Angela went out to the employee parking garage; as she had earlier, she spun her keyring around on a finger but with significantly less energy now. She found her metallic silver Jeep Patriot in its usual parking spot. They say that you can tell a lot about a person by looking at their car and Angela Devaney was no exception. A small sticker on the Jeep's back windshield declared her allegiance to the New Jersey Devils hockey team; her license plate frame bore the Coast Guard motto "Semper Paratus." The interior was uncluttered and a tropical-scented sandal air freshener dangled from the rearview mirror.
She got into the front seat and rubbed her eyes vigorously. Angela was extremely grateful that her father's real estate connections had been able to help her find an apartment in Cherry Hill, which was 5 miles away. Otherwise, she'd probably just lock all her doors and curl up in the backseat. Maybe not the safest plan, but she had a sidearm. Angela hooked up her iPod to the stereo, turned it to "Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ya" by the Dropkick Murphy's, and cranked the volume as loud as she could stand. The blaring bagpipes echoed as she pulled out of the garage.
When Angela got to Cherry Hill, she was even more thankful that her apartment was on the ground floor. She unlocked her door, bolted it behind her, and took off her boots. She practically fell face-first onto her couch and was asleep within a minute.
Back at the courthouse, Dean realized he hadn't heard any activity going on in the Marshals' office for quite some time. He chanced a peek out the small window in the interrogation room door. As impossible as it seemed, nobody was there and the only light was coming from someone's desk lamp. Dean was doubly glad that he had the handcuff key; without it, he and Sammy would've been chained to tables all night.
Dean used his free hand to fish the key from his belt. Once his arm was unlocked, he went to the room next door. Sam startled.
"Dean!" he said. "How did you-"
Dean held up the key in response and unlocked Sam's cuff. They walked out into the Marshals' office.
"Dean, we gotta go before somebody figures out they left us up here," Sam said in a hushed voice.
"I'm not goin' anywhere without my keys," said Dean, stepping further into the room and squinting through the semi-darkness at the nameplates on the desks. "Sam, what was that chick's last name?"
When they were brought in, he'd watched Angela put the envelopes containing their property into a drawer that was most likely attached to her desk.
Sam frowned and closed his eyes, trying to remember. "Well, it wasn't a real common one," he thought aloud. "I know it started with a 'D.' DeLuise, maybe?"
"Eh, doubt it, she's kinda hot."
Sam decided not to point out that Dean considered at least 65% of the female population to be on a sliding scale of hotness. He had to focus on the matter at hand. Angela's last name was absolutely "D-e" something. Delano? No, that didn't sound right either. He had a nagging feeling that it was probably Italian, though.
For reasons he wasn't entirely sure of, something suddenly clicked in Sam's brain. "Devaney," he said, snapping his fingers.
"Yahtzee," Dean said.
He was standing by the corner desk where the lamp was still on. Dean liberated some paperclips from a jar and picked the lock on the desk drawer. He grabbed two manila envelopes with their names on them, shoved the contents of both in his pockets, left the drawer wide open, and headed for the door. He stopped in his tracks.
"Shit," Dean muttered. "I don't know what they've done with my poor baby."
He went back to Angela's desk and tore through it, looking for the address and/or phone number of the nearest impound lot. Once he had it in hand, he realized another problem.
"Goddamn it, there must be alarms everywhere. We're in a freakin' courthouse!"
"Probably," Sam agreed. "But I bet they're more concerned with who's coming in here than who's going out."
"Yeah, I hope you're right, Sammy."
Sam and Dean took the stairs down to the lobby, where they were able to walk right out the front door. No sirens sounded. No night watchmen jumped out of the bushes. With a little difficulty, they found the impound lot, which was about a mile away. Noticing that the guard shack was occupied, both brothers produced fake badges from their wallets. They did a little song-and-dance about being state police detectives that needed to drive the 1967 Impala to the local crime lab to process it for evidence. The kid in the guard shack either didn't know it was standard procedure for cars to be towed to the lab or didn't care.
"Think he bought it?" asked Dean in a low voice once they were out of earshot.
"Seemed like the kid was more interested in whatever he was reading than what we're up to," Sam replied.
"Yeah, wonder who that reminds me of." Dean spotted the Impala and ran a loving hand over the roof. "Oh, baby, Daddy's so sorry the strangers touched you."
Sam chuckled. The way Dean felt about the car was borderline unhealthy. They both got into the Impala. Dean started the car and carefully edged through the narrow lot. He tossed a friendly wave at the guard shack as the kid opened the gate for them. Once they were on the main road, Dean revved the engine.
"All right, Sammy, think you can get us back to the motel?" he asked.
Sam nodded, retrieving the maps and a small flashlight from the glove compartment.
"Good," Dean praised, "'cause we're gonna have to grab our stuff and find somewhere else to stay, pronto. They're gonna come looking for us again."
"I dunno if that's the best plan," Sam started. "I mean, we're checked in under McGillicutty anyway. And you never know, the Marshals coulda tipped off other motels in the area."
"Well, then we'll just find an empty house somewhere to squat in," said Dean. "It's not like we haven't done that before."
Sam really didn't like that idea and hoped Dean would change his mind. The odds of that were slim given how hardheaded his big brother was. And besides, nobody ever said the life of a fugitive was glamorous.
