She watched them out of the corner of her eye as she worked in the garden, the sun beating down onto the back of her neck. The woman was in a grey power suit with her hair swept back, and the man beside her was similarly dressed, however looking quite out of place and uncomfortable. She noticed that the pair looked like they had their poker faces on, and she knew at once that they meant business.
Standing, she pulled off her gardening gloves and brushed herself down. As the duo noticed her noticing them, the woman cocked her head to the side as though she was sizing up her prey and the man attempted a smile, the muscles in his face twitching as though he wasn't used to using that particular expression often.
"Oh no." She said to herself aloud. The vultures are hovering ALREADY? "Hi there." She smiled politely and offered her hand out as they got to the front gate.
The man shook it. "Hello. May I assume I have the pleasure of addressing the delightful Bree?"
Alright, she'd admit he was a smooth one. And hell, not bad looking either. Pity he wasn't, like, twenty years younger. Or even ten. "I'm Bree."
"Nice to meet you, Bree. I'm Doctor Sam Ferris, and this is my associate Doctor James Brown." The woman said. The corners of her eyes crinkled as she spoke, and there was a no-nonsense air around her. Bree decided she liked her. But still…
"You got some ID? Like, my old man's super-conscious on the security scale and it'd be a real drag if he smoked someone that didn't, like, need shooting." Any other time, it would have been funny. But the sheer earnest way the girl said it made Dr Ferris and Dr Brown exchange looks before reaching for their wallets.
Bree scanned the IDs that they offered. Dad insisted that all strangers identify themselves, but there was no way in hell she could spot a fake even if she was staring at it. Leyland Stanford University.
"Hey, aren't you guys, like, a little too old to be students?"
"Stanford likes to stay equal opportunity." Dr Brown said dryly.
"Anyhow, what would you guys be doing all the way down here?"
"We were actually hoping to see your father. Is he in?"
That was it. The girl's face closed and became hard. "Hey, what do you two, like, want? Dad's pretty out of it most of the time, right? And we're not selling the business. So if that's what you're after, you better clear off."
"I've actually met your dad a few times. I was hoping I'd get the chance to see him again before…" Sam Ferris left the sentence hanging, and Bree felt her blood rush to her face. Before…
"He's not in his right mind, most of the time." She said miserably. "But I'm sure as heck he would have mentioned it if he'd ever gone to Stanford."
"We didn't meet at university." Ferris said gently, offering no further information, and Brown nodded his assent. "Please. Only five minutes." As Dr Ferris held up her hands, trying to look innocent and Dr Brown standing mute with his hands behind his back, Bree gave in.
She sounded so darn earnest.
"Alright, yeah. C'mon in."
"Thank you." Ellen Harvelle said soberly, and looked over her shoulder at Bobby Singer. He shrugged a little as they followed Bree into the house.
"Just don't ask him about the shop." Bree warned. "Don't, like, even bring up the possibility of him selling the shop."
The shop in question was only next-door. Her father liked to boast about the fact that it had been in the family for five generations. Five generations. But now Bree was off to drama school, her big brother had scored some great corporate job three states away, and little brother was presently absent. None of the family knew exactly where.
But Dad refused to sell the shop.
As Dean proceeded to stalk around the room thumping at the walls, Sam continued his computer search. Many other filenames seemed completely nondescript, and there were thousands of them. He skimmed down the list hoping something would catch his eye and stand out against all the other mundane folders. And one did.
Do you believe.doc
He opened the file.
Sam & Dean
I've re-typed this several times in the last two hours, hoping to get it right. Hoping to put down all the facts. It seems unbelievably trite to write 'if you've found this, then I'm already dead', but I believe that is what's going to happen. Or at least, I can only hope that death is all I have to worry about.
I've deleted every document off this computer, but left the temporary files existing in a backup format. If you're as smart as I've heard, you shouldn't have too much trouble getting past the security protocol.
So to work.
In 1835 Samuel Colt built a gun for a hunter. No one ever figured out who the hunter was, but Sam wasn't so secure.
He stopped reading. He had never heard anyone ever call Colt just Sam before. Maybe bad luck was somehow associated with the name. "Hey Dean, get over here."
When the hunter died, some lore says that Sam took the Colt and hid it, half to protect his family and half so that we wouldn't loose our only advantage over Hell's demons. Either way, the Colt wasn't seen for centuries later, when it resurfaced in the hands of a certain Daniel Elkins.
She knew about Daniel Elkins! How long had she been watching them?
We all know what happened from there. You and your brother used the last original bullets, opened the Devil's Gate (you're still gonna get an ass-kicking for that, by the way), and the Colt rode with you for a while before the delightful Miss Talbot stole it. But not to be outdone, you pair go and steal it back. Genius.
And now every devil and his mother know you have a demon-killing gun. Even Dean must realise that wasn't a very good move.
But I'm not talking about the Colt.
"What's up, little bro?"
"Check this out."
I'm talking about the blueprints. The notes. The formula. HOW COLT DID IT. Think of it. We could make our own arsenal. Our own weapons. Our own Colts, without relying on the help of a demon who may or may not be evil (yes, I know about her too. Ruby, was it?)
Now the lore I've found states that when Colt's hunter friend was killed, he divided up the blueprints among his allies, each of them taking one part of the documents. He devised a map, and it was cut into sections. When brought together, the map leads to the last of Colt's notes, and I believe it lies with the descendant of Sam Colt himself.
At this moment, you're wondering why I'm telling you this. This evil bitch that wants you dead, but didn't kill you when she had the chance. What's her game? It is not just me and my companions that are after the notes anymore, there are others too. You have to stop them from finding the key, the last Colt. The notes can't be allowed to fall into their hands.
Following is a list I have compiled, of Sam Colt's more casual acquaintances. All those who worked on this with me are listed in my journal, which is in the bookshelf behind Batman. If you can, warn them that they are in danger and they need to lie low.
It is a shame that I never got the chance to meet you properly, I think I would have enjoyed the chance to speak to you without the threat of impending disaster looming over all our heads.
PS: Tell Dean he should wear that red shirt more.
PPS: When you find your way out, tell the barman that you're working for Darcy.
Captain S. Wandell.
Jo was feeling good. Her spirits were high and she actually hummed as she caught the bus, but she knew that most likely she would become once again dour and depressed the moment her and her Mom stood face to face.
It wasn't that they particularly loathed each other; it was more like both women felt like they had let the other down spectacularly, and they had yet to discover how to face up to that perceived disappointment.
If Jo passed through LA without dropping in on her mother to say 'hey', Ellen would kill her. Mom would find out. She always found out.
The bar looked pretty much like it always did, and there was this real Roadhouse feel to it. Jo felt like she was home. People that had known her since she was a little girl, or younger folk that had worked jobs with her shouted their welcomes, or tossed their heads in acknowledgement. This was where she belonged.
"Hey, Ruben. What's up with Rock and Smoke?" Jo sidled up to a tall, dark-skinned man that was leaning against the bar. She indicated to a pair of old men that looked even more bitter than usual.
"Ah, those pair are all pissed 'cause of these smoking restrictions in bars they're trying to bring in."
"The crap's hit the fan 'cause they have to go outside for a fag? My heart bleeds." Jo replied. "Hey, my mom around by any chance? Thought I'd drop in before I dropped out again."
"Leaving a trail of devastation in your wake?" He didn't miss a beat.
Jo didn't reply. "Mom?"
"You missed her by about ten minutes. You probably drove past each other in the street. Her and Bobby went off somewhere. Said they were off to see a old friend. 'While they still could', she said."
"Sounds ominous."
"She was thinking of calling you."
"Oh, yeah?"
"But she reckoned you wouldn't have picked up the phone."
I probably wouldn't have. "So you're stuck watchin' the bar?"
"Nah. She's got the new fella to do that."
"The new fella?"
"Him in the denim. Cooks a mean steak."
Jo peered back over her shoulder to the man Ruben was talking about. He wasn't much taller than her, with a slight build and brown hair that just wouldn't sit down. As he walked back across the room with a tray of knifes, he caught her looking.
"You must be Jo." He shouted across the ruckus.
"I must be." Jo shouted back. He was really kind of cute, even though he had to be maybe seven years older than her.
"I'm AJ." He said, dumping the knives on the countertop.
"Hey."
"Hi."
"Nice to meet you."
"Likewise."
"Your mom's told me a lot about you."
"Don't believe any of it."
"So…"
"So?"
"Can I get you a drink?" He asked.
1981
"Oh my gosh, you'll look so hot in this."
"Danny Bastion will be so eating out of your hand,"
"My god, where were you when I got over Danny?"
"Hiding under the nearest available rock."
"Hey, it was cool there."
All three of them laughed. You rolled with the punches, didn't you? Polly helped Veronica fold the peaches-and-cream dress back into its box. "I bet that cost a pretty penny."
"A whole pay packet." Veronica said proudly.
"Are you mad, girl?"
"I could ask you the same question." Veronica stabbed a perfectly manicured finger. "And why, I ask, is darling Ellen, the school's sweetheart and the girl every mother wants their son to take home, not going to the dance?"
"You're not going to Homecoming?" Polly was aghast. "That's, like, a teenage right of passage!"
Ellen shrugged. She brushed down her skirt. "Lately dances don't do much for me anymore."
"Hold her down Poll, she's possessed!"
And Ellen laughed with the rest of them, because she didn't know the truth. Not then.
"Is it about Tommy?" Polly asked sympathetically. "It's about Tommy, isn't it?"
"No." Ellen said defensively. "Dad's back."
Both girls winced. They knew a little bit about Ellen's dad, a strange man that would appear suddenly and disappear just as suddenly. Ellen's mother seemed to loathe him with a fiery passion, but when she had a bit too much to drink (which was a lot of the time, lately) she'd cry and demand to know what she'd done to loose him.
Ellen hoped that she wouldn't ever become as broken and bitter as her mom. Life was screwed up enough already.
"Mom's making me spend time with him before he ships out again."
"Low blow." Veronica winced.
"Too bad."
"Tell me about it." Ellen said. "Catch ya on the flip side."
"Later."
She watched her friends walk away before turning to head up her own garden path. Then something caught her eye.
There was an open sign on the long-derelict store next door.
Ellen propped her chin up on the fence railings. There was a name stencilled roughly into the brickwork. Darcy's Daemons. She had no clue what a daemon was, but it sounded cool.
A car pulled up in front of the store. She recognised it and bobbed down behind the fence so she wouldn't be seen. He came out, ladling his arms with books. He was tall and way up on the 'hot' scale, his dark hair swept back expect for once curl that draped rakishly over an eye. Ellen pulled in a breath. She hadn't seen many sophomores up close before. They tended to steer away from the younger students.
Even as she wathced, he tripped, books flying. Cursing, he knelt down to gather them all back up. God, even his swearing voice was sexy. Go girl. Ellen told herself. Get over there. Give him a hand.
He looked up as she awkwardly started up the path, and she glanced away from his piercing gaze. She reddened, hoping he didn't notice her checking him out. Wordlessly Ellen knelt and helped to gather the last few books.
"A little light reading."
"Huh?" She looked up.
"A little light reading." He indicated his books, and Ellen's heart skipped a beat. He was smiling at her. "Thanks." A cute sophomore guy was smiling at her! She almost looked over her shoulder to see who else was there.
"No problem." She squeaked.
Please don't notice how embarrassed I am.
"Bill Harvelle." He held out his hand, and calluses and blisters caught at her smooth palm. Ellen wondered whether sitting around looking cool was really that strenuous.
"I know. I mean, I've seen you at practise."
"Huh. You watch the game often?"
"Sometimes." Ellen admitted shyly. "Hey, how about you carry half and I'll carry the other half?"
"What?"
"The books?"
"Oh, yeah. Sure." He surrendered some of them to her, almost reluctantly. "You live near here?" He asked, leading the way to the store.
"Next-door on the left."
"Girl next door. I like that." Ellen went red again as the sophomore laughed. Was it her imagination, or was there an almost manic edge? Nudging open the door with his foot, he held it open with his elbow and ushered her inside. "Milady."
"It's nice to know I have my own cheering squad. I didn't know I was that well liked." He continued.
"You're the most popular senior in high school! Everyone likes you."
Another chuckle, the agitated undertone slightly more pronounced. "They like the Bill that they see on the surface. That's the popular one. If they saw me on the inside, they'd freak." He said darkly.
Ellen swallowed. That sounded funny, and she edged away from him a little bit. Bill Harvelle caught the small gesture.
"I'm not about to do a school massacre, if that's what you're thinking." He said casually. "Merely stating that if I saw a counsellor for my collective personality flaws, he'd be the one coming out clinically depressed."
Ellen smiled, and looked around the store. There were rows and rows of books, some glossy new prints and others, older, larger, dustier, and definitely more obscure. At any other time, she would have wandered over and taken a look. In fact, many of the books she was holding looked incredibly unsuitable for a student of any age.
"Boy, have you got my books? If you have damaged them, I swear I will kick your arse from here to – oh, hello."
A man appeared framed in the staffroom doorway. He wore thick-rimmed glasses and a tweed jacket, but somehow didn't look any the less bumbling for it. The librarian from hell. Ellen hid her giggle behind her hand.
"You brought a friend." His smile was slightly too wide, and his cheerful tone slightly too forced, and Ellen inched away, stepping into Bill's shadow.
"I guess I did." Bill said.
Then the man held out his hand to Ellen. "Theodore Darcy." He said solemnly. "Pleased to make your acquaintance."
"Charmed." She said. "Ellen."
"Girl next door." Bill said with some amusement and Theodore Darcy peered at him disapprovingly at him over the rims of his glasses.
"Put my books back." He instructed shortly, before turning his back on them. Bill shrugged and raised an eyebrow at Ellen, indicating that the stuffy old book dealer was often, if not always, like that.
"I'll go put these away." Bill said. "You – go browse."
"Oh, okay."
Hands in your pockets. That was the first thing Ellen's dad ever taught her, when he drove them up to coast to the house of a strange man called Fletcher and his dozen cats. The house had been filled with so many wonderful things, but Fletcher had warned her that they were made pretty so folk would touch them. And they'd get into trouble.
Dad had weird friends.
"Bill, your mother is on the phone." She heard Darcy shout across the room.
"Hi, Mom." Ellen turned away, not wanting to eavesdrop on his conversation.
It wasn't long before he hung up the receiver. All expression was carefully washed from his face. He looked older, somehow. "I've got to go." He said, running a hand through his hair. "Um, my dad's in the, er, army and he's shipping out again." The disappointment must have shown on her face. "Look, I'll look you up when we get back, yeah?" He offered hurriedly.
"Sure." Ellen said gloomily, watching him wave at her and speed off. "See you."
There was a hand on her shoulder. "You look like you could use a cup of tea." Darcy said.
She didn't see Bill Harvelle again, at least not for a very long time. In the end, he never really did tell her where he disappeared to for those long years.
What she did know was that Theodore Darcy grew anxious over his absence, and three years after he vanished from town, Darcy knocked on Ellen's door and asked her whether she was willing to learn what he had been teaching Bill.
He asked her whether she believed in demons.