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"There's something," Sam had said. "North."
"What?" Dean had asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. "Is this some creepy ESP thing?"
Sam had shaken his head, pointing. "North," he'd said again, and nothing more.
So they drive. North through New York up across the Vermont border, through winding mountains dotted with a rusty sea of red and gold, across fields of dying grass, chased by remnants of the fading September sun.
They're not lost. They know where they are. They know where they're going. And if Dean isn't exactly sure where that is at this very moment, he's at least certain of where they're not. That's got to be worth something.
Sam's a lump in the passenger seat, head tilted back in sleep, arms curled around himself. They've been driving for hours and Dean can't remember the last time he heard a voice that wasn't on the radio.
"This is weird, you know," he tells Sam's sleeping face, just to break the silence. "Even for us."
Every now and then Sam twitches, a rabbit caught in a snare. He'll be reliable as a compass when he comes to on his own, adjusting their course with an outstretched arm. Dean smoothes a hand down Sam's arm, but after the first time he knows better than to wake him. He thinks maybe he should be more freaked out about this, but Sam's following his own road and all Dean can do is go along for the ride.
They drive and drive through the golden twilight, and only Jimmy Page and Robert Plant breach the stillness.
They leave the highway at Waterbury, driving down back roads with trees that crowd too close on either side. Fallen leaves blanket the ground in faded color.
Everything here is dying, Dean thinks, and he doesn't know where they are.
Autumn in New England tastes like crisp smoke on the roof of his mouth. It smells of apples and earth and musky burgundy. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel, feeling a restlessness building in his bones. Wonders what they'll do when they reach the border, if they'll drive until they reach the sea, and tumble off the edge.
Sam mumbles in his sleep and sits up slowly, blinking in the low light. Wordlessly, Dean hands him a bottle of water, watches, waiting for the next direction as Sam takes a long drink.
But Sam doesn't raise his arm, doesn't change their course. He catches Dean's look and shakes his head.
"Soon," he says, voice cracked with disuse. He grimaces.
"Headache?" Dean asks.
Sam nods, takes another swig. Dean feels his fingers clench around the steering wheel. He hates this, this helplessness. Hates everything about this drive and this night. He likes things simple, likes to know what he's fighting. The weight of his gun in his hand, and the open road beneath his feet. A cold beer after a fight, and Sam at his side. He likes to know where he stands.
Maybe Sam catches his uneasiness, because he smiles a little.
"Soon," he says again, like that's a reassurance.
The bridge is waiting for them around the bend.
The night plays tricks. Shadows blend together as dusk fades to evening. Dean rolls up his window, shivering in the air turned cold and brittle. In front of the headlights, fireflies dance just out of reach, lighting the bruised sky.
A blink is all it takes. One minute the road is clear. The next, there's a looming shadow up ahead, the covered opening beckoning. Dean darts a look at Sam, sees him nod slowly.
This is where they're going. This is the thing that's been drawing them near, and he fights the sudden urge to turn the car around. That's not what they do. Winchesters don't back away from a fight. He's following the road and it leads to the bridge, so all he can do is drive.
"Doesn't look like much," he says, as they pull up to the narrow opening. He pauses the car at the edge, the hollow echo of wheels on wood vibrating through the floor. "What now, Miss Cleo?"
Sam's sitting up straight in his seat, but his eyes are sleepy and unfocused. He raises one lazy arm and points into the darkness.
Dean snaps his fingers in front of Sam's face. He doesn't even blink. "Right," Dean says. "Okay, no. I think you're done calling the shots."
When he throws the car into reverse, Sam shudders. And then so does the Impala, tires grinding against gravel and wood in a way that makes Dean's jaw ache just thinking of it.
"Fuck!" he says, foot pressing the petal. "Sam, knock it off!"
"It's not me!" Sam says, gasping. He's collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, and slumps back in the seat, one hand rubbing his chest. "It's her."
"Her, who?" Dean yells, listening to the gears grind.
Sam's eyes are wide. "A spirit, trapped on the bridge," he says, adding, "She's angry."
"Yeah, no shit." With a wrench, the car begins to move forward again, and the air turns to ice. Dean curses and shifts to Drive, hitting the accelerator. "Oh yeah? You want a piece of me?"
The bridge isn't long. They shoot through it and out the other side in seconds, but he still hears the squeal of scraped metal, thinks fuckfuckfuck, and feels his blood boil. In the open air, he turns the wheel hard, braking. They spin in a tight circle and jerk to a stop. Dean's head smacks into the side window with a solid thunk that leaves him seeing stars for a moment.
He groans and sits up slowly, feeling the warm, wet slide of blood down the side of his face. "Sam, you okay?"
Sam looks dazed. "Yeah. Jesus."
The bridge stands before them again, a gaping maw in the darkness. Dean glares at it. "What the hell was that?"
Sam shakes his head. "I'm not sure."
Dean stares at him. "What do you mean, you're not sure?" he says, as calmly as he can. "You're the one that brought us here."
Sam shrugs helplessly. Dean resists the urge to throttle him. "Fine." He slams out of the car and stops with a jolt, running his hands across the new grooves on the side of the door. "Son of a goddamn bitch!"
"What?" Sam hops out on his side. "What is it?"
Dean ignores him, stomping to the rear and popping the trunk.
"What are you doing?"
Dean pumps the 12-gauge, and grabs the lighter fluid. "Bitch scratched my car, Sam. She has got to die."
"I think this is a bad idea," Sam says, while he covers the bridge with the shotgun.
Dean stands just back from the edge. "I think you have a stupid face." The splash of accelerant on dry timber drowns out Sam's sigh. "Hey, you're not going to wig out on me again are you?"
"I don't think so," Sam says after a slight pause, so Dean knows he was actually considering the question. "But, Dean, I think she drew us here for a reason. I think she wants something."
Dean smiles and throws a handful of salt into the opening. "Well, she's going to get something, isn't she?"
Smoke and flame, and the sky is lit with amber and gold. The image burns into Dean's retinas even when he looks away, checking to see Sam's still there, still Sam.
"You really think that's going to be enough?" Sam asks, leaning against the car, shotgun dangling loose in one hand.
Dean shrugs. "Call it intuition." Sam's face reads skepticism, and Dean raises an eyebrow. "What? Do you still feel anything?" The air feels different now, less oppressive. Dean doesn't need to see the slow shake of Sam's head to know whatever was here before is gone now. He nods. "Good. Then let's get the hell out of here before the cops show up."
The fire burns in the rearview mirror, the sound of sirens rising in the distance. The Impala chugs to life, battered but still standing. Dean pats the dash, murmuring, "That's my girl."
"You're a mess," Sam says, reaching over to wipe half-heartedly at the smears of ash and blood of Dean's forehead.
"Yeah, well, so is your face," Dean says, and Sam laughs.
They're heading north still. He's got smoke in his clothes and Sam at his side. Dean doesn't know where they're going, but he knows where they've been. That's got to be worth something.
End.