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Bill Harvelle's RV is parked with the door leading into the living area pressed up against the wall. Jo sticks her hand out for the key, unlocks the driver's side door, and yanks it open with a rusty shriek. She throws a slim leg up, grabs hold of the steering wheel, and pulls herself inside. They watch her clamor over the driver's seat and into the back, and then Dean meets Sam's gaze with a little half smile, shrugs a shoulder, and plants a boot on the floorboard to follow her.
Sam resists the urge to pull a face. He's not blind to the appreciative looks Dean's been tossing Jo's way. His brother never did know when to keep it in his pants. Honestly, Sam will consider himself lucky if Dean sticks to just looking. He doesn't exactly relish the idea of Ellen Harvelle chasing them off the property with a shotgun, especially when they haven't even gotten a lead on the Colt yet.
The RV creaks and rocks when Sam scoots over the center console to step heavily into the cabin. The inside is musty and dim, a time capsule done up in gray paisley and pine. The faint, pungent smell of mildew twinges in Sam's nose, the remnant of storms battering the RV over the past ten years from the looks of it. Shattered glass crunches underneath Sam's hunting boots, sprinkled liberally over the table and bench seats. The windows on the wall facing the outside are all taped up with plastic sheeting.
Sam's intimately aware of Jo's eyes boring holes into the side of his head from her spot against the opposite wall, so he tries to look as respectful as possible as he scavenges through her dad's stuff for anything useful.
He notices a map of Pasadena pinned up on the wall behind the table, along with a few news clippings about disappearances and wild dog attacks in the area. There's a jumble of papers littering the table, spilling down across the seats and scattering onto the dingy floral kitchen rugs that line the hallway. Sam sweeps as much glass away as he can with his sleeve and starts picking through them.
It's mostly more of the same: A couple of ten year old newspapers made almost unreadable by water damage, another map with Devil's Gate Reservoir circled in Sharpie, along with a handful of bills and a shopping list of hunting supplies that have all been crossed out. Sam shuffles the papers and puts them back on the table in neat stacks.
He pulls open the cabinets but doesn't find anything except dead bugs, a couple of rolls of toilet paper, a case of extremely expired PBR, and what looks like a lifetime supply of beef jerky.
Dean's still in the back going through the bedroom drawers, and another scan of the RV doesn't turn up anything large enough to hide a journal, except maybe the cabinets under the sink in the tiny kitchenette. Jo's wandered over there, now, her hands gripping her elbows, expression unreadable. Sam goes to stand beside her.
She's staring at a handful of old snapshots taped up to the wall. There's a wallet sized photo of Ellen standing outside a shined-up version of the Roadhouse, arms crossed over her chest, her scowl belied by the twinkle of her eyes and the slight quirk at the corner of her mouth. Next to it is a picture of Jo as a little girl in overalls and braids, holding up a fish on a hook next to the beaming face of the man Sam assumes must have been Bill Harvelle. Another photo depicts a slightly older Jo standing beside the road and smiling widely, thumbs tucked into the straps of her Lisa Frank backpack.
Jo reaches out and lightly touches the photo in the center, an old polaroid of a very young, very pregnant Ellen standing up on her tiptoes next to the RV to kiss her husband through the window.
"Mom always hated this thing," she says with a faint smile. "She must have tried a million times to get him to sell it once they moved into the Roadhouse. Pretty sure he just took it on hunts to prove her wrong when she said it was a waste of space."
She gives a sad little laugh, arm dropping back to her side.
"I'm sorry," Sam says softly. "I know it can't be easy having us remind you of all this."
"It's okay," Jo tells him, shrugging one shoulder. "It was a long time ago."
It's not okay, not really. Not at all, and Sam knows it. He knows what it sounds like to swallow down grief, knows what it looks like to when someone's trying to push it away, trying to force it down, and it just won't go.
"Do you mind if I ask what happened?"
Jo blows a long breath out of her nose.
"Hunt gone wrong," she says, voice taking on a twinge of bitterness. "That's about all I know for sure. Some other hunter brought back the RV for us and Mom just… left it where he parked it. Never touched it. Never wanted to talk about what happened. Didn't even want to talk about Dad."
She swallows thickly, fists forming at her sides.
"I think the thing that did it is dead," she says tightly, "but I don't know. And I don't know how he died or why. I'll probably never know."
Sam nods slowly.
"I think I know how you feel."
"Do you?" Jo asks tersely.
Sam turns to look at her fully and nods again.
"The demon we're hunting killed my mom," he tells her. "I was just a baby. When I was growing up, my dad and my brother never wanted to talk about her either."
Jo stares at him with her eyebrows drawn together, fists unfurling. In the bedroom, Dean fumbling has gone quiet, and Sam shoves away the thought that he's listening in.
"That was their way of dealing with it. I get that now," he continues. "But I think not talking about it made it worse, because then it was like she was just gone. There was this big empty space in our lives where she used to be, but we couldn't acknowledge it. Couldn't deal with it. When I was a kid, I used to think all kinds of stuff, like maybe they didn't want me to talk about her because it was my fault she wasn't around."
He has to shut his eyes against a sudden surge of emotion, takes a second before continuing.
"I thought not knowing was worse than anything," he says. "But I was wrong. The worst thing is knowing what happened to my mom, knowing that it's still happening, and not being about to do a damn thing to stop it."
Jo is silent for a long moment.
"Wait here," she says, smacking a palm against the cracked linoleum.
She walks past him and climbs out of the RV. Sam watches her trudge across the yard towards the tool shed through the back window.
Dean turns from where he, too, is watching the window to look at Sam, brow furrowed.
"Bupkis in here," he gravels, holding up a pack of cigars he'd fished from under the mattress before tossing it onto the bedside table. "You find anything?"
"Maybe," Sam says distractedly.
Dean doesn't push him on it. Sam's brother is a smart guy. He's probably thought of the same possibility Sam has.
"Hey, Sam," Dean says instead, back turned as he pushes things back into the drawers at the base of the bed. "What you said just now? About Mom? I didn't—"
"I know, Dean," Sam cuts him off. "It's fine."
"I mean, it's just… I couldn't…" Dean trails off. Sam can hear the frown in this voice. "But I never wanted you to feel like it was your fault she wasn't around."
But it was, Sam thinks. We both know it was.
Before either of them has to say it, Jo is back, holding a book tightly to her chest. She sets it down on the counter in front of Sam, then steps back quickly like she's afraid she's going to change her mind. It's a thick leather journal with the initials W.A.H. carved into the cover.
"Don't tell my mom, but the truth is I broke in here years ago," she tells them. "Took this and a couple of other things. If you think you can use it… then use it."
"Are you sure?" Sam asks, hand hovering over the journal.
"Yeah," Jo exhales, "I'm sure. I mean, I'd give anything to take a shot at the thing that killed my dad, but I don't have that option. You guys do. And if Dad were… I know he would've wanted me to help you."
"Thank you," Sam says sincerely.
He tucks the book under his arm and can't help the smile that spreads itself across his face.
For the first time in a while, it seems like things are finally going their way again.
Ellen's done cleaning the bar by the time they get back in. It doesn't really look any less dirty now than it did in the first place, but Dean's known enough hunters to figure it's sort of a 'pearls before swine' situation. She doesn't do much more than nod in acknowledgement when she sees the journal in Sam's hands before telling Jo that she's heading up to their apartment.
"Well?" she prompts sharply, halfway through the kitchen door. "You two comin' or not?"
"Yes, ma'am," Dean responds automatically, falling into formation behind her.
The entrance to the apartment is tucked away behind a metal door in one corner of the kitchen. The door is padlocked shut from the outside and made of pure iron. When Ellen swings it shut again, Dean notices that the inside has been spray-painted with an impressive orgy of protective sigils.
No wonder Bobby likes this lady so much.
It's a short walk up a flight of wooden stairs to another door that sits at the top of the stairs, this one deceptively normal looking, painted white and inlaid with a set of curtained windows. Ellen unlocks it too, ushering them inside.
The Harvelle's home is small but neat and clean as a goddamn whistle. They step from the doorway into a living room that's decorated with burgundy carpet and tan-colored lattice wallpaper. Dean notes the lacey drapes on the windows and the square of white, lace-trimmed tablecloth laid sideways on the mahogany coffee table in the center of the room. Everything smells faintly like roses, and Dean narrows down the source to a bowl of pink potpourri sitting on top of the ancient television set. Ellen orders them to sit down on the white, claw-footed couch and disappears into the kitchen to grab them a couple of beers, and Dean and Sam share an incredulous look.
Apparently Ellen Harvelle has a Susie Homemaker side. Who'd have thought?
The first thing Dean notices once Sam cracks it open is that Bill Harvelle's journal is roughly a thousand times better organized than Dad's. It doesn't take long before they notice a faded, pencil smudged list of names and numbers stretching from the inside cover through the first three pages. They're indexed by state, and Dean's seriously concerned that Sam's going to piss himself with happiness. It's exactly how Sam would lay it out, and Dean knows that for sure because Sam's got a similar address book running in the back of their own hunting journal.
"Sorry, boys, Dan Elkins ditched that phone years ago," Ellen says, setting their beers down on the table before leaning over Sam's shoulder to get a look at the page he's pointing to. "Keep lookin' though. After a while, Bill just got tired of changing the numbers every damn month."
"Told you," Dean tells his brother under his breath.
Sam huffs and ignores him.
Dean lets Sam take the lead on digging around for Elkins' location. If anyone's going to be able to find a tiny detail like that mixed in with all of these accounts of chupacabras and werewolves, it'll be Sam. His brother devours the pages, a wrinkle of concentration between his brows, silence punctuated with those familiar, dorky little "huh" noises that mean he's found something particularly interesting. Dean cranes his neck to get a look at the pages over Sam's shoulder. Even he has to admit, Bill Harvelle's journal is a pretty good read, even if his drawings look like something Sammy would've done when he was five. And considering Sam's about as talented at art as he is at holding a tune or picking a radio station that doesn't make Dean want to hang himself, that's saying something.
But after forty-five minutes of searching, even Sam seems to be questioning whether they're going to find anything, and he's stopped reading the details in favor of flicking through the pages with ruthless efficiency, scanning each in turn for a mention of Elkins before moving swiftly on.
Dean sighs and cracks his jaw before standing up, waggling his empty beer bottle at Sam and Ellen as an explanation before he wanders into the kitchen.
Jo's in there now, rummaging through the fridge. Dean eyes her appreciatively, taking in the long line of her spine where her tank top's gotten rucked up to settle at the dip of her waist.
"Can I help you?" Jo asks flatly without sparing a look back.
"Yeah, grab me a beer, would you?"
There's a half-second pause and then Jo tugs open the vegetable drawer, standing up to toss Dean a bottle of Bud and elbow the fridge door closed. She twists the cap off a bottle of Coke and leans against the counter, taking a long swig regarding Dean with inscrutable eyes.
"So," she says. "How's your face?"
"Fine," Dean lies easily. "How's your fist?"
"Never better," Jo tells him, grinning blithely.
She's a firecracker, all right. Dean can't decide if he finds that annoying or sexy as hell. Probably a little of both, if he has to be honest. He pops the cap on his beer and takes a swig.
"Looks like Sam's gonna take a while," he says, nodding his head toward the living room. "You wanna grab some lunch? Maybe show me what you do for fun 'round this place?"
"Not a lot of what you'd call 'fun' around here," she says, expression equal parts amused and incredulous. "Assuming you're not talking about shooting cans out back."
"Well, we could always make our own fun," Dean suggest with a half-grin.
Jo huffs out a laugh like it's been punched out of her, eyebrows shooting all the way up to her hairline.
"Please tell me nobody's ever fallen for that line."
"You'd be surprised," Dean replies, unstung by the rejection.
"Ever try it on someone you didn't put three shots of tequila in first?"
Dean gives her the non-verbal equivalent of "Fair enough."
"Lunch is still on offer, though," he tells her.
"Yeah, I'm gonna pass," Jo smirks, shaking her head. "Better luck next time, sailor."
"Can't blame a guy for trying," Dean says with an easy shrug.
It's probably for the best, anyway. Sure, there might be something there, but the timing's all wrong, for both of them. Anyway, the last thing he wants to do is give Ellen Harvelle a reason to pump his ass full of buckshot.
She'd do it, too. Doesn't matter how many lace doilies the woman owns, she'd take him apart in a second.
"Hey, Dean!" Sam calls, interrupting his train of thought. "Get in here!"
Dean puts the beer down with a click and hoofs it into the living room, Jo at his heels.
"Find something?" he asks, even though it's obvious from the manic gleam in his brother's eyes that he has.
"'December 8th, 1995,'" Sam reads. "'Daniel called and asked me to look into a case in a town in Utah called Enoch. He was afraid it was vamps, but it turned out to just be a couple of ghouls who'd gotten creative. Stopped in to see him on the way back home, but he didn't want anything to do with me right then. Told me he didn't want me coming around and leading vamps to his location. Guess I'll have to add Manning to the list of cities I've been kicked out of. If I keep up this rate over the next twenty years, I might actually catch up to John.'"
Sam gives Dean a victorious look.
"It's not an address or a phone number, but it's a start," he says. "I'll keep reading and see if I can find more but…"
"It's a lead," Dean smiles. "Good job, Sammy."
Even with just a name and a town, Dean has no doubt they can track the old man down. They've done a lot more with a lot less. And even if Elkins can't tell them anything useful about the gun, it's still a huge relief to find that they haven't made this little side trip for nothing. When they get back and eventually have to answer to Dad, that's gonna be a big point in their favor. Dean claps a hand on Sam's shoulder, and the kid takes practically beams up at him before turning back to the journal.
"Well, alright. Glad you found something, at least," Ellen says, making her way into the kitchen.
Dean crosses over to sidle up to Jo again. He may not be cruising for a hook-up, but a little shameless flirting never hurt anyone. He gives her a wink, and she shakes her head, mouth quirking into a smile against her will.
"I gotta run to the store to pick up some stuff for the bar," Ellen calls from the next room. "Want me to pick up something to eat while I'm out?"
"You really don't have to do that," Sam tells her before Dean can get a word in. "We're fine."
Ellen pokes her head out of the doorway and fixes him with a stern look.
"You boys look like you've been chewed up and spit out. You think I'm gonna starve you on top of that, you've got another think comin'."
"Ignore Sam," Dean tells her. "He's always tryin' to watch his girlish figure. Know anywhere that makes a decent salad?"
"Not through personal experience," Ellen replies, "but I think I can scrounge something up."
"Great. He'll get that," Dean announces, ignoring the death glare Sam's aiming at the side of his head. "I'll have whatever you're having."
"Jo?"
"Just get me the usual," her daughter answers.
Ellen nods, turns grab her keys off the rack, and then there's a deafening bam as the Harvelle's front door explodes inward, and suddenly John Winchester is standing in the living room, his face like a thundercloud, his gun drawn and pointed right at the center of the room.
Right at Sam.