I certainly don't own any phoenixes. Is that even a word?
AN: This needed a rewrite. And having given it one, I decided it deserved a re-post, too.
The story is set in season 1, about a week after "Something Wicked". Originally, the phoenix didn't have an egg; but I'm taking my cues here from Edith Nesbit's wonderful book "The Phoenix and the Carpet", because it suits the story better. Sundry and shameless references to pop culture from Hammett's "The Maltese Falcon" to "Star Wars".
From the ashes a fire
"OK, got one," Sam announced to the motel room at large, looking up from his laptop. "…Dean?"
"What?"
"What are you doing under there?" Sam said blankly, watching his older brother emerge from underneath his bed.
"Remote, for the TV," Dean explained. "There's gotta be one somewhere."
Of course. Far be it for Dean Winchester to stand up and change the channels at the TV itself. Thankfully Sam was about to make that an obsolete problem anyway.
"I've found our next gig, Dean. College girl in Minneapolis found her boyfriend dead in their apartment with his head torn off."
"Torn off?" Dean repeated. "Not just decapitated?"
"Nope. Literally torn."
"Sounds exciting."
"I just knew you were going to say that. We having lunch before we hit the –"
But Sam was interrupted, rather rudely, by the door to their motel room being slammed open so hard it fell off a hinge, hanging there drunkenly as a tall man in his fifties staggered inside. He was clutching an oddly-shaped package against his chest, and looked around at them wildly from under a mop of graying hair. There were bloody scratches on his face and hands.
"Hey!" Dean said sharply as the man straightened up and took two steps towards the younger Winchester – Sam hadn't even noticed when his brother had pulled a gun, all his attention riveted on their visitor.
The man turned to Dean. "Winchester?" he rasped. Dean nodded slowly, not lowering the gun.
"Knew your father," the man forced out. "Take it – hide it-"
He thrust his burden into Sam's astonished hands and then collapsed. Sam dropped the package on the table next to his laptop and fell to his knees next to the man, turning him over gently. Under his heavy overcoat, the man's shirt was soaked in blood – so much so that it took a moment to find his actual wounds.
It didn't take a doctor to tell there was no way they could help their visitor now. He was already dead.
Dean crouched next to his brother on the floor, lowering the gun at last.
"The hell?" he said softly, studying the man's face.
"You recognise him?" Sam asked quietly. Dean shook his head. "Nah. You call Dad – and hide that thing! – I'll take care of the cops."
Already the noise of cars pulling up and sirens blaring were filling the parking lot outside. Some clerk or guest had probably called them. Sam grabbed the package and his cell and disappeared into the bathroom as Dean stowed his gun away and headed outside. He could hear his brother shouting in fake panic for a doctor and demanding to know what was going on, and someone rushed into the room – presumably a paramedic or doctor.
Sam went out the window, wedging the precious package in between the wall, the gutter, and the drainpipe before shimmying down the latter and slipping out of the car park to call Dad.
To his complete amazement, his Dad picked up.
Even more surprising was the fact that Dad said, "Dean?"
"Uh, no sir. Sam here." The man had mastered the text message but not the fine art of reading the caller ID?
"Oh. Is everything OK?"
"With Dean? Yessir. With me, too. But – something weird's just happened."
Silence. Sam could feel the sarcasm dripping off it. Oh, right.
"Weirder than usual," he hastily clarified. "A guy who said he knew you just fell into our motel room, gave me a package and dropped dead."
This time the silence was blank surprise. Then John Winchester managed, "The hell? What's in the package? The Maltese Falcon?"
"Don't know yet, Dad. The police are crawling all over us – Dean's dealing with them."
"He's legally dead," John said sharply.
"He's not the one with the guy's blood all over his hands, either," Sam said, the words coming out much sharper, angrier, than he meant them to.
John sighed heavily, and Sam felt a stab of guilt. They weren't even in the same room, and here he was starting a fight.
At least Dean wasn't there to see it.
"Dad-" he started out, but John cut him off.
"Just tell me where you are, Sammy," he said, sounding weary, which made Sam feel even guiltier.
"Still in Wisconsin, sir. Town called Mauston. There's only the one motel. What about you?"
"Canada. I'll be there by tomorrow latest."
"Canada?" Sam repeated, startled.
"Demon's don't stop for border controls, Sammy," Dad said dryly. "Make sure no one finds that package!"
He'd hung up before Sam could manage a "Yessir!"
Dean was slowly but surely getting more and more annoyed with this lot of so-called policemen. No, he didn't know the dead guy. He was on a road trip, with his brother – currently out getting doughnuts for the road. No, they'd only arrived in town two days ago – ask the clerk, he'd checked them in! No, the guy hadn't been carrying anything. Why in the hell would his brother know the dead man anymore than Dean himself did?
Then Sam arrived, with doughnuts, and did such a good impression of shocked and alarmed that the cops were forced to concede defeat, allow the motel's owner to offer the Winchesters another room
for free for a few days and withdraw with a few final warnings about staying in town for a couple days, just in case.
Dean refused to let the news that Dad was on his way excite him. He was not looking forward to it. That sort of thing was just setting himself up for disappointment, like expecting presents for Christmas.
Although, come to think of it, Dad had always been pretty good at Christmas.
He hung out of the bathroom window and fished the package from its hiding place while Sam packed their stuff and moved it to the new room, grumbling internally about pain-in-the-ass little brothers who couldn't just put the damn thing in the laundry basket or under a bush somewhere, no, they had to wedge it behind a drainpipe, for cryin' out loud.
Then he had to sit through three hours worth of mortified apologies from the motel owner before Sam managed to get rid of the guy and they finally got around to removing the layers of paper that protected the object someone had been willing to kill for.
Oval-shaped, the length of a man's hand, heavy, with a smooth, cool surface the colour of fire…
"It's an egg," Sam said blankly.
"No, really?" Dean retorted, puzzlement making him snappy as usual.
Sam had no comeback to that. He was too confused.
"No dinosaur egg I've ever seen has that colour," he said slowly.
"Who says it's a dinosaur egg?"
"Too small for a roc," Sam shot back.
"It is a rock!"
"I meant the bird, Dean!"
Dean just smirked. If there was one thing that could make up for the events of the morning (besides the company of a pretty girl) it was needling Sam.
"Guess the college girl in Minneapolis is gonna have to wait a while," he said.
There really didn't seem to be anything else to do but research overgrown, fire-coloured eggs and wait for Dad.
Dean had to drag Sam away from his laptop by the scruff of his neck to get dinner. The kid had spent the afternoon glaring at the screen as if it had insulted him somehow. Eventually, over lasagna, it all came out.
"There's only one other thing it could be, but it couldn't," Sam said.
"Which doesn't sound crazy at all," Dean observed.
"I mean there's only one thing it could be, but it doesn't exist," Sam tried again.
"But. The egg does exist."
"Exactly. That's the problem."
"So what is it, Dr. Jackson?"
Sam glanced up at him, pursed his lips briefly, and went back to poking at the unoffending lasagna.
"Sammy, come on!"
"It's just so ridiculous!" Sam burst out.
"Sam!" Dean practically yelled; a number of people turned to look at them irritably.
"Phoenix," Sam said. "It's a phoenix egg. The phoenix egg, the only one there is."
Dean stared at him. "But it doesn't exist," he said rather weakly.
"That's what I just said," Sam agreed, glaring balefully at the laptop bag on the seat beside him, where the egg in question currently resided.
"Although, if it did exist…" Dean said thoughtfully, "… I mean – wouldn't you kill for it?"
The brothers looked down at the bag in silence for a second.
"What would you do with it?" Sam asked at last.
"Sell it?" Dean offered. "There must be someone out there willing to buy something like that. It's probably worth a fortune"
"We could hatch it out," Sam said thoughtfully.
His brother snorted contemptuously. "With our luck, it'd bring down the seven plagues of Egypt on the world or something. Anyway, I thought it didn't have an egg, just got reborn out of the ashes of its funeral pyre."
"Well, there are one or two legends that mention an egg," Sam replied. "And, come on, what else could it be? I've looked into everything."
Dean groaned. This day was going from bad to worse.
It got considerably better when they arrived back at the motel to find Dad's truck in the parking lot. He was waiting for them inside.
Sam placed the bag down on the bed gently as his father and brother hugged; John paused a moment, looking into Dean's eyes, as they drew apart.
"You OK?" He sounded worried.
Dean smiled, a genuine, honest-to-god smile. "Yessir."
John nodded briefly, clapped him on the shoulder before turning to Sam.
"Canada, huh?" Sam said with a grin.
"Haven't had nearly as much fun as you two, by the sound of it," John said dryly after they'd hugged. "So what about this package?"
"Brace yourself," Dean warned cheerfully as Sam sat down and carefully removed the egg from its bag.
John reached out and took the egg from his son, lifting it carefully into the light, staring in fascination at the swirling pattern of colours on the surface.
"What is it?"
"Phoenix egg," his sons chorused, and barely kept themselves from laughing when John almost dropped it in surprise.
"There's no such thing!"
"And yet," Dean said, nodding at the egg. "What else could it be?"
John turned the egg over in his hands for a moment or so before looking up at the boys. "Peter Marshall," he said. "The man who gave this to you, it must have been Marshall. I met him a few times at Jim's – collecting legends about the phoenix was his pet obsession."
"Like Sean Connery being after the Holy Grail," Dean said.
"You tracked him yet, Indiana?" his Dad said dryly.
"Nossir. We were a little busy deciding what the egg couldn't be."
"Well, hop to it, both of you. I'll go over the police station and see if I can get a look at the body, just to be sure."
But Sam, as both John and Dean had almost been expecting, paused in the doorway.
"Dad… what if it hatches?"
John blinked. "The phoenix egg, hatching… well, you're not keeping the bird, that's for sure."
Dean snickered. Sam glared at him. "Dude. I was five, and it was a puppy, not an immortal firebird!"
"You wanted to keep everything we came across, even that Gremlin thing!"
"Oh, you mean the harmless puppet a spirit was possessing, and I did not want to –"
"Boys!"
Both Dean and Sam jumped in surprise. It had been a long time since anyone had been around to interrupt their arguments. Usually they just carried on until the food arrived, or they reached their destination, or one of them started to laugh, or something needed doing… once started, it could go on for hours.
They'd had lots of practice, after all.
"Right," Dean said, slightly embarrassed. Here they'd been looking for Dad all year, and now that John had actually answered the phone and come to meet them he and Sam were acting like he wasn't there. "Sorry, Dad."
John shook his head at them both, caught between regret that he'd missed out on this for months and amusement that they hadn't changed a bit. "What exactly did you find out about phoenix eggs hatching, Sam?"
"All the legends I found that even mention an egg state the phoenix takes it to the city of Heliopolis, in Egypt, where – well, it doesn't actually say, but I suppose it hatches there. The funeral pyre thing… it builds itself a fire of cinnamon twigs and burns itself to ash, from which it's reborn."
"Like in Harry Potter," Dean said absently, shuffling through the papers scattered over the table.
John's eyebrows shot up; Sam bit back a grin. Neither of them said anything, though. Long experience had taught them it was safer that way.
"Theory," Dean continued, finding a page printed off the Internet that showed a picture of the phoenix' pyre, "what if the egg hatches when you drop it in a fire of cinnamon twigs?"
"Better not build one either way," John answered.
"The bad guys'd find a firebird a lot harder to sell than an egg," Sam pointed out.
"We don't even know who they are yet," John said, and remembered the point in the conversation that they'd veered off onto this tangent from. "Go find out about Marshall!"
The boys exchanged a look. "Yessir," they chorused.
John Winchester pulled the sheet back over Peter Marshall's face with a sigh of regret. He hadn't known Pete well, but he'd liked him. The pathologist, a young woman in her thirties, gave him a sympathetic smile.
"Thank you for coming in to identify him, Mr. Thursby," she said. "I realise of course that this isn't easy."
"It's not every day you get a call telling you one of your friends has been murdered," John agreed. "You said he died from a gunshot wound?"
"Strictly speaking the blood loss resulting from the wound, actually. If he'd made it to a hospital in time…"
"I see. But those scratches, on his face and hands?"
The pathologist grimaced slightly. "To be honest I'm not sure what to make of those. They're most likely made by a dog – but how that fits in with the gunshot… well, that's a problem for the detectives, I guess."
And me, John thought. He gave her a faint smile. "Is there anything else I need to do?"
Over the other side of the town, the Impala was cruising along the road out of town into the surrounding woods. Yesterday evening, the Winchesters had been able to get a fair idea of where Marshall had entered town; now they needed to find out what had happened before that. Dad had given them a brief description of the dead man's truck, and while they weren't really expecting it to be parked in a lay-by clearly visible from the road, it was worth a look.
"We've come too far out," Dean muttered, frowning round at the trees on either side of the road.
Sam shook his head. "No sign of the truck yet."
"How far do you think he could walk with those bullet holes?" Dean enquired, turning the car round with a screech of tires that made Sam wince. Sometimes he almost thought his brother should be driving the stunt cars in Bruce Willis movies.
"I don't know, Dean. But neither do you," Sam pointed out. "We've been driving for ten minutes, that's not exactly far, even with a gunshot wound."
"It is if you've got dogs on your heels, are tryin' to hide from the guys who shot you and are carryin' a package as heavy as that egg," Dean replied.
Sam blinked. "Dogs?"
"What else gave him those scratches, genius?"
Sam didn't have an answer to that. As a rule, Dean liked to pretend that he wasn't as smart as he truly was. Sam knew why: people didn't take as much notice of good-looking but slightly stupid small town mechanics as they did of good-looking well-educated college students. And Dean played the former part so well that moments like these always made Sam wince inwardly for letting himself forget, however briefly, that it was just that: a part.
"So to recap," he said at last, "we have a phoenix egg that for all we know could hatch at any moment, a dead hunter, and a bunch of bad guys with dogs who won't hesitate to kill people."
"Bad week," Dean agreed. "Almost as bad as the last one."
"I think Dad was expecting you to call, after Fitchburg," Sam said.
"Hate to disappoint him," Dean said neutrally.
"Nah, you're just no good at admitting to people other than me that you have feelings just like the rest of us," Sam told him. Dean looked across at him silently; Sam raised his eyebrows. Then his older brother shrugged.
"Maybe," was all he said.
"Definitely," Sam told him. Then, leaning forward towards Dean, "Dude… over there. Is that-"
Dean pulled the Impala off the road at once; standing still, the glint of metal through the trees was much easier to spot. Helped that the truck was painted a bright glaring blue, of course.
"Told you," the older Winchester smirked. Sam rolled his eyes as he got out of the car. They grabbed their guns, and a flashlight each (the day was cloudy and dim even out of the trees) and started out towards it.
Even walking along the trail left by Marshall's small truck, climbing through the dense undergrowth for nearly fifty yards was a pain. The stuff seemed to have sprung back into place overnight. Dean swore as his jeans got caught for the fifth time. Sam was already sporting a new tear in his. At least the woods seemed to be otherwise deserted. They weren't all that far from the town, but this road was little used.
"So he was forced off the road," Dean said thoughtfully as they got close enough to see the dents and scratches in the back of the truck. It had crashed into a tree, the hood crumpled and wrapped around the tree-trunk like paper.
"The tires," Sam said slowly, turning on the flashlight and bending to examine them. All four were flat.
"They shot out his tyres?" Dean demanded. "Crap. If the bastards damage the Impala!"
Sam shot him his patented 'what-are-you-talking-about' glare.
Dean smirked at him as he reached over to force open the driver's door.
Inside, though, there was nothing that could help them. The truck had obviously been cleaned out; Dean couldn't find a single scrap of paper.
"Guess we'll never know how he found the thing," he said, pulling his hand – and most of his arm –out of the glove compartment and dragging himself back up onto the seat. "… Sammy?"
"Dean," his younger brother said carefully from outside, "you any good with dogs?"
When Sam didn't pick up after John called his cell, he wasn't too worried. Sam had a long history of ignoring his Dad's calls, so it wasn't exactly an unusual experience. But when Dean let his phone ring out as well, John knew they were in trouble.
He started to quietly curse at himself. Pete had found the boys so easily, why not his pursuers? He shouldn't have sent them off on their own. Demons, they could fight. People were something else entirely. John had always done his best to keep them both away from most of the hunting community, shield them from the knowledge that humans were capable of more evil than a Prince of Hell sometimes. As a result, neither Dean nor Sam had ever killed a human being (that he knew of). They weren't ruthless enough for this sort of job.
Mary would have had a fit if she'd seen her Impala sitting abandoned on the roadside like that. John half-expected to find a ransom note.
Leverage, he thought as he fit the egg (with some difficulty) into the pocket of his jacket. Then he slipped the safety off his favourite .45 and started moving towards Pete's tuck. There wasn't much point in creeping around; the truck wasn't far from the road, and if they were still there, they would have certainly seen him pull up. Inconspicuous vehicles didn't seem to fit well with the Winchesters.
Of course. That was how Pete had found the boys. Half the hunters in the States knew John Winchester had given his beloved Chevy Impala to his oldest son when the boy turned sixteen.
When he saw Pete's truck, he bit back a laugh. The last time he'd seen it, it had been a shabby dark brown; maybe having a memorable car was a side-effect of being a hunter.
But he still didn't know who they were.
Glimpsed from the road, Pete's truck seemed to be abandoned, but up close John could see the glint of firelight on the crumpled hood and sides. Behind the tree, then. He moved forwards, making as much noise as possible, and found a sight that made a shiver of rage run through him.
There was a small clearing of sorts a few yards beyond the wrecked truck, where a sizeable fire had been lit. A huge black dog sat not far from it, still as a statue, watching him. Four men stood around the fire: three bully-boys for the dirty work, judging by the guns they carried, and a man in an expensive, well-cut suit and overcoat. Younger than John by a few years, he had blonde hair, a deep tan and bright blue eyes that appraised the older man carefully as he stepped out of the trees.
Dean and Sam were kneeling in front of the fire on the opposite side to their Dad. One of the bully-boys, who was sporting an impressively swollen nose and obviously broken hand, was standing behind Dean, cradling a gun in his left hand and looking murderous. Both John's sons had fresh bruises on their faces, and Dean's jacket had been ripped at the left shoulder, presumably by that beast over there.
"Ahh," Don Corleone said as John came into the light. "Mr. Winchester? My name is Donnell."
"Can't say I'm pleased to meet you," John retorted. He crouched down slowly and placed the .45 on the ground at his feet. Don't antagonise the guy holding a gun on your sons, John. "Did you kill Pete Marshall?"
Donnell smiled faintly. "No, I'm afraid Michael here was responsible for that," he said, indicating the man to his left. His accent was sharp and educated, the accent of a New York lawyer or Wall Street broker.
"Why?" John asked bluntly.
"He… managed to acquire something I have been looking for for some time, and refused to sell," Donnell replied. "I'm not used to being denied, Mr. Winchester."
"Spoiled brat," Dean cut in; John shot him a glare. Donnell actually laughed.
"I must say, Mr. Winchester, I'm quite impressed with your sons. Aside from Tony's obvious injuries, they also killed my Anubis."
"The second dog," Sam explained. "Dean shot it."
John tried to fight not to grin, but then he gave in to the impulse. Anubis had been the name of Dean's favourite stuffed puppy, before the fire. Mary had chosen it for his second birthday.
Dean glared at his Dad. "Not funny," he said.
"How did they manage to get that close to you in the first place?" John demanded. The boys exchanged slightly embarrassed looks.
"Mr. Winchester," Donnell interrupted, "The egg, please. You and your sons will, of course, go free, unharmed."
"How did you know my name?" John asked softly. Dean pulled a grimace. Shouting was something all three Winchesters did quite a lot when they got into an argument. When Dad went very quiet and calm like that, it really meant trouble.
Unfortunately for Donnell, he didn't know that.
"I have my resources," he said dryly. "I am a very rich man, Mr. Winchester."
"I didn't ask about the contents of your bank account," John said, still quiet.
Donnell pursed his lips briefly, looking for a moment like an irritated child, and then shrugged. "Among Mr. Marshall's papers was a list of contact numbers. I had the people checked out; quite a few of them were wanted criminals, missing, or even presumed dead. Only one of them had two sons in their twenties."
"You've been watching us?"
"If you hadn't been so careful to stay in public places all yesterday – and this morning, of course – this could have been over by now."
John nodded slowly. This just kept on getting worse. There was no way he could hand a phoenix egg – the phoenix egg – over to a man like that. And he needed to get his hands on that list. In all likelihood, half the hunters on the continent were featured on it. He couldn't afford to let it fall into the wrong hands.
Then his eyes caught Sam's across the fire, and his youngest made the slightest of nods towards the fire. John remembered what they'd talked about last night: what if the egg hatched when you tossed it onto a fire?
But what about the cinnamon?
"Mr. Winchester," Donnell said, an edge of impatience in his voice. "The egg, please."
John reached into his jacket and began to ease it out. "Why do you want it?" he asked, more to buy time than anything else.
Donnell gave him an unbelieving look. "Are you kidding? Do you know how much that's worth? I'm new to this business, I must admit, but a certain businesswoman of my acquaintance has estimated it at amounts you can't even imagine!"
"Oh, I don't know," Dean drawled quietly. "I can imagine quite a bit."
"What did you say?" Donnell said sharply, looking down at him rather than at John, who chose that moment to toss the egg onto the fire. Over Donnell's shriek of "No!" echoed the crack of a gunshot as John dropped to his knees, snatched his gun off the ground and shot the remaining dog between the eyes. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sam tossing something into the fire; it looked like powder of some kind. It also cost the youngest Winchester his reaction time; the third as-yet-unnamed bully-boy punched him viciously. John shot him in the shoulder.
Dean had taken the already-injured Tony down without much trouble; he was lying on the ground out cold while Dean held his gun on Michael, who seemed unsure just who he should be helping as Donnell was crouched over the fire, trying to reach the egg without getting burned. "Back off," Dean said softly. "Drop the gun."
Sam rolled to his feet with a groan of pain. John moved over to him, still holding the gun on Number Three. "Sammy, you OK?"
"Broken nose," Sam rasped. Dean shot him a glare. "Again!"
What?
"When you get your ass kicked by a shifter that looks like me, I'll be just as sympathetic," Sam retorted. At least, John thought that was what he said.
Then Donnell's agonized cry broke into the conversation.
"Don't you realise what you've done?" Everyone turned to the fire. There was the egg in the middle… or was it? The swirling colours of the shell blended so well with the flames it was hard to see.
"Of course," John told Donnell. "What made you think you could just sell it off like any piece of rock?"
"It's not alive!" Donnell shouted angrily. "It's thousands of years old, how could it possibly be alive? It's a fossil! A piece of rock that could have made everyone in this clearing very rich, you fool!"
"It's hatching," Dean said.
He was right. Thin red cracks were appearing in the surface of the egg as the flames licked at it, long glowing lines that grew out and branched off each other. Then, without any apparent effort, just a little shudder that rippled across the shell, the egg fell apart.
At first it seemed like a ball of flame had been sitting inside the shell; then, after a minute, it stretched and shifted, growing into the shape of a fiery bird like an eagle. Its head was on a level with Dean's waist already, and John got the impression it hadn't stopped growing yet. Donnell let out a yell and scrambled backwards away from the fire. The Winchesters were all staring in awe.
"It's beautiful," Dean breathed. As if the phoenix had heard him, its head turned to him, long neck stretching upwards. Its eyes were the most brilliant emerald green. Slowly, it began to move, wings unfolding, walking to the edge of the flames. The phoenix' head turned again, looking all around the clearing, surveying the scene before him.
Then, with a whoosh of flame, it leaped effortlessly into the air and circled the clearing once or twice.
"It's still on fire!" Sam exclaimed. John realised he was right; flames were crackling in the phoenix' feathers and dancing along its wings. It seemed to leave a trail of sparks behind it in the twilight; but that might have been imagination.
Didn't help that it was almost too bright to look at, like a small sun moving around the heads of the group of men by the fire, its outlines blurred, all the colours of its feathers running together in a blaze of redyelloworange tinged with blue, shifting, dancing, flickering, never still, like the fire itself.
John got a shock when it crossed the clearing to hover in front of him and Sam for a moment, and he found himself looking directly into those emerald eyes. There was no mistaking the intelligence in that gaze.
"I think it's saying 'thank you'," Sammy whispered. John, not moving or looking away despite the heat the firebird radiated, nodded slowly. The phoenix swept over Donnell's groveling form, paused briefly before Dean as it had before his father and brother, and then, with one last circle of the clearing, it began to spiral upwards through the trees and into the darkening sky, looking like a firework at New Years, before it turned towards the east and faded rapidly into the distance.
Not until the phoenix' light had faded away for good did the Winchesters finally remember Donnell and his thugs. All four looked simply terrified – Donnell in particular. John guessed
"What… what…?" he stuttered helplessly, still on his back in the undergrowth.
"That, Mr. Donnell," John said sarcastically, "was a phoenix. The phoenix, actually."
"It was dead!" Donnell exclaimed. "She assured me… dammit!"
"Glad you cleared all that up for us," Sam snarked.
Donnell hardly seemed to hear him. He was gazing upwards after the phoenix, looking enraged and frustrated. Dean's description of him as a spoiled brat hadn't been all that far off.
John looked over at Dean; his son looked awed, and a bit shaken. When he met John's eyes, he started to smile. "Wow," he said softly. John nodded, struck by how much younger that smile made Dean seem. Not to mention the look in his eyes: awe and wonderment replacing Dean's usual cynical amusement.
Sam was watching his brother too, with a faint smile pulling at his mouth.
Then Number Three made a move towards Dean, trying to take advantage of his distraction, and the moment was gone as Dean swung round and brought the gun back up into his face.
"Stay where you are," he said softly.
"Sam," John said quietly, "head back to the truck grab the rope out the back."
"Yessir," Sam murmured, getting to his feet and slipping away through the trees. He wasn't gone long.
Twenty minutes later, Donnell and his thugs were sitting tied to a tree. John had knocked out the thugs first; now he crouched down in front of Donnell, the gun hanging loosely in one hand.
"One more thing before the police get an anonymous tip about the identity and whereabouts of the men who killed Peter Marshall," he said quietly. Behind him came a yell from Sam as Dean set his nose – they were bickering again.
Donnell really wasn't very good at this. He was sweating now, and looked terrified. But at John's words, some measure of confidence came back to him. Bribery and blackmail were probably all in a day's work for him. "How much?" he asked.
"The list," John replied, itching to hit him. "The list of contacts you took from Pete. Where is it?"
Apparently, Donnell hadn't been expecting that. He looked confused. "Why do you want that?" he said blankly.
John raised his eyebrows. "You haven't figured it out? So much the better. Now tell me where it is, or the police'll find a corpse tied to this tree when they arrive."
Donnell swallowed hard, and tried for 'overconfident James Bond bad guy'. "You'd kill me? In front of your sons? I thought you were the good guys."
"Sammy," John said, not looking round, "take Dean back to the cars and check his shoulder. Cuff him to the steering wheel if you have to."
"Dad!" Dean protested, but he followed his snickering brother out of the clearing.
John turned back to Donnell. He would dearly liked to have asked about this 'she', and how Donnell had come to be involved with the supernatural in the first place, but there wasn't time. "As for being the good guys… if you checked me out you know I was in the Marines. I've killed before, and I'll do it again if that's what it takes to protect my sons… and my friends. Now tell me where that list is."
His quiet, even voice struck a nerve with Donnell. Or maybe it was the long, glinting, wickedly sharp knife in his left hand. John didn't know and didn't care. "My hotel room. Number 23."
John shifted his grip on the .45 and hit the man over the head with it, knocking him unconscious. Then he left the clearing, following the boys.
"It doesn't even hurt," Dean muttered as Sam wound the bandage round his shoulder. He hated being fussed over.
"The sooner you sit still, the sooner it'll all be over," Sam said soothingly.
Dean glared at him, and Sam grinned. "Some evening we've had," he said, and smiled slightly as wonderment flickered through Dean's hazel-green gaze again.
"Yeah," Dean said quietly. "That was… it's not often we see something…"
"… good," Sam finished. Dean nodded slowly and looked up as Dad joined them.
"Everything OK?" he asked.
"It's not so bad," Sam said, finishing up at last. "At least it's not the same one as before." Then he grimaced, realising what he'd let slip.
"Why, what happened?" John wanted to know. Dean glared at his brother. The last thing he wanted Dad hearing about was the time a family of Texas Chainsaw Massacre wannabes had kidnapped them both.
"Nothing serious," he told John, and something about his look made his father nod slowly and leave it be.
You've got no one but yourself to blame that you don't know about it, a voice whispered in John's mind. It sounded disturbingly like Mary's.
"So... now what?" Sam asked, breaking the growing, awkward silence.
"You boys get outta town," John told him. "I'll get that list and call the cops."
Sam and Dean exchanged a quick look. "Then…" Sam said slowly.
"Then I'm going to head back north, and you two are going to keep doing your job," John said firmly. Sam grimaced, turning away slightly. Then he looked back at John. "Dad, I –" he started.
Dean caught at his sleeve pleadingly, and John shook his head. "Not yet, Sammy," he said. "I'm nearly there, son. Every day I get a little closer… but not close enough. You gotta have a little patience here."
Sam looked mutinous, but Dean pulled at his elbow again, more insistently, and he subsided. It was late, dark and cold out here, Dean was hurt, and now wasn't the time to start a fight. Besides, he knew he'd lose. If Dad didn't want him along, he wouldn't be going, and that was that.
John looked relieved. "OK," he said softly. "You got anything back at the motel?"
"Ten minutes, then we're gone," Dean said quietly.
John nodded. "Let's go then."
Back at the motel, Dean checked them out and packed up while Sam and John broke into Donnell's room and ransacked it, taking every last bit of paper.
"Looks like some guy in Boston found the egg in his back yard," Sam grinned. "I wonder who buried it there?"
"Don't suppose we'll ever know," John answered. "How did Pete find it?"
"Doesn't say. Probably pure coincidence. Then Donnell got wind of it."
"Wonder how?"
Sam shrugged. "Maybe that businesswoman he talked about? And how does a guy like that find out about our business anyway?"
John shrugged. "Same way as everybody," he said. Sam knew what he meant: he'd been attacked, or seen something, or lost someone. There were only so many ways you got into this… field of expertise.
They worked in silence for another few minutes, John gathering papers, Sam quickly dissembling Donnell's laptop. Then he straightened up with a faint grin and pulled his gloves off.
"Done," he announced. John pushed a last bundle of papers into a bag and turned to him. "Me too," he said. "Let's go."
Outside, Dean was loading his and Sam's bags into the Impala one-handed. He looked up as John reached over to help him; Sam had gone to make the anonymous phone call to the police. "Got everything?"
"Everything there was to get," John replied. "Can't help but wonder who else might have seen that list, though."
"Nothing we can do about it one way or the other," Dean pointed out.
Sam wandered over with a faint grin. "All done. Our charming friends are going to have a lot of time on their own to think about what they saw back there."
"Think they'll tell anyone?" Dean wondered.
"Who'd believe them?" John asked dryly. "By the way, Sammy, about your nose… what were you doing when he hit you?"
Sam grinned wider, and reached into his jacket pocket to pull out a little glass bottle. "Thought one of us should be prepared," he laughed. John held it up in the yellow glow of the streetlights: it was a now-empty bottle of cinnamon powder.
"Cinnamon powder?" Dean said. "Cinnamon powder? It's a bit… well, ghetto for a phoenix, isn't it?"
"Dude. We performed an exorcism on a crashing plane, and you think cinnamon powder is going ghetto?"
"A crashing plane!" John yelled, nearly dropping the bottle; then, a second later, he shook his head. "No, don't tell me. I don't want to know. Just… just beat it before the cops get here."
"Dad," Dean said as he turned to the truck, "Dad, uh… about Fitchburg? Everything went OK, you know."
John looked over at him, his expression unreadable. "I shouldn't have put you in that situation in the first place," he said quietly. Both his sons knew he didn't mean the hunt in Fitchburg.
Only one way to answer that, Dean decided. "I can deal with any situation," he bragged, cocky and arrogant as ever.
Moment over. Insert coin here.
Sam wasn't impressed, Dean could tell, he was shaking his head exasperatedly at his older brother, but really, who was Sam to lecture him on paternal relationships? It'd have to do.
Anyway, Dad was smiling at the both of them. "I know," he said.