(From the private journal of Jocelyn Murphy)
9:45 p.m., Oct 22
Dean and I are still in New Orleans. Job's done, we're supposed to meet up with John, but we haven't heard from him since we went to California. That was two weeks ago. This is bad.
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10:50 p.m., Oct 27
It's been almost three weeks since John went to California and still no word. We called everyone who might have heard from him. Even my dad. Nothing. It's been too long. Dean's worried, won't say it, but he is. So am I.
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12:45 a.m., Oct 31
Dean got a voicemail today – yesterday – from John. All J said was that something big was happening, we need to be careful, we're all in danger. . . Nothing about where he is, no details of what he's hunting, but there was EVP on the voicemail. We cleaned it up, got "I can never go home." Sounded like a woman. D's more worried now. Don't think he can wait much longer. Good.
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BANG BANG BANG.
Pause.
BANG BANG BANG.
Dean waited again, looking over his shoulder at the half-full parking lot. His eyes spared no time landing on Impala, the only halfway-decent car at this roadside hole-in-the-wall of a motel. Jocelyn's motorcycle sat close by, and the need to burn some rubber flared up in Dean, so he whirled around, pounded on the motel door some more.
BANG BANG –
It opened. Jocelyn appeared.
Dressed in sweats and one of John's old shirts, with her dark hair a mess and her face set in an I-was-sleeping-you-asshole grimace, she could have passed for any other sixteen-year-old unexpectedly roused. Except for the dagger hanging from her hand.
Dean grinned. "Happy Halloween."
"Bite me." She leaned against the frame, flinched against the sunlight. "You scared the hell out of me. This is why we get keys to each other's rooms, you know."
"Couldn't find it," Dean lied. He hadn't been thinking very clearly this morning, had only wanted to get on the road.
"You could've called my phone."
"God, you're irritating when you whine. Look –" He nodded at the Styrofoam cups in his hands. "I brought you coffee. Now shut up."
She sighed and wiggled fingers at the offering. He gave her a cup, she took a long sip, rubbed her mouth and then her forehead, and guilt tugged at Dean the whole time. She was too pale. Grey bags had made themselves at home under her eyes. Maybe –
No. He had spent most of last night and most of this morning thinking over today, and he wasn't about to change his mind now. Couldn't. "Chug that fast. We need to go."
"John?"
"Yep." Not a lie. His plan to get Sam was part of his plan to find John. He just wouldn't explain the connection to Jocelyn until he had her miles away, in a diner somewhere, too late to turn back.
"Give me ten minutes."
"Hey, brush you hair!" he called as she shut the door. "I'm not lookin' at that all day."
There was a loud bang that rattled the doorknob, and Dean figured something had just been chucked at his head.
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(From the private journal of Jocelyn Murphy)
10:30 a.m., Oct 31
Dean got me 7:00 this morning. Handed me coffee and said let's roll. I thought we were going to Jericho. Wasn't until we were at a diner for some late breakfast that he said "Stanford" and I realized what his plan was.
I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't listen. We're going to get Sam. Dean says he deserves to be a part of this.
I argued some more. Nothing. I told him fine, I'll just go to Jericho on my own, because I want nothing to do with Sam, not after all this time. But D went all John on me and said hell no, he already couldn't find his dad and he wasn't about to let me out of his sight, too. Which was kind of sweet, but infuriating. The whole thing's kind of infuriating.
He's jumping to this too fast. He and I could find John on our own. Sam hasn't hunted in years. And he probably doesn't give a damn about John.
But Dean won't listen to me.
I don't like this.