Chapter 2

Bobby looked up from his accounts when he heard a knock on the door. Grabbing a weapon, he went cautiously to answer it. It didn't pay to trust to luck when it came to unexpected callers. Hard to tell if it was friend or foe, or foe masquerading as friend. A silver knife slipped up his sleeve and a flask of holy water in his pocket, he opened the front door a crack. A total stranger stood on his porch wearing coveralls and carrying a clipboard. "Can I help you?" Bobby asked. The name Leon was stenciled on his front pocket.

"I got a car to deliver here," Leon said. He had dark hair and dark eyes, and looked completely ordinary. Bobby opened the door a cautious few inches more. "I hope you ain't gonna junk her, though. She's a sweet ride."

"Let me see this car," Bobby said suspiciously. He stepped out onto the porch, closing the door firmly behind him.

They walked down what used to be his front yard, Bobby keeping a wary eye on the stranger. "Seriously, man, if you do plan to junk her, I'd just like a chance at buying her first. I probably can't afford her, but if she's just going on the junk pile, there's . . ."

Bobby lost track of what the man was saying after that. He walked slowly up to the car on the back of the tow truck and put a hand on one rear wheel, wondering what in blazes it meant. "No way in hell this car is being junked," he said sharply. He whirled, surprising Leon into a flinch. "Where's the paperwork?" he demanded.

"Right here." Leon handed over the clipboard. "What is it? You look like you seen a ghost."

Bobby glanced down at it, and his jaw set as he read. He looked up at Leon. "Did you see the guy, this Elias Ashmole?" he asked. What a 17th century alchemist was doing sending him a car was beyond him, but whatever.

"Nuh uh," Leon said, shaking his head. "So, she's not being junked?"

"No, this car belongs to a friend of mine." Bobby shook his head, staring up at it. "Put her down gentle, 'kay?"

Looking a little flustered by Bobby's manner, Leon got to work. He lowered the car with great care while Bobby looked through the paperwork for any sign of what had happened. There was nary a clue. Just an order to deliver a black '67 Impala to Singer's Salvage Yard, Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Bobby watched Dean's baby gently hit the ground, then signed the receipt on the clipboard. Leon ripped off the part that was Bobby's copy, gave him a single key, and took one last look at the car. "She sure is a beauty," he said.

"Thanks," Bobby said, now anxious for the guy to be gone. He glanced at the sky. "Looks like there's going to be snow soon. I'd head out if I were you."

Leon looked up at the cloudless sky. "Snow?"

"See that stuff over there, kind of looks like mountains?" Bobby pointed towards the horizon.

"Yeah."

"Those are clouds, and they'll come in fast. Weatherman predicted storms all afternoon." He clapped an alarmed Leon on the back. "Drive safe."

That got rid of the driver fast. Alone with the Impala, Bobby walked over to it and started looking it over, first a quick glance to see if there were any obvious clues. Nothing in the front seat, nothing in the back. The trunk, though, the trunk was the real shocker. It was clean and completely mundane. No sign whatsoever that anything illicit had ever rested there. Not even a hint of spilled rock salt.

Bobby shook his head. He distinctly remembered the first time he'd seen this trunk, and it had been anything but clean then. He dug in his pocket for his cell phone and dialed Dean's number. He hadn't seen the kid in months, but they kept in touch the way hunters did, sporadically. The call went straight to voicemail, and Bobby heard that cocky voice instructing him to leave a message. He shook his head and killed the phone.

He walked up to the front of the car. Maybe it was some kind of sick joke, someone had found a perfect '67 Impala and sent it to him to see how he would react. In the right mood, Dean might do it himself. He opened the front passenger door, sat down so that he was still mostly outside the car, and opened the glove box. It was empty apart from one item. A single white envelope that looked pristine. No dust, nothing to indicate that it had been there for longer than a day.

Bobby didn't want to touch it. He got up and started going over the car with extreme care. It was astonishingly clean. Not just the trunk, but the backseat, the front seat, the floorboards. There wasn't a potato chip back or a straw wrapper. No stains, no dirt, nothing.

Then he noticed a green army man jammed into one of the ashtrays and his heart jolted in his chest. That told him this wasn't a sick joke even if it made him feel sick to his stomach. Slowly, he walked back around the car to the front passenger seat and looked into the glove box. Reaching in with a shaking hand, he pulled out the envelope. Black ink, spiky handwriting that he recognized from seeing John write in his journal years and years agone. It said Bobby.

Inserting a finger under the flap, he tore it open gently. There was one sheet of paper inside and a tiny bit of yellow powder. Bobby's heart started to beat faster. He unfolded the note and braced himself for bad news.

Bobby,

Dean's gone and the demon took him. You can dance around me singing I told you so later, but not till after we get Dean back. I'm heading to California to get Sammy. He's not safe if the demon is going after the kids now. You were the only one I could think of who had any real way to store the car, so I'd appreciate you taking care of it for me.

John

Bobby took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Not just bad news, catastrophic news. Dean was gone, taken by a demon. Did that mean he was possessed? Or abducted? And if the latter, did John really think there was any chance at all of getting him back? Bobby shook his head. If he did, he was deluding himself.

But how like John to disregard the fact that Bobby both could and would help with something like this. He could keep his shotgun in abeyance long enough to help John track his son down. On the other hand, he had sent the sulfur. That was one of the things that had led to their falling out in the first place. John hadn't wanted to believe in demons. Even presented with clear proof, he'd refused to accept that they existed. When Bobby had suggested that the smell of sulfur in Sammy's nursery was a clear sign that a demon had killed Mary, John had been livid. The fight that had followed was best not remembered, but John had stormed out with both his boys. He'd come back later, but they'd both avoided the subject of demons.

Maybe John was asking for help indirectly. Weird to think that sulfur from a demon might be seen as a peace offering. But indirectly was about the only way John knew how to ask for anything. He might order or demand, but not ask. Or it could be a trap. A demon could have taken John or Dean over and be playing some convoluted game. Bobby looked at the note again, then shook his head. He wasn't stupid enough to think he was sufficiently important to any demon for them to play this kind of game with him.

He folded the letter back up, stuck it in the envelope, folded that in half and stuffed it into his pocket. Closing the door and the glove box, he slid over to the driver's side of the car and turned the engine over. It roared to life, just like it was new. Bobby felt heartsick. Dean was a good kid, one of the best, and his father had never given him the credit or the attention he deserved. When John had talked about protecting his sons, the one he'd talked about was Sam, not Dean. Like Dean could take care of himself, or like he wasn't important. He threw the car into gear, his teeth grinding together. If that's what he'd thought, he'd learn now.

Bobby closed his eyes and forced himself back under control. Dean wouldn't thank him for ramming his car into a pile of debris. Besides, he knew it wasn't true, he knew how much John loved both those boys, but he had to be mad at someone, and John had certainly earned the position over the years they'd known each other.

Opening his eyes, he drove the car into the back of the lot. Then he walked back to the house for a tarp, so he could cover it up. With some effort, he resisted the twist his mind took, comparing the covering of the car to the covering of a body after death.

Before going back with the tarp, he pulled his phone out again and dialed. This time he was calling John. The phone rang three times and then it went to voicemail. Bobby cursed and almost hung up again. Mastering his emotions, he waited through John's message and the beep before speaking. "John, it's Bobby. The car's here. Think you could have called to warn me? Call me when you get this message." He hung up the phone and grabbed the tarp.

Sam sat on the chair beside his bed. His father had wanted to leave as soon as the exorcism was over, but Sam didn't think he could just leave Jessica behind like that, without any explanation at all. So here he'd sat for hours, fidgeting with the ridiculous talisman he'd given his brother for Christmas in 1991. He'd rinsed it off in the bathroom sink, and a lace from one of his dress shoes now formed the string.

He glanced at the clock. It was almost ten, now. He didn't know if the girl inside the body even knew him, but he couldn't abandon her without making sure she was going to be all right. Dad had gone off to the store to get some supplies while Sam waited for Jessica Moore to wake up, wondering if he'd ever even met her.

The first sign she was awake was a groan, but after a second, she sat up sharply. Once upright, she clutched at her head and nearly slumped back, but Sam leapt forward to support her. She barely seemed to notice him.

"It's gone?" she murmured incredulously. "It's gone!" Then she bent over her knees and began to cry. Sam got up and got her a glass of water, some painkillers and a roll of toilet paper.

"Jessica?" he said hesitantly, and she looked up at him, eyes wide and streaming, mascara making black tracks down her cheeks. "I don't know . . . I just thought . . ." He held out the toilet paper. She took it and started wiping her eyes and struggling to control herself. Sam didn't know what to say or do. He just stood there stupidly with a bottle of Tylenol in one hand and a glass of water in the other.

Finally, she looked up and stared at him. "Sam, right?" she asked, her voice rough with tears, and Sam felt his heart sinking. "You were in Renaissance history with me."

Sam nodded. He hooked the chair over and sat down. "Is that all you remember?" he asked.

She shook her head, her shoulders shaking as she strove once more to control her tears. "No, I . . . I was aware some of the time. I just . . . it never thought of you by name." She looked down and realized that she was on the bed that they had shared – that he had shared with a demon possessing her body. She scrambled off like it was on fire and stood shaking against the wall. "Oh my God, it was real. It was all real, and I . . . and you . . ." She stared at him, and he wondered what she was thinking. "I can't stay here," she said. "I can't . . . not with you . . ."

"I'm not staying," Sam said, and she blinked at him. "My brother is missing, I'm leaving with my dad to go find him."

Jessica's eyes went distant for a moment, then she shook her head. "I think your brother is screwed," she said, looking up at him.

"What?" Sam took a step forward, but Jessica flinched back when he moved, so he stopped. "What do you know about my brother?"

"That's it," she said. "Honestly. It knew something was going to happen to him, but not what." She seemed to notice the little gold medal she wore around her neck. "What the hell is this?" she exclaimed, starting to yank it off.

Sam raised a hand, and she gave him a startled, frightened look. "It's an anti-possession amulet," he said softly, trying not to alarm her any more than he already had. "My dad put it on you. It should keep whoever that was from coming back."

Jessica looked down at the little thing, then clasped her hand around it. "So, I'm guessing I shouldn't take it off?"

"Not ever," Sam said, nodding. "You want some Tylenol?" he asked.

She nodded, and he held both the bottle and the glass out at arm's length. She took them, carefully not to touch him in any way. "Well, even if you're not staying, I can't. I can't live here where it . . . where . . ."

"I get it," Sam said hurriedly so as not to force her to finish the sentence. "I don't think I could either, and I didn't –" He broke off. "Anyway, I . . ." He turned to the dresser and pulled out the top drawer. Dad had left the ring box where it was. He picked it up, closing his hand around it. "Look, you're screwed financially with this whole deal, and I'm really not, because I'm not going to need an apartment for a while."

"So? It's not . . . you didn't do it on purpose."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, but –" He broke off. His dad had arrived in the room, and Jessica looked at him with a weird combination of alarm and gratitude.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you for getting that thing out of me."

John nodded brusquely, then turned to Sam. "You ready to go?" he asked.

"Just a minute," Sam said, quelling a brief surge of annoyance at his father's high-handed manner. He held out the ring box towards her.

"I am not going to marry you," she said, her eyes widening.

"I'm not asking, but I don't want the thing, and it's worth almost a thousand. Sell it, flush it, I don't care." That put him in mind of something else. He tossed the ring on the bed and dug in his pocket and pulled out the cash. "Here, I saved it for . . . it doesn't matter. I don't need it."

She shook her head, not taking it. "There is no way on God's green earth that you don't need that kind of money."

Sam shrugged. "Well, you need it more. Between this and the ring, and my leaving, you ought to be able to break the lease on this place and find something else."

"You're leaving without your stuff?"

He glanced around at the crap he'd accumulated over the past three years. He'd already grabbed the family photos and other mementos that meant anything to him. "None of it matters. Anything you don't want, sell or give to Goodwill." His father was being surprisingly quiet during this. Sam wondered why he didn't weigh in with an opinion, or a demand for speed.

Jessica shook her head. "If I do that, I'll look like a total bitch."

Sam glanced around again, this time seeing the ruins of the life he'd tried to build. It was like the Jessica he'd known had died – or rather like she'd never existed. Earlier he'd done everything he could to avoid burning his bridges, but now . . . Sam ground his teeth. Let them burn. "Tell people anything you want that won't get me arrested if I come back to town." She stared at him blankly. "If I'm a cheating bastard who abandoned you for some babe, leaving you to pay rent on this place by yourself – anyway, some story like that and no one will blame you for selling my stuff."

Jessica blinked at him for a long moment, then took a deep breath. "I'll leave it when I move out," she said decisively, but this time she took the money. "Wait, if I use you as my excuse to break the lease, it will screw your credit." John snorted, and Sam glared at him.

"It doesn't matter," Sam said, turning back to Jessica. "Just do whatever you need to do to take care of yourself, and forget about me. I'm not your problem." He looked down. He figured they had to both still be in shock or they wouldn't be anywhere near this calm. He took a deep breath. "My cell number is on the fridge. Keep it if you want, and call me if you ever need anything. Especially if something weird happens. We . . . my family deals with that kind of crap."

"I know," she said, and he blinked at her. She shrugged. "Because the . . . demon knew, and it thought about it." She gulped, clearly near to tears again. Sam didn't know what to tell her.

"We've got to go," John said, stepping forward out of the doorway. Far from being annoyed with his father, he was almost grateful. John gazed solemnly at Jessica. "I'm sorry to leave you like this, Miss Moore, but we've really got to go." He held out his own card. "And if you don't feel comfortable calling Sammy for any reason, here's my contact information."

Eyes wide, she took it. "Thanks," she said, sounding lost.

Sam didn't know what else to say. After a moment of just standing there, staring, he turned and walked out of the room. He could hear his father's footsteps following him, but he didn't turn until he'd left the apartment. There he stepped aside and stopped. He had no idea what his dad was driving these days.

John didn't pause, he just kept going, and Sam followed him to an unfamiliar truck, a black GMC Sierra. He swung into the cab and slammed the door shut.

"You okay, Sammy?" John asked.

"What do you think?" Sam growled.

Wisely, his father didn't say anything else for a long time. He just got onto Highway 101 and drove north.