Glory, Montana off I90
A woman, in her mid-30's, pulled out an elaborate set of keys out of her purse as she chatted playfully on her cellular phone, standing with her back to a heavy brown painted steel door.
"Honey," she said. "Don't worry. The prep for this won't take that long." She paused for a moment, listening to her husband on the other end of the line while tossing the keys lightly in the air. "I know, I know. It's late. But I need to do this."
Squinting her eyes at the setting late-summer/early autumn sun, she sighed. "It is…" checking her watch, "six thirty now. If I don't call you, pick me up by ten, okay?" Nodding to herself, she fingered out an over large key with "front door" engraved on it, slipped it into the dead-bolt lock with a quick "Bye I love you", and snapped the phone shut.
She hummed while climbing a ratty set of anciently carpeted stairs. Steep as they are, in her gleeful freedom from both her children and husband, skipped up two steps at a time into the empty building known as the town's only community hall.
Built in the 1920's, it has seen its fair share of union rallies, wedding receptions, and evacuees when the forest fire situation got exceptionally bad. The woman, Dana, was known to be the only decent cook in the small town of Glory, Montana, population 400 and volunteered her time and services to cook for the hall, which couldn't afford to employ her full-time. Not that Dana minded.
With a quick flip of a switch, a loud buzz swooped through the building as lights slowly flickered on. Dana strode briskly into the kitchen, tossing her purse onto a counter idly next to a stereo that began to belch out music on its own. Within a quick moment, she was chopping vegetables, dancing, and signing- not a care in the world. Alone in her own little universe is where she wanted to be…
…and then she heard the sounds of giggling children, or was it just one child, coming from the hall.
Putting down the knife and straightening her posture, she lent her ear to the sounds beyond the hum of the kitchen's lights and stereo. Nothing.
"Oh for…" she said with a sigh.
Peeking out the kitchen's door, she shouted a loud "HELLO?"
No reply.
"Oscar? Girls?"
No reply.
Her lips narrowed with her brow. "Now is not a good time for this… don't people know I have work to do?" she mumbled under her breath.
"If I have to NEVER visit Seattle again, it will be too soon" Sam moaned hunched over, nursing a bruised shoulder (Dean would say it was the ego that was bruised), watching the horizon disappear through the passenger mirror, and feeling around his back pack blindly at his feet.
Fists clenched around the worn steering wheel, Dean grinned with mock frustration. "I hear ya. If I see one more busker wearing plaid- I'm shooting them, and then myself."
Sam let out a slight "tcha".
"Okay… just them."
The Impala flexed its way through yet another 90 degree turn leaving the peppering of white crosses that lined the highway far, far behind.
"I just never thought Wiccans could be so, I dunno, violent." Sam flipped open a dollar store worthy notebook and jotted down a few notes.
Keeping his eyes on the road and darkening skies, Dean surmised "Yeah well, these weren't what I'd call normal tree-hugging, happy Wiccans who're all 'merry meet' and 'blessed be'…" he shivered at the thought and cast a quick glance over to Sam, hoping to see his younger brother still wussing out about his shoulder, "what're you doin'?"
"Huh?" Sam focused his eyes in concentration at the severe lack of light in the car.
"I said, 'What're you doin'?' 'cause it looks like you're writing something down."
"Thank you Captain Obvious. But" he straightened, putting down his pen, "I've decided to take a page out of dad's book. It wasn't exactly stupid of him to start writing down everything that is going on, ya know?"
"So?"
"So I'm just saying that it might be helpful in case we start noticing patterns and…"
"… I don't care but I'm not going back to Seattle."
Sam chuckled. "Look, its getting really late. I mean, we don't really know where we're headed so we might as well crash somewhere soon and, ya know, maybe get a bite to eat."
"First smart thing I've heard you say all day. Man, I'm bushed." Dean threw his head back with exhaustion. "What's the next closest town?"
"Well," said Sam sighing "according to the map, not for another 150 miles yet."
"That sucks."
"Yeah…" Sam leaned his head onto the window to watch the landscape zoom by. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a small row of lights sprinkled in the not-so distant distance. "Hey Dean, check it out!" And he pointed toward the lights as he slapped Dean's arm. "What do you think that is?"
"I dunno." Leaning forward, chin to the wheel, he squinted to make sense of the lights. "Didn't you say there was nothing on the map?"
"Yeah but… HEYSTAYONTHEROAD!!"
The Impala's wheels bit the gravelly shoulder angrily.
"Christ, Dean!!" Sam slammed back into his seat as the vintage muscle car came to a halt not a second too soon. Looking to his left, a hydro pole was less than a foot from his door. "That was close."
Dean cursed under his breath. "Sorry, baby." Getting out of the car to survey the damage, he spotted a dirt road to the right off the highway less than 50 feet away. "Hey Sam!" he turned and motioned for his brother to join him.
Sam raised his hands in futility and jerked with his head to bring attention to the foot thick and 15 foot high pole that was blocking his door.
"Heh." Dean chuckled. "You're still alive, aren't ya?"
Sam rolled his eyes.
"Looks like we found our yellow brick road!" Dean surmised as he climbed back into the car, after, of course, spending at least ten minutes assuring that no damage was done to the Impala.
"Yeah, great." Said Sam curtly.
"Oh, cheer up McMoody. Let's check this place out. I'm sure they have at least one room to lend us for the night."
"Denied?!"
"Yes, sir. I'm afraid I don't have any details, but I can't accept your card." A middle-aged man leaned toward Dean, one hand threateningly splayed out on the counter in front of him, the other with Dean's latest credit card pinched between his thumb and index finger. His worn eyes looked firm, yet kind.
"That's great. Just great." Dean tightened a fist and looked to Sam who shrugged helplessly.
"I spent the last of our cash filling up at that gas station."
"Listen, Mister, ah," the man took a look at the card, "Tully, I can't help you out for tonight, but if you're looking to make some cash…"
Dean nodded with a smile to Sam. "It's okay. Just point me to the pub here in town."
"Young man, we do not condone gambling here in Glory, so I suggest you take my advice or leave." He tossed the card onto the counter and stiffened as he tapped the sheriff badge, which was conveniently next to his still splayed hand.
"Heh, yeah. Small town, eh chief?"
"Don't call me chief."
"We won't." Sam muttered quickly as he pushed Dean aside. "Look. We're running out of gas, supplies, and we'd appreciate" he shot a quick irritated look at his delinquent brother "any help we can get."
"Very well." The sheriff/motelier echoed Sam in shooting an irritated look toward Dean.
"There's a man who lives in the brown house just over there," he pointed through the window, "who owns a small farm just a mile behind the house. His name's Barrett, Oscar Barrett. His wife disappeared a couple of weeks ago and hasn't had the time to tend to his business. Go talk to him tomorrow morning and tell him that Bob sent you two to help. The pay won't be that great, but it is better than nothing, right?"
"That's great!" Sam smiled genuinely and shook Bob's aged and worn hand. "Thank you very much. We'll" again shooting another dagger-like look to Dean, "be good."
"Scout's honour!" shouted Dean from the door.
Leaving the splintered door behind, Dean grabbed Sam roughly by the sleeve. "Now where the hell are we supposed to sleep tonight? No poker?!"
Sam nodded toward the Impala.
"No, the two of us can't sleep in there."
"Dean, it's cold," he said with a slight shiver, "and I'm not about to sleep in a cardboard box."
"Aw, come on, Sam! Where's your sense of adventure?"
Sam slapped Dean in the arm, "right" he opened the car door, "here".
The early morning sun swam through the foggy mist coating the inside of the windshield and reached Sam's contorted body lying along the front bench seat. He shivered slightly, grasping his jacket to pull it tighter around his shoulders but it only exposed his back, pulling up his shirt in the process. Sam whined as the cold dawn's air kissed his exposed skin. Sniffing the around to clear his nose, he awoke with a jolt, sat upright, and banged his head on the steering wheel.
"What the hell?! Dean!! What'd'joo eat?!"
Rubbing his forehead, Sam pulled the collar of his shirt up and over his nose, looking around for something to throw at Dean.
"Jesus Christ, we're hot boxed in here!!" he unlatched the door and tumbled out backward.
"Sam! Close the door! It's cold!" Dean's voice floated from the depths of the Impala.
With his eyes still crusted shut, Dean felt himself being ripped from the backseat and tossed onto the chilled and dewy earth.
"DUDE! What's with you?!" he shouted from the ground, scrambling to find his jacket.
"Dean, have you any idea how badly you stink?" Sam shuddered at the thought and waved his hands around to fan out the car.
For a moment, Dean sat there ponderous. "Was it that bad?"
From over his shoulder, Sam belted an emphatic "YES!"
"Coooool" Dean chuckled. "Ya know, you should have lit something. Blue angels like that don't come along too often."
Sam rolled his eyes. "We should go find that Paul guy…"
Dean stood up and wiped the dirt from the seat of his jeans. "…Or a shower."