THIRTY-SEVEN

On the night the Free Folk commune house burned to the ground, Sam and Dean returned to the Moyer Motor Lodge and waited for the bedside clock radio to transition from 11:59 PM to…

12:00 AM.

“So far, so good,” Dean said.

Sixty seconds later, 12:00 blinked to 12:01 and Sam sighed in relief. “All clear.”

The shadow people were gone, the midnight blackouts over.

“Life goes back to normal in Moyer,” Dean said, unsure if he meant the statement as a question. So many lives damaged, some lost. Going forward, normal would have many shades of gray. Like shadows.

“It’s amazing when you think about it,” Sam said. “All that metaphysical energy released decades ago, waiting endlessly. Then all those minds reawakening, willing themselves back to life, the only way they could.”

“By taking the townspeople on a psychic joyride,” Dean commented sourly. “Not a fan. No matter what they went through all those years ago, they had no right to take control of others like that.”

Sam nodded. “I think they came back a little crazed,” he said. “But most of them—other than those blindly loyal to Caleb or whatever strange vision they had for the cult—most of them got that in the end. Did the right thing, bowing out.”

“Not too soon for me,” Dean said. “No Team Free Will without free will.”

Dean checked the time again.

“You up for a long night’s drive to the bunker or…?”

“Crash here, hit the road in the morning?” Sam said. “Room’s paid for.”

“Crash it is,” Dean said, stifling a yawn.

Back in the driver’s seat of his own mind, he felt the tension drain from his body, and with that relief came pure exhaustion. He fell asleep with no concern about shadows living in the darkness. But in his dreams, the street lamps projected cones of black light and all the cars had strobe lights, rather than headlights, mounted on either side of their grills.

* * *

Gruber called Sam in the morning and requested they stop by the Moyer police station for an update. Dean wondered if their FBI cover was blown, but Sam thought Gruber sounded upbeat, so they agreed to meet.

At the police station, Gruber looked as if he hadn’t slept all night, his face pale, dark circles under his eyes. He’d received stitches for his scalp wound and wore a bandage that extended well past his hairline.

“Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?” Sam asked.

“I was,” Gruber said, frowning. “Long enough to get stitched up. Doc wanted to hold me for observation. Told him I’ll come back today and he can observe me all he wants for the next forty-eight hours while I sleep it off.”

“So, you wanted to see us?” Sam asked.

“First, I want to thank you for your help,” he said. “Doubt we would have made it through the last twenty-four hours without you. Don’t think I’ll ever truly understand what the hell happened, but it’s over, so I’m good.”

“Just doing our job, man,” Dean said.

“Above and beyond, so thanks,” Gruber said. “I asked you here because I thought you deserved an update. Fortunately, the chief doesn’t remember me punching him in the face after he tasered me. But I think he’s okay with it, considering everything.”

“Yeah. Sure,” Sam said.

“He’s done,” Gruber said. “Tough old bastard, surviving a nasty gut wound, but he’s officially retiring.”

“Susan and Daniel Yates?” Dean asked. “The kids?”

“Susan lost a lot of blood,” Gruber said. “Weak as a kitten, but will recover. Daniel’s lacerations are superficial but, if you ask me, he’s a bit shell-shocked from whatever battle raged in his mind. Again, I don’t pretend to understand. Fortunately, his memory is Swiss cheese about the whole day, doesn’t remember stabbing Susan or threatening Ethan and Addison.”

“Wasn’t him,” Dean said.

“I get that,” Gruber said. “Hard to wrap your head around it though.”

“Not after it happens to you.”

“I’ll certainly take your word for it,” he said. “After watching Bowman and Morrissey…” He shook his head, letting the rest go unsaid. “Anyway, Yates tells me the whole family will stay with his mother in Philadelphia. She’ll help with the kids until they’re feeling normal again. But he swears he’s cured of house flipping. Going to find something in good shape and put down roots.”

“Guessing Ethan’s thrilled about that,” Sam said.

“You bet,” Gruber said. “First thing he said, he can finally make some friends and get a dog.”

“What about Moyer?” Dean asked. “Lot of people here lost control of their lives, and a lot of lives went to hell as a result.”

“Not to mention the legal consequences,” Sam added.

“Yeah, about that,” Gruber said. “Retiring or not, Hardigan is working on a new spin. Something about how the townspeople went briefly crazy due to the aftereffects of the train derailment chemical spill, combined with old narcotics from the commune leaching into the water supply mixed with whatever nasty stuff continues to brew in Lake Delsea.”

“So, no one is at fault?” Sam asked. “No harm, no foul?”

“Except Pangento,” Dean said. “If Lake Delsea is part of Hardigan’s spin.”

“Bet they won’t be happy in the role of scapegoat,” Sam said.

“There’s an interesting postscript,” Gruber said with the hint of a knowing smile. “Yates bought the commune house and yard, but the rest of the land had already been sold. Want to guess the buyer?”

“Not Pangento…?” Dean said.

“One and the same,” Gruber said. “Last night I took some of our guys out there, had them comb through the fields, like a search grid. Told them to look for any wounded survivors, wanted to tag any underground chambers. But I had my suspicions about Pangento. That land isn’t near their plant. And they never took full responsibility for the toxic spills in Lake Delsea, with their chokehold on our economy.”

“I see where this is going,” Dean said, smiling.

“Evidence of fresh digging back there,” Gruber said. “Holes big enough to accommodate some dubious fifty-five-gallon drums. And, Hardigan may be retiring, but he has contacts there, and he knows some things that never came to light about Pangento from way back. Short of it is, we can link those drums to them. And Lake Delsea.”

“With all the Federal agencies poking around,” Sam said, “they might be feeling particularly… vulnerable.”

“Massive understatement,” Gruber said. “And, as a concerned corporate neighbor—without admitting any liability, of course—Pangento has agreed to set up a healthy settlement fund for the victims and families of the blackout incidents. The fund will cover all medical and funeral expenses, pay for any property damage, establish college funds for any kids who lost a parent, and establish annuities for anyone maimed or unable to work.”

“And in return?” Dean wondered.

“Folks sign waivers. We keep a lid on the old and new toxic transgressions, figuratively speaking,” Gruber said. “Not ideal. Nothing can make up for the loss of lives and limbs, but it will help the survivors cope and move on with their lives without facing financial burdens on top of everything else they’ve been through.”

“And you’re okay with another cover-up?” Sam asked.

“If Pangento holds up their end of the agreement, yeah, I can live with it,” Gruber said. “But part of that agreement is they don’t relocate, and they stop the toxic dumping. If we ever find out they’ve polluted our land or water again, everything goes public. So, they damn well better be good corporate neighbors moving forward. Moyer has the leverage this time, which means we have control over the future of our town.”

* * *

Once they reached I-70 West, Dean spun the radio dial in search of a clear classic rock station. After a while the signal would grow faint and he’d search for the next station.

“Suppose it’s the best possible outcome,” Sam said at last.

“Better than I expected,” Dean said, nodding. He’d expected lots of jail time and heartache for a bunch of unfortunate people, with no way to prove their innocence. Of course, all the money in the world wouldn’t erase the heartache. “But Pangento skates again.”

“PR win, but a big financial hit,” Sam said. “To be fair, they had no hand in the blackouts or possessions.”

“Doesn’t make what they did right.”

“True.”

“Poetic justice, maybe,” Dean said.

Sam nodded. After a while, he asked, “What about you? Feel any better about our current situation?”

Dean thought about willingly turning over control of his life for a potential greater good versus literally losing control of his own mind and body to an invading entity. He’d never be okay with the Brits’ condescension and their micromanagement style, but he’d signed on, no strings attached, and would continue the course while their goals aligned—but not for one second after they diverged. That remained his choice.

“Every day is a battle, Sam,” Dean said. “Sometimes a series of battles. You face them head on. They knock you down, you get back up. You lose one, you damn well better win the next. You take the wins. Because tomorrow is a crapshoot.”