evie? Why the cloak and dagger routine?" Evie looked like she was about to blow her top at a very bad child. She pointed at his front door. "Paul, what is Dean Winchester doing in your apartment?!" On to Part III: Methods Fate is an Engineer is (c) 2006 Demented Stuff Miracles is (c) 2003 Spyglass Entertainment and Touchstone Television Supernatural is (c) 2005+ Kripke Enterprises, Wonderland, & Warner Brothers/The CW Television. Comment on this chapter on LiveJournal Comment on this chapter by e-mail Back to Miracles Stories or Back to Brokeback Mothman |