Chapter 3

Dawn broke over Ivory. The sun greeted the gray clouds which politely departed and went on their way, leaving a chill in the air in their wake. The earth was sodden and needed a good wringing out. Dean's precious Impala glinted with dewy raindrops and soft morning light. Both of the Winchester boys lay in their motel beds, catching a few hours of sleep while they could. Neither of them had ever slept particularly well, even as children. Worry about their father became worry about one another which then became Hell

Dean was the first to awaken, and blearily he stared up at the ceiling. Sun light was creeping through the shades of the motel window, sending long shafts of light stretching across his bed. With a hand shielding his face from the light, Dean sat up and looked at the clock. It was 10:07 a.m. He blinked a few times, the numbers steadily coming into better focus. Five hours of sleep.

"Rise and shine, Sammy!" he called gruffly, his voice a little hoarse, tossing a pillow at his brother. Sam jerked awake with a start.

"I'm up! I'm up!" Sam wiped the sleep from his eyes while Dean put a whiskey bottle to his lips and flushed the taste of morning from his mouth, clearing out his throat.

"Really?" Sam raised his eyebrows at Dean, his eyes on the bottle in his brother's hands.

"What?" Dean asked, setting the bottle down and disappeared into the bathroom.

"You know what," Sam called after him, "You're drinking yourself a new kidney."

Dean's head appeared around the bathroom door.

"And?" he said with a toothbrush between teeth.

"And," Sam continued, "Maybe ease up a little? Come on, it's 10 a.m."

Dean sighed. "The bottle's down, Sam. Relax. Can we talk about something else?" Dean wasn't keen on a psyche analysis, though in truth, he never was. Sam looked a little exasperated. "Like, breakfast. I'm thinking pancakes! Pancakes sound good to you?" Dean grinned and disappeared back into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

"Shouldn't we be worrying about the case?" Sam said to the shut door.

"Oh, come on Sammy!" wheedled Dean as he turned on the shower, "Pancakes and bacon! Who can say no to dead pig strips?"

Sam gave a sound of irritation which went unheard over the thundering shower.

Just then there came a hasty knock at the motel room door. Sam looked over at it, startled, wondering who could possibly know where they were. Both brothers made a point of keeping their whereabouts on the down-low. Sam paused uncertainly before slowly walking over to the bed and pulling a handgun out from under it. He carefully pressed the hand with the gun against his back as the urgent rapping continued. With a glance at the bathroom door, Sam inched toward the sound. Squinting, he peered through the spy-hole in the door, and on the other side saw a distorted toss of brown hair. Ms. Porter.

She knocked again, tapping one foot nervously on the ground. Sam gingerly tucked the gun into one of the coat's hanging from the coatrack and opened the door.

"Ms. Porter?" Sam said, slightly surprised, as the woman flinched and clutched her chest. She looked as though she hadn't slept at all that night, disheveled with large blue rings circling each eye. Shakily she looked over each shoulder, and then spoke.

"I don't have much time. Can I come in?"

"Sure. Yeah, um, sit." Sam stood aside, pointing awkwardly to the table on the other side of the room. She nodded and walked to the table. Sam shut the door, looking at her with puzzle in his gaze.

"Where's your partner? Smith…or Reeves was it?" Ms. Porter asked, sitting down, a little feverish. Sam sat down across from her, eyeing the increasing distress in her face with some concern.

"He's in the shower," Sam started, "Is something wrong?"

She nodded.

"Look, I know you boys ain't agents," she said it straight and her directness caught Sam a little off guard, "You're hunters. And I need both your help." Sam straightened up in his seat a little bit.

"You mean the killings." It wasn't a question, and Ms. Porter didn't deny it.

"It's Greta-"

"You mean your daughter?"

"No," said Ms. Porter, shaking her head, "She ain't my daughter. I never birthed her, but I've taken care of her so long I might as well have."

Drifting over their conversation, both could hear Dean singing in the shower. Sam pointedly tried to ignore his brother and gave Ms. Porter a look that was half apologetic and half imploring.

"What do you mean?" Sam asked seriously.

"She came to me years ago," Ms. Porter leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms over her chest, some of her composure returning, "And I knew what she was. I'd worked with others like her. Or I'd seen them at least. Family business. Sometimes you pick one up on accident when you're in the horse trade. They normally come and go, though. But she was needy."

"Ms. Porter, what is Greta?" Sam's eyes met hers. Ms. Porter didn't answer right away, looking out the window contemplatively.

"A Waterhorse," she said softly, "A monster. She's been killin' the men in town. She scares me. This isn't the first town she's killed in." Ms. Porter fixed Sam with a hard look. "I know what you boys do with monsters. And I love Greta, but I can't control her. She don't want to be controlled."

"Look, Ms. Porter," Sam said gently, "My brother and I can handle it, but we need your cooperation." In truth, they could probably get the job done with or without the woman's cooperation, but with would make it far easier.

Ms. Porter was silent for a while.

"Is there any way you can avoid killing her?" Her voice was pleading and her jaw trembled a bit. She looked at her folded arms and hands, unable to meet his eyes as she begged for Greta's life, knowing that the woman probably didn't deserve it.

"We might be able to. But I can't promise anything."

"Well, that's something then," she sounded slightly relieved, "Do what you can." Ms. Porter then stood up, the strong woman from the previous day back in place.

"Nightfall," she said as she strode to the door, Sam walking behind her, "She don't care too much for your brother, was it? Be by the river."

"We'll need to borrow a few things of yours."

"Like what?"

"A bridle, actually. It…might help to save her life. We don't know for sure though."

"I'll leave one by the river. Just be there at dusk." Ms. Porter silently left and Sam shut the door after her, his brow furrowed in thought. He felt sorry for the woman, empathizing with her, but wondering if it was right of him to try and save the monster. He was sure that lore or not, a silver bullet to the brain would do the trick, though he wouldn't voice the hunch to Dean right away. Not if he wanted cooperation. But if the bridle could work and a life could be saved…any life…

The bathroom door swung open and a cascade of steam billowed from it. Dean let out a satisfied sigh, still holding his wet towel in his arms, and looked at Sam, noting his proximity to the front door.

"Did someone come in?" Dean asked, his grin fading a bit as he took in his brother's pensieve expression.

"Ms. Porter," Sam answered, moving away from the door.

"Oh yeah? What did she want?" Dean sat down on the bed, putting on and doing up his boots.

"Well," Sam started, "The little girl we saw wasn't her daughter. She's the kelpie."

"You mean Gretchen?"

"Greta. And yeah, she's the one who's been killing the men in town."

Dean let out a long, low whistle.

"No kidding," Dean finished up his shoes, "I knew she was creepy. So , Ms. Porter want us to ice the thing?"

"Well, Bobby's way is the only thing we've come across, and Ms. Porter agreed to give us a bridle."

"And if muzzling it doesn't work?"

"Silver bullet?"

"Works for me," Dean nodded as he tugged on his jacket, "Have to say, we don't get many cases where the monster lives. Don't get your hopes up."

"I'm not," Sam said, a pulse starting in his jaw, his gaze dark.

"Come on, Sammy, brighten up!" Dean shoved a wet towel into his brothers arms and clapped him on the shoulder, "How 'bout you go shower and then we'll talk breakfast. Pancakes!"

Joshua twiddled his hoe, examining the foliage surrounding him with mild interest.

"So, it's nearly time then," he said to plants and sky, looking up.

He wasn't surprised. He had been waiting for it, preparing for it, for years, centuries upon centuries. Though that didn't make the situation any less difficult or complicated.

"Yes. Yes, I understand," he sighed, nodding slowly, a faint smile touching his lips, "Though, it could mean war, you know." But he was hardly surprised at the notion of war; this tiny planet seemed to only ever be caught in the middle of something catastrophic. But it had to be this tiny planet.

Joshua waited for the response, listening to the voice inside of him closely for further instructions. Nothing stirred in the Garden. No wind blew. No birds or insects stirred. Everything was quiet and still, but Joshua could already feel the unease mounting in the air.

"And he mustn't know?" He listened again, the deep energy coming to him softly, in mere whispers. He could feel his Father waning, his voice barely audible even in this silent garden.

"I will tell them when they appear, rest assured. You put more faith in my brothers than I do. But, maybe I shouldn't be so skeptical all of the time." Joshua sighed heavily, gripping his hoe tightly. He felt old, so old, almost as old as his beloved Father, and wished that some part of him could follow after God once everything was said and done. But his duty would remain here, among the leaves and the flowers, to his brothers and to Man, whatever became of them both.

"I will." Joshua gave his last promise as the voice finished, receding quietly. The angel looked out over his freshly tilled land, the freshly tilled heaven, raised his eyebrows slightly, shook his head, and began to work the ground with his hoe. One thing was for certain, the Garden was the sole sanctuary left for a thousand and one universes; the flowers would always be the flowers, and the leaves would always be the leaves. It was the one place that peace truly existed, and to know a place like that still remained was enough for Joshua's old bones.

"Damnit, Sammy!" Dean said angrily, waist deep in river water. Sam smirked, "Why'd I have to be the bait? It's freezing!"

"She doesn't like you," Sam called to his brother, openly enjoying Dean's indignation and irritation.

"Why me? You're the one with the stick up the ass!" Dean looked around desperately while Sam gave him a look. The younger brother shook his head and stared out into the gathering darkness, the sun's light dying over the horizon. A chill was creeping into the air, and Sam tugged at his jacket, not envying his brother who was looking less and less happy by the second.

"You better keep your friggin' cake hole shut!" A shivering Dean jabbed a finger pointedly at Sam.

"Whatever you say," Sam tried not to look too pleased. Instead, he stooped over to inspect the leather halter Ms. Porter had left behind a large bush. He hoped it was strong enough to withstand a waterhorse.

Sam heard a sloshing from the river and looked up from the bridle to see Dean wading out of the water.

"I thought you were waiting for her to show up?"

"It's a dumb idea. She'll know it's a trap. I mean, who in their friggin' mind wades through a river at night? Crazy people!"

"Well, we are pretty crazy," Sam pointed out. Dean froze for a second, and then gave in. It was true, after all. Normal people didn't come close to doing what they did.

Sam's phone suddenly began to vibrate. He straightened up, pulling it out of his pocket.

"Can it wait? We're kind of in the middle of something?" Dean said, but Sam had already flicked the phone open and had it to his ear. Sam held up a finger, listening hard.

"Wait, wait, calm down! Ms. Porter?" Sam said and Dean was suddenly listening to, coming closer to his brother. "How did you get my number?"

Sam listened for a while, and Dean could hear somebody frantically talking into the other side of the phone. He waited impatiently for the call to end, arms crossed over his chest, legs a little apart to try and relieve some of the chaffing from his wet jeans.

"I'll be right there," Sam shut the phone.

"What was that about?" Dean asked.

"Greta. Apparently she dragged a body home and now Ms. Porter can't find her."

"Great. Look, you go deal with that. I'll wait here and see if the bitch shows up."

"Stay safe."

"You too." Dean nodded to his brother who returned the gesture before hurrying into the darkness.

Dean took a seat on the nearest stump, glad to be out of the water but feeling concerned for Sam. He wished he had a drink to pass the time and the worry, the worry he always felt. But he didn't have a bottle, and so he had to make do.

He picked up a strap on the halter, wondering how on earth you even put it on a horse. Maybe Bobby knew.

Dean withdrew his plastic wrapped, waterproofed cellphone from a shirt pocket (Sam had suggested it), punched Bobby's number into his phone, and waited for the man to pick up.

"Come on, Bobby."

It rang and rang, but went unanswered. Dean snapped the phone shut, cursing under his breath. Why hadn't he asked Sam about the bridle before he'd left?

"Damnit."

He reached down next to the bridle and lifted up the gun loaded with silver bullets, hoping Sam's hunch was right. He revolved the gun in his hands, thinking, rubbed some dirt off of its butt and handle, and then pocketed it.

Almost on cue, he heard something moving nearby, gliding through the water, upsetting the steady trickle. Dean's eyes darted up, though he didn't move an inch yet. He squinted, trying to discern shadow from shadow. Then he spotted something on the opposite shore, a dark mass tucked behind the drooping branches of a tree. The mass was quite still and made no sound, and Dean began to doubt whether he had really heard anything at all. His gaze dropped from the dark patch to scan the rest of the shoreline, and immediately he thought he saw the shadow flicker.

Dean looked back at the low branches, but couldn't tell if anything had really moved, the darkness somehow less dense than before, as if the newly risen moon had dispersed the inky blackness. The hunter withdrew the gun from his pocket, his eyes never leaving the brambles on the other side of the river. He held his position on the stump, a good position as the wood around him granted partial concealment, though that gave him little comfort when dealing with the paranormal.

Dean kept the gun at his side, careful to keep its metal from catching the moonlight.

"I'm not in the trees," came a voice to his right. Dean whipped around in his seat, rising to stand in one fluid motion, the gun pointed at the speaker. The gun fell upon a young woman sitting at the edge of the river, her long brown hair pouring over her naked body. She looked no older than twenty, her skin smooth, pale as death, her eyes sunken, her lips cracked. The woman's hands were balled up into fist before her, clutching the dirt and stone lying around her, mud and gunk oozing between her fingers.

"How eager he is to die?" the woman snickered, "All of you sons of bitches are the same. Pathetic."

"That's my mother you're talking about. You watch that whorish mouth," Dean said coldly, cocking the gun. Her eyes flashed to the weapon.

"You sure that'll work?" she challenged.

"Nope. But I got a way to find out."

The Kelpie slowly got to her feet, river water slowly running down her pearly white body. She took a step forward, her feet barely disturbing the pebbles lining the shore. The woman's arms were spread wide invitingly and a light breeze lifted hair from her neck a torso. She looked beautiful and terrible standing beneath the moon, dark earth caked to her hand and light glinting off of her skin.

"You wouldn't shoot me, would you? You're a gentleman," she cooed, backing up into the river as if to entice him to follow after her, "Why not join me?" She smiled, water lapping around her ankles.

Then a gun went off. Dean jumped, wondering if he had fired the weapon in his hand, but couldn't recall pulling the trigger. He looked around quickly. Bobby rushed from the brush, a gun in one hand and a silver bridle in the other. He fired again, pumping a second bullet into her chest.

The woman fell, blood gushing from her and pluming out into the bubbling river water. Bobby was on her in a flash, hardly giving her a second to realize what was happening. Dean surged forward to assist. The Winchester boy grabbed her arms and pinned them to her sides. She kicked out, writhing in Dean's arms and tossing her head madly. Bobby pressed the harness to her face, forcing the bit between her lips, tightening the straps to her face. The kelpie fought and struggled, but the bullets seemed to have lessened her strength. Slowly, her body began to grow limp until she was no more than a rag doll lying in the water.

"Did that do it?" Dean asked, gasping for breath.

"Should do it. The silver bridle turned her human. Or, least it would have. A bullet alone wouldn't outright kill a kelpie, but a bullet in a person sure would." Bobby answered, a grimace coming over his face.

"How'd you find out about that?" Dean nodded to the silver bridle which Bobby was now undoing from the dead girl's face.

"Called a friend of mine. And glad I did, too. You boys would have been in trouble without it," he said, "And for god sake, you can't say no to a naked woman?"

"I can never say no to a naked woman," Dean answered.

"Idjit."

Just then Dean's phone began to ring. He pulled it out and put it to his ear.

"What is it, Sammy?" he said while Bobby began to drag the body from the river.

"Ms. Porter's dead," Sam answered.

"What?" Dean stood up, confused.

"Greta must have done it…by the looks of things." Sam's voice was a little pained as he was obviously pouring over the body at that very moments.

"Think she might have made the call, too? Wouldn't be the first time a spirit has pulled that kind of crap."

"She might have."

"You alright? Need me to come over there?" Dean asked.

"I'm fine. I can finish up. How about you? You find anything?"

"Yep. Got the bitch."

"S'cuse me?" Came Bobby's voice from the riverbank, loud enough for Sam to hear.

"Is that Bobby?" Sam asked Dean.

"Your brother would have been horse-feed if I hadn't shown up."

"Yeah, that's Bobby," Dean confirmed, "Look, we'll finish up here and come to you, alright?" Dean could tell Sam wasn't as fine as he made himself out to be. Even though death hung on them like a bloodhound, he could hear a faint shock in his brother's voice.

"Fine by me."