July 2nd, 2000 - Singer Auto Self Service Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota
John Winchester pulled into the long drive way into the salvage yard, ignoring his youngest sons glare. Heaven help me when Sam turns eighteen, he thought, he was doomed. He cut the engine and turned to speak but Sam was already slamming the door and he walking towards the house by the time he opened his mouth. Recalling several colorful swear words from his marine days, he exited the car and followed in, while preparing a short, sweet speech on his behavior. He never got to use the speech; instead he found a small child's tent set up in the living room and a girl, no older than Dean, sitting on the couch, reading a book.
Her hair was short, brown with a slight wave to it, sticking up in odd places. John watched her hand come up and run through, a practice agitated gesture; hair flattened and rose under petite fingers.
"You could sit, if you'd like," her voice was a small English drawl. She snapped the book shut and set it aside.
"The book's useless, so might as well stop before I turn it to ashes," she looked up finally, a small smile on her heart shaped face. Her eyes found Sam first, taking in his large frame before finding John. Her eyes crawled over him, studying him, her mouth puckered and her left eyebrow twitched.
"Semper Fi?" it was a question. But mostly it was strange, a foreign tongue speaking those words. It didn't matter, John's mouth opened without a thought, "Oo-rah."
He caught sight a straight, white teeth in her smile. "John Winchester." It wasn't a question.
"And," her eyes cut across to Sam, "this must be Samuel Winchester."
Before either could respond Bobby walked in the front door with a bag of groceries in hand and scowl in place. He barely gave a nod before heading into the kitchen, the girl was off the couch and burrowed in a black trunk, rummaging through and pulling and pushing books about. She let a small triumphant hum and pulled out one of the larger books before following Bobby into the kitchen.
John catalogued everything in the room, eyes scanning every surface. The trunk, black with a crest and Latin scrawled across it. The tent, where he could see two small feet poking through the flap. There was a black coat draped across a chair and khaki messenger bag behind the playpen. More impressive was the precarious stack of books that had not been there in his last visit, he was just itching to let Sam loose on them.
Speaking of his youngest, he finally let his eyes settle on Sam who was looking into the tent like he was expecting an army of children to come fly at him. John let out a snort and gave him a look, watched his sons eyes come back to life and face scrunch into suspicion. Locking eyes they walked warily into the kitchen and froze at the doorway.
She had donned an apron over her navy blue dress and the book she had wrestled from her trunk was splayed open on the limited counter space. But she was humming an odd tune as she flitted about the kitchen. She was organized, he saw her organize and reorganize the ingredients in front of her. Obsessive. Within seconds there was a sizzling meat and John's mouth watered. He had forgotten the last time he had eaten.
Bobby was speaking and John tried to focus, "Walked out the store and saw these two ijits and went right back in."
"Oh I'm so glad you saw them, it be shame if we hadn't had enough." John watched her as she salted the chicken in the pan before flipping it over with silver tongs. Bobby was speaking again but John was watching her eyes. A plain brown. No flickers or changes. She was putting the pan in the oven and clearing space. Bobby hurried over to help as her next batch of ingredients were organized and reorganized.
Sam had shifted next to him; John's eyes flickered over to the counter. He felt a pang in his chest. She was making pie.
She turned to look at them, "Pecan or strawberry rhubarb?"
"Strawberry Rhubarb," and John wondered where he had gone wrong with Sam. Strawberry Rhubarb.
Before he could correct him or tell her to make neither, she was speaking again.
"John, right on the table is the book you asked for," she wasn't looking at him, focused solely strawberries in front of her. His own hands twitching he made his way to Bobby's dinner table and found a leather-bound book with no title.
Leather was not from any cattle that was for sure. It was old and light. Smoothly, he flipped it open he saw it was in different language and from what he could tell, ancient.
"Who are you?"
She turned, hands full of flour, a small glance at Bobby before her eyes swung back to look at him.
"I'm Genie. And that is the book on the thing you're looking for."
"Yellow-Eyes." She smiled.
A million and one things popped into his head. You're Genie, the researcher that supplies hunters with rare books? Where did you get this book? What language is this book? More importantly can it be translated? Or is there anything in here on how to kill it?
Before he could even form a coherent, non-offending question there was a shuffle of little feet, John turned.
The toddler stared with bright eyes; his sandy hair was tousled and streaked with a light pink. Even with the baby fat, John could see a hint of aristocratic cheekbones and chin. But it was his eyes, a violet-blue that were truly striking.
"Teddy," and without a second thought there was child in her arms, curling into her. She was smiling a bright happy smile as she turned back to making pie. He could hear her talking to him about the pie as she sat him down on the counter and handed him a small bowl of strawberries.
John turned to look at Bobby, he was looking right back at him. Probably watching him the whole time, he sent him a look. Bobby nodded. Well, she was legit. Not that it made any sense. He turned to look at Sam and realized he was tuning out again as he was having a conversation with Genie.
"Usually I'm not in the States, most of my time is spent researching at Oxford but this book is sensitive. I had to travel with it and I have to return it in perfect condition."
"Oxford, the University?" And didn't that question just kill John. So much hope in that single question.
"Yes, it's where I study but I also work part time in the Ministry, either way I'm up to your neck in books." Sam was nodding, smiling dopily, and John resisted the urge to snort again. He'd settle by interrupting.
"What language is the book in?" Sam sent him a look of loathing. Not that was anything new, but the blush was. At least Dean wasn't here, he'd set the place on fire if he had to watch his boys fight over this girl.
"It's in several ancient languages; some parts are Latin and others in cuneiform, and I'm sure some are in Enochian." Again John's brain filled with questions.
"Can you read it?" She looked offended.
"Of course I can," definitely offended. "How else would I know that this is what you needed?"
Before he could respond a blast of Fortunate Son rang across the kitchen. He watched Genie pull a phone from her apron pocket; she looked at her phone and sighed.
"Who is this?"
"Oh, hello Harry,"
"Hmm, yes Draco changed all my ringtones and my address book names."
"No, you don't want to know what name you were under." She was chuckling when it happened. She glanced back to the kid, Teddy, on the counter. Her face shifted for a second and then it was back to smiles.
"Hmm, oh yes, I'm at Scotland Yard of course." John turned to Bobby. He was smiling.
"Researching, yes of course, what else do I do? I'll be going to Mexico soon for the pyramid tour but it will only be for a day." She loaded the pie into the oven and at once she was moving. Out the kitchen door and into the living room and back again within seconds, this time carrying a small wooden box.
"You know Harry, I'm not supposed to be on the phone here, and I am trying to work." She looked up and smiled at Sam at that, "Of course I'll take care of myself, while reading this book." She was rolling her eyes, "Yes, see you soon."
The next second the phone was in the box. She murmured something and the box glowed blue.
"Honestly, like you could possibly track me." She tutted and went to check on her chicken.
"Sam, can you get some plates." Sam, the idiot boy, went without complaint. Like he hadn't just seen some weird magic or the girl lie, honestly, he was getting an ass kicking.
He watched, arms crossed as she placed the skillet in the middle of the table, while pulling some potatoes from the oven. John got a whiff of the pie baking and shook his head. He was getting answers, food and pie be damned.
They all turned as they heard the front door open and close. "I couldn't find the thing, Bobby find anything." Dean's voice called out, like he had been summoned to save the damnable food and pie.
"The book you're looking for is on the coffee table, Dean, but leave it, no research at the table." She turned to look at John, a challenge in her smile.
John's hand curled around his Beretta M9 and smiled back.