BLACK SHEEP

Chapter 2

The brothers settle into their new home, and find out a little about what lies ahead of them.

Just to clarify ... in my opening a/n (which I have now amended) I mentioned that this story takes place after 6.04, Weekend at Bobby's, but otherwise bears no particular resemblance to canon. For the avoidance of any doubt, this includes the fact that for the purposes of this tale, Sam is not soulless!

xxxxx

Invigorated and refreshed after a very satisfactory, steamy shower in their airy, welcoming room, and sated by a monolithic pile of doorstep sandwiches that could have fed a siege, the brothers sat at a table in the bar, in a nicely tucked-away corner booth, and savoured the drinks Cyril had brought them. "Get yer laughing gear roun' that," he had insisted handing them the pint glasses; "this is a real man's ale this is, not that bleedin' gassy gnats piss you drink over the pond."

It had taken a good few chugs before either Winchester could swallow the smooth, dark liquid without grimacing at the strong, bitter tang, but now, notwithstanding the fact that drinking beer at room temperature was an entirely new experience for them, it was going down a treat, thank you very much.

They relaxed, soothed by the cosy warmth of the bar and each other's company, and watched the comings and goings of the Bridge House's usual patrons.

A lunchtime rush of local people came and went. Executives in suits stood alongside men in overalls and hi-vis vests; groups of chattering secretaries compared stories of their boyfriends and nursed glasses of wine beside retired couples, lunching housewives and a cross section of normal, happy, safe people.

But always were the 'other' patrons.

Those solitary men; rough, broken; old before their days. Sitting at their regular tables, they perused their journals and newspapers with the weight of the 'other' world on their slumped shoulders.

Sam was shocked when found himself feeling sorry for those tired, world-weary men.

Josie's hospitality had briefly allowed him to forget he was one of them.

xxxxx

Their enthusiastic hostess was busy in the kitchen, once again cooking for them.

Both brothers had tried to assure her that they were fine; that they weren't hungry any more; that she shouldn't go to too much trouble on their account; that she should take it easy, after all, she did have other customers to serve … and then she mentioned "London's finest Traditional Pie and Mash".

From that moment Dean was helpless; completely in her power.

"She's makin' pie dude," he muttered gleefully, kicking Sam under the table just in case he hadn't heard the first seventeen times Dean had felt the need to point it out.

"Yeah, I know," replied Sam; his dwindling attention suddenly stolen by the heavily patterned wallpaper beside him. Peering closely at it, he was both amused and impressed to find tiny devil's traps woven into the ornate flocking.

If he had been in any doubt that this was a hunter's retreat, he wasn't any longer.

"DUDE!"

Sam jerked back to face Dean, and couldn't help but smile when he saw Dean's face alight with a joy that Sam saw all too rarely across his brother's features. It fitted him so well.

"Pie, dude, MEAT pie!" Dean was practically salivating at the thought.

"You really do need to get your pie fixation addressed by a professional," Sam suggested with a grin.

They both looked up as Josie walked toward them juggling a handful of cutlery and condiments; "on it's way boys, she smiled, "ruffling both their heads; "I've made special cowboy-sized portions for my special guests."

Two pairs of worshipful eyes smiled up at her.

"Marry me Josie," Dean sighed; "divorce Cyril and marry me instead."

She laughed out loud, cuffing Dean round the back of the head; "don't you go teasin' a lady, you cheeky bugger; I might just take you up on the offer."

Sam watched her as she turned back to the kitchen, shooting the boys a wicked grin as she did so, and comfortable warmth spread through his body. Looking across the table he could see Dean watching their hostess go, his face softened with a deep affection; something which Dean guarded closely and didn't give freely.

They'd never met anyone like Josie before.

Sure, she was playing Dean's game and giving him a run for his money in the flirting stakes, but her urge to smother and care for her charges was overwhelming.

Sam realised that with the exception of the care he had received from his brother through his childhood, this was the closest he had ever got to being mothered. He smiled as he thought how he could get used to this. In fact, he almost laughed when he thought that Josie could be far more dangerous than anything the Winchesters had ever hunted; he'd never heard of a creature that got it's hooks into you and loved you to death.

Now he totally got why Dean missed their own mom so very much.

xxxxx

It was only moments later that they looked up to see Josie walking toward them carrying two steaming plates.

Craning his neck eagerly Dean peered across the room toward her and saw – yes – pies; and not just any old pies - BIG pies.

"Pies Sam," he spluttered in excitement, inhaling deeply of the luscious aroma of the beef pie; "is that a thing of beauty, or what?"

Placing the tray on the table between the brothers, Josie passed the plates, heavily loaded with fluffy mashed potato and a crown of golden pie crust sitting atop a mound of juicy, steaming beef mince, between them. She stood back and watched with amusement as both brothers stared down at the meal, not entirely sure how to respond.

Dean's beaming pie-induced one thousand megawatt smile evaporated and crumpled into a vaguely disgusted frown.

Eventually he spoke up timidly.

"It's green."

He looked up at Josie in horror; "the gravy's green!"

She laughed; "you daft sod; it's not gravy, it's parsley liquor"

Dean shook his head; "parsley … what?"

She laughed; "parsley liquor; parsley, chicken stock, vinegar, butter, pepper … and a few secrets;" she winked, "my own special cowboy recipe – that'll put hairs on your chest that will!"

Dean prodded the green liquid with his fork suspiciously; "how do you know I want any hairs on my chest ... or anywhere else for that matter?" He asked sulkily.

Josie raised an eyebrow that suggested she would have no reservations about finding out.

Not sharing Dean's inherent aversion to putting anything green anywhere near his mouth and, buoyed by Josie's reassurance, Sam decided to take the plunge and tucked in enthusiastically.

He looked up, grinning a hamster-cheeked grin; "oh dude, you should try this," he mumbled wetly, "it's awesome!

Withering under Josie's stern gaze, Dean picked up his fork, and timidly forked a lump of the pie into his mouth.

almost instantly, his furrowed brow smoothed as his face melted into a sighing, eye-rolling mask of pure unbridled pleasure that was verging on pornographic.

They didn't even notice Cyril walking toward them with a large folder under his arm and two fresh ales.

It was time to talk business.

xxxxx

Cyril at least had the decency to wait until the boys had finished shovelling their meals into their faces; the look on Josie's face had suggested his life depended upon it, but he didn't have too long to wait before he had their attention.

"Right," he began; "what do you boys know about Jack the Ripper?"

Dean thought for a moment, draining his second pint energetically; "psycho douchebag, carved up lots of women about a hundred years ago?"

"Yeah, and he was never caught," added Sam confidently.

Cyril nodded slowly. "That's about right boys," he smiled, "but, here's a thing; did you know that, according to the evidence available to us, Jack was only active for three months?"

The brothers looked up in astonishment.

"No," they exclaimed in unison, "three months?"

"Yeah, ain't bad is it?" Cyril asked rhetorically; "in the space of three months you earn yourself a reputation that's still going strong well after a hundred years."

He gestured toward a spotty youth behind the bar and within a moment, three more pints of ale arrived on the table; much to Sam's chagrin. Not a regular beer drinker, he'd run out of steam after a pint and a half.

"Oh yeah," Cyril warmed to his theme; "Our dear old London Town's like any mother. She's bred plenty of good folk, clever folk and decent folk, but she's also produced her fair share of black sheep. An' they never came no blacker than Jack."

"His first victim was poor Mary Nichols on 31st August 1888. She was a penniless prostitute from the East end of London," he began; "he slit the poor woman's throat then basically dissected her."

The brother wrinkled their noses in disgust.

"He cut out her intestines; wrapped them round the body, took out various other organs too."

"Like I said," Dean grunted around his beer glass; "psycho douchebag."

"Three more victims throughout September 1888," Cyril continued; "all prostitutes, each similarly eviscerated, except one; Liz Stride. Her body was found intact except for a slit throat. It's generally accepted that he was disturbed before he could get started on her."

Rooting around in his folder, he handed some black and white post-mortem photographs of the victims to the brothers who looked at them with horrified revulsion.

"The final victim was poor little Mary Kelly," Cyril continued; "a pretty young irish girl. She came to London to find her fortune, and fell into prostitution. All she found was that evil bastard."

Cyril took a long draught, draining half his glass in one hit.

"He killed her in the privacy of the little room she rented; had all the time in the world to work on her."

Pausing as if swallowing back a nausea, he hesitated before continuing.

"What he did to that poor woman," Cyril whispered; "he practically dismantled her. When the police found her remains, what was left was barely recognisable as a human being. Just … blood and bones, and internal organs spread all around the room."

He handed the final devastating photo to the brothers who looked at it stunned into silence.

"It's like pack of wild animals got her," croaked Sam.

"No," Cyril shook his head; "that's the terrifying thing; it wasn't wild or frenzied, it was calculated, done with surgical precision." He stared at the Winchesters, "this wasn't someone who felt the red mist come down and lost control, this was someone who set out with the distinct purpose to plunder and destroy a living human being for no better reason than he wanted to do it."

"What then? Dean prompted, licking the froth from his drained beer of his lip.

"Then?" Cyril replied; "then, nothing."

"He vanished. Never caught, never found, never killed again."

"Oh …" Dean tailed off vacantly.

"And do you know why?"

There was a shaking of heads.

"Because," Cyril stated; "Jack the Ripper was a demon and my great-grandfather was the one who exorcised the bastard and sent him back to Hell."

He sat back and enjoyed the reaction as Sam choked into his beer.

"All the contemporary reports were contradictory; they said he was left handed, he was right handed, he was a chinaman, a jew, a tall Englishman in a top hat, the Queens grandson, the royal physician, a tanner, a butcher, a baker, a bleedin' candlestick maker; the fact is, he was all or any of those things," Cyril snorted; "because he was a demon and he was possessing different people, like the evil bastards do."

A brief silence fell across the table as the brothers tried to take in what they had just heard.

"There's something else …" Sam prompted quietly, not sure he was going to like what he was going to hear.

"He was rotting down in Hell where he belonged for a hundred and twenty years …" Cyril sighed sympathetically, knowing that the brothers wouldn't like what he was about to say; "and then the devil's gate got opened, and he was one of the demons who escaped."

He saw the Winchesters flinch.

"He's back in London, boys - and he's active."

xxxxx

tbc