"Los Angeles, California," Dean suddenly said out loud. Two pairs of eyes looked his way as he shut the trunk of his car. The three stood outside of the Roadhouse. It was morning, but the sun was already high in the sky. They had stopped by in order to eat, and then maybe pick up a case. They had pretty much taken an entire weekend off of hunting, so it was time to jump back in again. Sam furrowed his brow while Tracee cocked an eyebrow. Leaning against the driver side of the Impala, they both showed their confusion at the same time. They hadn't necessarily been quiet, but Dean had come out of left field with that location. "A young girl's been kidnapped by an evil cult."
"Are we going to California?" Tracee asked, slight smirk tugging at her lips. "If so, I need a bikini. And the bikini inspector to… inspect." Her raised eyebrows clearly showed her naughty intent as she stared up at her boyfriend. Said bikini inspector chuckled, cheeks turning red at the implication. Dean scowled and rolled his eyes. He shook his head and told her not to be so gross. She, of course, ignored him and winked at Sam. His brother cleared his throat, but the grin remained on his face. Dean huffed, mildly annoyed. Sam cleared his throat again, turning his focus to Dean.
"This girl gotta name?" he questioned.
"Katie Holmes," Dean stated.
"That's funny," Sam commented, chuckling. Tracee rolled her eyes, but he could see the amusement in her expression. "And, for you, so bitchy."
"Yeah, well-" Before he could continue, raised voices—clearly arguing, though he couldn't make out the words—caught his attention. Dean shifted his focus on the entrance of the Roadhouse. Sounded like Jo and Ellen. Sounded physical, too, judging by the crashing noises that accompanied their voices, which were growing louder by the second. "On the other hand… catfight."
"So we're not going to California?"
"No bikini inspection for you, Trace," Dean teased, taking a few steps in the direction of the entrance. The tiny tank crossed her arms and moved to follow. Sam pushed himself from the Impala, following after. "Come on, they're kinda our friends."
"No, they're kinda your friends. I don't care enough about anyone else to be kinda friends," Tracee said. "You two are just lucky." Dean halted, turning to face her with a look. "What?"
"Uh, Cassie…?" he pointed out.
"Max," Sam chimed in.
"Sarah, probably," Dean added
"Missouri, too," Sam supplied.
"And I'm pretty sure you called Bobby by name the other day. Not to his face, but it still counts," Dean finished with a smirk. Tracee gave the most offended look. She opened her mouth, protest on the tip of her tongue, and then almost immediately shut it as realization set in. "With the rate you're going, it's only a matter of time before they become kinda your friends, too. I'm so proud—that black heart's turning red."
"Shut up—you both have ruined me!" Tracee feigned irritation. Sam chuckled again, draping his arm around her shoulders and leading her towards the entrance. Dean shook his head as he followed his brother and the tiny tank closer to the saloon. It was deserted this time of day, so it was no wonder the two Harvelles made no effort to keep their voices down. As the three of them entered, the screaming match hadn't halted. Hell, they didn't seem to notice them at all. They just kept going back and forth, screaming and screaming. Fortunately, it hadn't come to blows. Dean glanced around the bar. Ash was nowhere in sight—smart man. Chairs were still upside down on top of tables, so clearly they had been arguing for quite some time because the place was supposed to be open for business by now. "Haah…" Tracee, unconcerned, released a heavy sigh. "If I had wanted to watch an episode of Maury…"
"This is more Jerry Springer, I think," Dean muttered. As luck would have it, both women chose that exact moment to abruptly stop their argument. Both glared at him, so they might have heard the comment. Dean awkwardly looked away, reminding himself that he shouldn't piss off a Slayer… and her mother.
"Guys, bad time," Ellen said.
"Yes, ma'am…!" Dean and Sam said in unison. It might have been more of a squeak. Man, if looks could kill… Dean cleared his throat. "We rarely drink before ten anyway," he joked, attempting to lighten the mood. It did not work. The two blondes continued glaring. Well, that was that. Clearly, the three of them were not wanted at the moment, and so they headed back towards the door.
"Wait…!" Jo called out. "I want to know what they think!"
"I don't care what they think!" Ellen retorted.
"Hey, are you guys open?" A new voice caused Dean to look towards the entrance. A family of four had come in. A man and a woman, both carrying identical toddlers. Jo and Ellen screamed out an answer. Problem was that the older blonde had said yes while the other had said no. "… We'll just… check out the Arby's down the road…" The man opened the door again, leading his wife and children out. Clearly, they had wanted to avoid the bit of family drama going on. Dean had half a mind to follow. Beside him, Tracee muttered that she also wanted to check out the Arby's. Dean nudged her with his elbow.
Then the phone started ringing. For a moment, they all just watched it ringing. After the third or fourth ring, Ellen huffed as she went behind the bar to answer it. As soon as she picked it up, Jo walked towards them, holding up a manila folder. "Three weeks ago, a young girl disappears from a Philadelphia apartment," she began, expecting the file to be taken. Dean did not. "It won't bite." Jo gave a pointed look, jerking the file at him.
"Uh, yeah… Remember when I told you I'm scared of your mom?" he asked her with raised eyebrows. "That hasn't changed." Jo scoffed, not at all amused with his response. In the end, Tracee was the one to take the file from the baby Slayer. It was just like her to be eager about a mystery, supernatural or otherwise. Jo pursed her lips as Tracee's eyes quickly scanned the contents of her file. After a beat, Dean looked over the tiny tank's shoulder to peer into the file as well. The contents of the file were newspaper articles, as far as he could guess, with circled and highlighted words and phrases. He hummed lightly, slightly impressed by accumulation of information.
"And this girl isn't the first, as you can see," Jo stated. "Over the past eighty years, six women have vanished." Dean noticed the smirk on Tracee's face. "All from the same building." The smirk spread into a grin. "All young blondes." A slight, barely heard, squeal of glee came from Tracee. Dean had to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Sam, also taking notice, subtly nudged his girlfriend before her squealing could get any louder. Tracee cleared her throat as Jo continued speaking. "Only happens every decade or two, so cops never eyeball the pattern. So we're either dealing with a very old serial killer or-"
"Who put this together?" Dean interrupted. "Ash…?"
"I did it myself," Jo stated. Dean hummed again, causing her brow to pinch together.
"I gotta admit," Sam began with a shrug. "We've hit the road for a lot less. And Tracee's clearly excited." The tiny tank grinned so hard her eyes squeezed shut. She nodded her head in agreement.
"So let's hit the road, Bo," she said.
"Oh no, she's not going anywhere," Ellen, done with the phone call, walked over to them. "If you like the case so much, you take it." Jo sharply turned to her mother, exclaiming in disbelief. "Joanna Beth, this family has lost enough! And I won't lose you, too. I just won't." Watching the interaction, Dean frowned a bit. Huh. Foot had firmly been put down. Jo, in turn, lowered her gaze to the floor. Argument was apparently over. Not what he had expected, honestly. But… he supposed it was none of his business. So with an awkward goodbye, he, his brother, and Tracee took their leave.
It took a while, but the three finally had reached Philadelphia. It hadn't taken a whole lot of asking around to locate the apartment building, but since it had been so late by the time they arrived in Philadelphia, they decided to check into a motel for the night. Sam had barely spoken a word because he had chosen to study the information Jo had compiled. Tracee, as excited as she had been, decided to wait to see the crime scene before making deductions. After all, the articles, and other sources, had biased opinions—people who had no knowledge of abnormal things. The two of them still ended up falling asleep with the contents of the file on their bed. Dean, himself, had snagged Tracee's handbook. He had spent most of the night reading up on Slayers. It had been a curiosity thing. Honestly, he hadn't been thinking about other Slayers much, so he thought he could refresh his memory a bit.
The next morning, the three of them had driven to the apartment building. Now, Dean stood outside of the victim's apartment, waiting for Sam to pick the lock to the girl's abandoned apartment. Finally, his brother twisted the latch and pushed opened the door. He took a cautious look around before completely entering the apartment, allowing Dean and Tracee to follow suit. The tiny tank quietly shut the door behind them. "I feel kinda bad snaking Jo's case," Sam commented, pulling his EMF out of his jacket pocket. Without a word, Tracee took his tool case from his other hand and slid it into his other pocket. She gave a noncommittal hum and walked further into the apartment, probably eager to start snooping.
"Well, maybe she put together a good file," Dean committed, eyes darting around the place. "But could you see her out here, working one of these things?" He clicked his teeth as he started up his EMF. "I don't think so." The device whirred to life, and he immediately started scanning. "You getting anything?" His brother gave a negative. "Trace, what about you?" He didn't receive an answer. Furrowing his brow, he called out to Tracee again. "Trace? You find something?" he asked, louder.
"This apartment is amazing!" she called back. "You should see the size of this bedroom."
"We're not house shopping, Trace!" Dean retorted. Tracee appeared from around the corner. "Do you sense something or not?" She shrugged her shoulders, and then calmly gestured to the wall directly behind him. Blinking, Dean turned, aiming the EMF at the brick wall. Sam, too, walked over. Both of the devices nearly blared as they moved closer. His brother leaned forward, narrowing his eyes at an open socket for a light switch. His hand reached out, index finger swiping at the corner. Dean saw the black goo and frowned. He, too, reached to examine the substance. "Is this…? This is ectoplasm." He scoffed lightly. "Well, I think I know what we're dealing with here. It's the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man."
"Dean," Sam rolled his eyes and shook his head, apparently not finding his joke funny. "I've only seen this stuff, like… twice. I mean, to make this stuff, you have to be one majorly pissed off spirit." He turned towards his girlfriend. "You can sense this? Is there a spirit here now?"
"It's a residue, I think," Tracee told him. She shifted from side to side, crossing her arms and frowning. Her reluctance to get closer was noticeable. "It's not quite as concentrated as sensing the real thing, but shyeah, I agree with the majorly pissed thing. What I'm sensing now feels like a repellent, almost. Lord, help me when it comes to the real thing." She visibly shivered. "Just malicious for no reason."
"Alright, let's find this badass before he snags anymore girls," Dean said. The two nodded their heads in agreement. "Trace, come here for a second."
"No."
"Why? Just come here."
"No," she repeated, and then headed towards the door.
"Sammy," Dean switched his attention to his brother. Sam narrowed his eyes, but dutifully moved closer. Dean took the chance to smear the black goo on his brother's cheek. He reared back sharply, but the damage had already been done. Laughing to himself, Dean stuffed his hands in his pockets and followed after Tracee. "Your girlfriend has more sense than you, dude." Sam grumbled to himself, furiously wiping at his cheek, and then rubbing the side of his pants to get the goo off his skin. Tracee merely shook her head as she opened the door.
They left the apartment, roaming the hallways for only a few minutes before they could hear voices. Tensing, Dean and Sam pressed their backs to the wall. Tracee blinked at their movements as though confused. Not having the time to argue with her, Dean made a face and sharply turned his head, indicating that she should attempt to hide as well. Rolling her eyes, the tiny tank pressed her front against Sam's. She grinned up at her boyfriend, and he gave a small smile in return as his arms lifted so he could squeeze her hips. Dean shook his head and shifted his eyes down the hallway. Those two couldn't go one hour, could they?
"… You know, my friend told me that I absolutely had to come check it out." Hang on. He knew that feminine voice. Dean peered out of cover to see Jo Harvelle, as suspected, walking down the hall with presumably the landlord, a middle-aged man with a gut and a receding hairline. "And I have to admit, she was right. You did a really good job with this place."
"What the hell are you doing here?" Dean asked, stepping out of cover. Behind him, Sam and Tracee did the same. Not missing a beat, Jo smiled prettily and moved at a quicker pace. She wrapped an arm around him and called him honey. It took him a second to even realize what was happening. Jo had introduced him as her boyfriend, and Sam and Tracee as friends, gripping him a bit tighter to silently convince him to go along with it. There was that Slayer strength. Biting the inside of his mouth, Dean forced a smile on his face as the landlord stuck his hand out for a standard handshake.
"Good to meet you," the landlord greeted pleasantly, not recognizing the grimace on Dean's face for what it was. He could almost feel his skin bruising. "Quite a gal you've got there."
"Yeah, she's a pistol!" he agreed, slapping Jo's ass harder than necessary. She, thankfully, got the message and let her arm slip away from him. Tracee snickered, and Dean decided to somehow get her back for that later. Jo, still putting on a show, sweetly asked if he had already checked out the apartment. "Yeah, it was great. Loved it. Great vibes. Isn't that right, Trace?"
"Shyeah, vibes were good. The half bath connected to the bathroom is a nice touch," Tracee played her part. "Maybe you'll have an extra tenant or two once a room becomes available? What do you think, darling?" she asked, addressing her boyfriend.
"I… I thought the kitchen was nice," Sam admitted.
"How'd you get in?" the landlord questioned, expression slowly shifting to suspicion.
"It was opened," Dean lied.
The man opened his mouth, furrowing his brow. Reacting quickly, Jo asked about the previous tenant to distract him. Her tactic worked, especially since the landlord, Ed, complained a bit. Voice as sweet as honey, Jo called him Deano, which he did not like, and then held up a wad of cash, stating that they would take it. Dean eyed the money in surprise. It was a lot. In the end, money and keys were exchanged, and the four awkwardly made their way back to the apartment to settle in. Should've just went to Arby's like Tracee suggested, but no...! They were kinda friends. Tch.
He was going to regret this job.
0-0
Dean Winchester was an ass, Jo realized. Initially, she had thought he had been the same as the other young hunters that had passed through the Roadhouse—easy to swindle to make extra money. Hell, even the older hunters had become marks. Show a guy a little attention, and they became easy targets. He, however, hadn't been susceptible to light flirting. Sure, he had flirted back, which had been expected, but Jo had gotten the sense that there had been no underlying intent. Flirting had just been something to do, and he expected nothing to come out of it. Admittedly, that had been the reason her opinion of him had changed. He had seemed the same as other hunters, but there had been a difference that Jo had found herself intrigued by. Something about him had just made her want to gravitate towards him.
Honestly, the moment she had decided to go to Philadelphia, against her mother's wishes, she had hopes of working with Dean. Sure, the job had been a priority, but she had gotten a rush of excitement at the thought of being close to the older Winchester. Her revised opinion of him consisted of being cool, laidback, and funny. Also easy on the eyes. Seriously, his freckles were sexy. She hadn't thought freckles could be so tempting until she had gotten an up close look at them. Not to mention, he was obviously a good hunter, having been taught by John Winchester. Jo could see herself learning from him easily.
But ever since she had approached the three in the hallway, Dean had been a complete ass to her. His reaction to her presence had been borderline repulsion. Jo was willing to bet he would give his left nut away if it met that he didn't need to deal with her. From the start, he had been agitated, constantly snapping at her and questioning her actions. He had even made several comments about her competence. The only decent thing he had done so far had been to not blabber to her mother when she had called his cell phone. The decency had stopped there, unfortunately.
Dean had had the brilliant idea of looking for the spirit in pairs. Sam and Tracee. Himself and her. Even though the logical thing to do would be to split up completely to cover more ground and not waste time, he had vetoed that idea, making it abundantly clear that she could not take care of herself. Jo scowled at the older Winchester's back as he focused on scanning the walls with his EMF. They were in the hall, hoping to come across a concentration of the spirit that had been taking these women. Jo split her time with scanning and glaring at Dean, whom had seemed none the wiser of her heated gaze.
She was a Slayer, or whatever, and since he had been traveling around with one, he should have realized that she didn't need protection. Nor want it. She didn't need someone breathing down her neck at all. She was strong, and according to Tracee, custom-made for this life. And yet Dean had been trying so hard to deter her from the job. If she had been anyone else, she might have let his comments and interrogations get the better of her. But she was too tough for that. So no matter what he said or thought—or how sexy his freckles might be—Jo would not be convinced to go running back home.
Suddenly flinching, Jo slowed her pace. She turned her heard, eyes focused on the wall beside her. There was a prickly feeling just underneath her skin. Arm lifting, she held her device closer. It didn't read anything out of the ordinary, though… Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Dean had slowed as well, and was now walking beside her. Any other time, she might have been pleased with his proximity, but she knew exactly why he was basically on top of her. For heaven's sake—she had only been a few feet behind him.
"So are you gonna buy me dinner?" Jo asked with biting sarcasm.
"What are you talking about? Trace's buying dinner tonight," Dean stated, frowning.
"Trace is not the one riding my ass right now," she snapped back, ignoring the urge to stomp away. "A decent dinner is usual the cost of riding so close to me."
"Oh, you're hilarious," Dean retorted just as sarcastic. "You know, it's bad enough that I lied to your mom-" Jo rolled her eyes and shook her head. His irrational fear of her mom had been funny at first, but now it was just annoying and counterproductive. Bet he wouldn't even sneeze in the same room if he could help it. "-but if you think I'm letting you outta my sight for even a second during this job, you've got another thing coming." Jo scoffed, finding it harder to stomp ahead. "I don't know if you've noticed, but you're kinda the spirit's type." She halted, sharply turning to face him. Well, duh! Wow, he must have really thought she was some idiot.
"Exactly…!" Jo hissed out. Dean stopped as well, having the nerve to look confused. "It's one of the reasons I chose this job. I'll lure it out and take care of it. Quickest way to get it done."
"Oh, man," he shifted his gaze upwards. "I am so regretting this."
"You know, I've had it up to here with your crap!" Jo nearly shouted. Dean actually managed to look offended. "Your chauvinistic crap! You think women can't do the job, but newsflash, Dean—we're apparently better at it!"
"Oh, sweetheart, this ain't gender studies," he said. "Women can do the job just fine. Slayers, I admit, can do it a bit faster. But don't go lumping yourself in with them just yet. You're an amateur. You've got no experience. But what you do have is a bunch of half-baked romantic notions that some barflies put in your head." Jo scoffed, opening her mouth to give a scathing response about him sounding just like her mother, but Dean wasn't trying to give her a word in edgewise. "You think you know it all, but you don't. You're naïve—reckless—and that's gonna get you killed. But I'll be damned before it's on my watch, so get your boxers out of that twist, and keep up."
Dean turned away from her at the end of his tirade, so he completely missed the Jo's reaction. She felt like a child. Her teeth clenched together, feeling her throat constrict and a stinging in her eyes. She hadn't felt anything akin to this since she had been a teenager. Her lip wobbled a bit, and Jo clamped an incisor down on it in response. Did he have to be so callous? She swallowed hard, trying to stomp down on the onslaught of rejection and hurt. Dean called back to her without so much of a backwards glance, telling her to move her ass. In a way, she was grateful that he hadn't turned around. A tear managed to slip out of her eye. Quietly sniffling, she hurriedly rubbed at her cheek. After clearing her throat, she moved to catch up with the older Winchester.
He was such an ass.
0-0
She couldn't stop thinking about it either.
Hours after, with morning fast approaching, Jo still couldn't get Dean's words out of her head. Yesterday, she had discovered traces of the violent spirit that stole these women away—a clump of hair, still attached to skin, had been inside a vent in the hallway. She had also felt a surge of the spirit's presence, but it had vanished before she had gotten a lock on its location. Still, she had been the one to make progress at the job, but that slight elation had been short lived.
She just could not stop thinking about what Dean had told her. That whole thing about not lumping herself with other Slayers… It had been an insult. Granted, it hadn't been that long since she had discovered what exactly a Slayer was, but his flippant words reminded her greatly of being called the freak with the knife collection. She was, according to Dean's implication, a freak even amongst her so-called sisters.
Frowning, Jo shifted a glare in the older Winchester's direction. He had taken the chair last night, while his brother and Tracee had retired to the bedroom. As Jo hadn't slept, the couch had been vacant all night. Yes, she had been petty by not telling Dean that he could have it, and she had no regrets either. The ass deserved to have a screwed up back whenever he decided to wake up. Huffing, her eyes returned to the table. Her night had consisted of going over notes and such. So far, nothing really stood out to her on where the spirit could possibly be stashing his victims. But she was trying her hardest to… when she wasn't trying to set Dean on fire with just her eyes. Slayers, unfortunately, didn't have that ability.
A creak of a door opening caught Jo's attention. She looked to find Tracee slowly making her way out of the bedroom. Her fellow Slayer softly shut the door, so Sam must have still been asleep. "Morning," Jo greeted her just as Tracee turned to face her direction. Her dark brown eyes glanced towards the older Winchester. Then she nodded in acknowledgement. "How was the bed?"
"Plush," Tracee replied. She covered a yawn. "You know, we could have taken turns or something."
"Nah, I didn't sleep, anyway," Jo replied with a shrug. Her fellow Slayer hummed lightly, and then began moving throughout the apartment, seemingly in search of something. After a moment or two, she finally huffed out in annoyance before lifting Sam's jacket from the back of the couch. She hurriedly put it on, and expectedly, it nearly swallowed her form. However, Tracee hadn't seemed to mind at all, judging from the way she grinned as she wrapped her arms around herself. "You going out?" Jo interrupted her before she forgot that she had an audience. There's no way she wanted to witness Tracee hugging something of Sam's. She had gotten enough of their affection for each other last night.
"Shyeah, to get breakfast," Tracee answered as if she hadn't been about to inhale the scent of the jacket she wore. "I'll walk, but it shouldn't take too long." She tilted her head as she came closer to the table. "Find anything?"
"Not really," Jo answered. Her eyes darted in Dean's direction for a moment. "Hey, you want company? Kinda bored here." Tracee shrugged, and then motioned her to follow. Jo immediately stopped maneuvering her blade between her fingers, something she did when she was deep in thought or anxious, and then stood up. She slipped the knife in her back pocket. "Let me grab my jacket. Should we leave a note?"
"I already told Samuel," Tracee stated, going towards the door. But let's try to make it back before they wake up completely, shall we?" Jo moved just a bit quicker, after slipping on her jacket, to meet the older Slayer at the door.
Within moments, the two Slayers were walking down the sidewalk, on the way to a café two blocks away, according to Tracee. They moved in silence, only the sounds of their footsteps against the pavement were heard as dawn approached. Jo glanced sideways at the older woman beside her. Honestly, she didn't know a whole lot about her, other than she was also a Slayer and was dating Sam Winchester. She didn't know how long Tracee had been traveling around with the two brothers, but Dean had treated her differently. Whenever Tracee offered a suggestion or gave an idea, the older brother had taken it at face value. He hadn't questioned her or tried to shoot down every little thing she had said. What was the big difference then? It was aggravating.
"So…" Jo began. "How long have you known them?" Tracee only turned her head slightly, lifting up a brow. "Them—Dean and Sam," she elaborated. "You guys seem… close." That was putting it mildly. There were practically seamless. Watching them interact last night over dinner had been eye-opening. The way they had been so comfortable with each other… The teasing, the affection, hell, even the bickering had all been nearly tangible. But no matter how hard she might have tried, Jo just couldn't touch it. Maybe because she couldn't understand it…? That seemingly lifetime of memories between the three of them was untouchable.
"Almost half a year… I think," Tracee replied. Jo almost halted in surprised. She had thought they had practically grew up together with the way they interacted. Her fellow Slayer shrugged, nonchalantly as though it hadn't mattered regardless. "Not sure, really—days blend together, at times."
"And… And how long did it take for Dean to not be an ass to you?"
"I'm not sure what you mean."
"Come on! Don't pretend you haven't seen him talk down to me because he thinks I don't know what I'm doing," Jo said. "Didn't you tell me that you learned about all this stuff when you met them? Dean didn't think you were an amateur, too?"
"Amateur…?" Tracee repeated, slight chuckle in her voice. "No, Bo, I was no amateur. Despite not knowing about this world prior to meeting them, I was still trained to survive it. My father is—was—a Watcher. I started off young."
"So that's the big difference?!" Jo scoffed. "You started off young and that's okay, but I get ridiculed for trying to start now?" She crossed her arms hard, feeling a surge of annoyance towards the handsome Winchester. "Well, excuse me for not having a Watcher to train me! He's such an ass!" Tracee sharpened her gaze into a glare, causing Jo to flinch. "H-He is…!" she insisted.
"Maybe so," Tracee relented. "But let's try to keep the name calling to yourself, huh?" Jo pursed her lips, choosing not to retort. In an instant, she had recalled the way her fellow Slayer had reacted just by putting a gun on Dean. Well, actually, she had punched him, too, hadn't she? "And for the record, I don't think he's treating you like this because you might be an amateur. After all, amateurs can learn. Ignorance can be rectified. Now, I won't pretend to know the true reason for Dean's behavior towards you, but perhaps it has something to do with you playing at being a hunter."
"I'm not playing at anything!" Jo retorted hotly. "I can be just as good as any hunter if people would just give me a fucking chance!"
Ever since she had mentioned that she might want to follow in her father's footsteps—to be a hunter—she had been faced with scorn and disapproval. Her mother, not wanting to hear a word of it, had sent her off to school afterwards, all in an effort to deter her from the life. She had been an outcast because she had shown her blades to the wrong person, and he had gone blabbering to anyone who would listen. Only made worse in 2003 by some unknown force—now known as the Slayer activation—causing her to scream out in the middle of a basketball game. She had gone from a girl with a knife collection to the freak with the knife collection. After that, college had been a nightmare. And so she had dropped out, only to come home to more disapproval. Of course, her mother had come down on her like a storm, so, no, Jo hadn't told the truth about what had happened in college.
She had decided then—after Ash's help of testing her new abilities—that she would strive to be a hunter. At eighteen, it had been a passing remark, but at age twenty, she had been sure she had wanted to become a hunter. But now, at twenty one, she had, not only her mother, but Dean Winchester and her fellow Slayer trying to keep her from what she, apparently, was meant to do. Everywhere she turned to for support and some sort of approval, all she got were a big fat pile of 'You don't know what you're doing.' Jo had become sick and tired of it. She wasn't some little kid. She knew exactly what she wanted and how to do it. She was going to be a hunter. But would it kill to have someone actually believe in her?!
Tracee regarded her coolly, outwardly not effected by the outburst. It took a beat, but Jo realized they had stopped walking, and now they were facing each other, moments away from combat. The younger Slayer clenched her teeth, but refused to look away. A thoughtful hum came from the slightly shorter girl. "Perhaps I didn't word that correctly," she finally said. "I meant that you're trying to be something you're not, Bo. You're not a hunter." Jo opened her mouth, prepared to hiss out a correction of her name, and obscenities, to be perfectly honest, but Tracee continued. "You're a Slayer—extraordinarily different from hunters. Striving to be something less than what you are is foolish and will not gain you respect."
"What…? I-"
"Dean might be testing you, and you're failing," Tracee continued. "Because according to him, you're not behaving like a Slayer. Letting your mother roll over you, lying to her just to do what you need to do, becoming meek in the face of harsh words, even using an EMF when you don't need to—it's not what he's come to expect from a Slayer. Maybe he's being biased, but there is some truth in it. Us Slayers—we're the powerhouses of this world. Humanity's last line of defense and first line of offense. Theoretically, there is nothing and no one that can stop us. Except ourselves. You want to go out and slay—do it. No need to lie about it and hide. If someone's being an ass, you let them know that that isn't acceptable. This is your show. You started this case. You worked it, gathering all the information you could. You don't have to prove anything to anyone because you are the authority here. We're just backup, but if you, a Slayer, settle with 'hunter' as the goal, then you're going to be treated like an inexperienced child, trying to sit at the grownup table. And not the warrior you truly are. So in Dean's mind, you're playing. He doesn't understand why you're doing this. Do you even understand?"
Jo bit her lower lip. Tracee, done speaking, turned and continued down the sidewalk, slipping her hands into the pockets of Sam's jacket. After a moment of standing there, brow furrowed in contemplation, the younger Slayer followed. She fell into step with Tracee, but chose not to speak. Her words pierced deep within her, making her rethink her entire outlook. The older Slayer had mentioned Dean, but Jo couldn't help but think that most of those words had been Tracee's opinion, too. As a Slayer, maybe she hadn't been doing enough. Honestly, the whole Slayer thing had been at the back of her mind. It hadn't been too important to learn of her origins. Sure, it had been okay to put a label on the sudden superpowers, but in the long run, it meant nothing to her other than she had an advantage. The way Tracee had spoken sounded as though it was more than just an advantage.
The two Slayers had continued their walk in silence. They made it to the café just as the sign had been flipped. Tracee had calmly ordered three dozen donuts, despite the wide-eyed look from the cashier, and coffees. She had also gotten a large hot chocolate for herself. And at the last second, she ordered a slice of pie. Jo had commented that it had been too early for pie, to which Tracee had retorted with a sarcastic 'I didn't realize there was a time restriction on pie.' Jo had scowled half-heartedly, watching her fellow Slayer purchase the items. The drinks and pie had been given to her to carry while Tracee had carried the three boxes of donuts. They had left the small café and had begun the trek back to the apartment complex.
As they made their way back, Jo juggling four cups and the container with the slice of pie, two police cruisers zoomed past. To her surprise, they had stopped just outside the apartment complex. From her vantage point, she could see officers nearly racing into the building. Immediately, she got a bad feeling. Why else would police show up to a building that they had already been investigating? Jo glanced at Tracee, but her dark brown eyes were focused ahead, lips having had formed a frown. Apparently, she had reached the same conclusion.
"Let's go," Jo found her voice, and her fellow Slayer nodded her head in agreement.
0-0
"You know, you keep glaring at me like it's gonna change your back situation," Sam commented from his place at the table. He hadn't even looked up from his laptop to say it. Dean continued to scowl despite the comment. Every time he turned or twisted, it reminded him that his younger brother had gotten a good night's sleep, while he had managed to get into the most awkward position on the recliner chair. He was still in his twenties for crying out loud. He shouldn't be waking up with back problems. Meanwhile, Sam had practically rubbed it in how good it had been to sleep in the queen-sized bed with his girlfriend. Well, not in so many words, but the smugness had been sensed.
Speaking of his girlfriend, Tracee, and Jo, had gone out to get breakfast. Not exactly uncommon for the tiny tank to get the most important meal of the day because she felt the two brothers never got enough for her Slayer appetite and she usually did part of her ritual before either of them woke up. But they had been gone awhile, it felt like. Sam had said Tracee had left the bed about forty five minutes before he had dragged himself out. So she and Jo had been gone for almost an hour. The keys to the Impala were still on the kitchen's counter next to the sink, so they hadn't driven anywhere. Should they really have been gone this long? Then, as if on cue, the two girls came through the door. Tracee, with a frown on her face, set the three long boxes on the island counter. Jo, looking mildly panicked, yet determined, shut the door behind her.
"Took you long enough," Dean said, standing up. Sam stood up as well, going over to the tiny tank to give her a hug. "Where's the coffee?" Tracee reared back from her boyfriend, turning her head in Jo's direction. Dean, too, shifted his gaze to the younger girl. Pink dotted her pale cheeks and her eyes looked anywhere but at Tracee.
"Where's our drinks, Bo?" she questioned.
"… I… sorta dropped everything to run to the apartment," Jo admitted.
"Who the hell told you to do that?! Do you know how much I spent?!"
"The donuts costed you way more!" she argued back.
"That's still my money wasted!"
"Alright, calm down, Trace," Dean interjected before things got out of hand. "It was just coffee."
"She also had your slice of blueberry pie, Dean."
"… What?!"
"Can we please focus?" Sam asked, rolling his eyes. "Why exactly did you two run back?"
"We saw the cops—they were outside of another apartment," Jo answered, seemingly ignoring the slight glare on Dean's face. "We listened in and found out another girl's been taken. Boyfriend reported her missing at dawn. Her name's Teresa Ellis in apartment 2F."
"We waited until they left to check the inside. There were traces of ectoplasm, not to mention the heavy presence of just the thing's residue," Tracee continued. "Cracks in the wall and ceiling, so between the hair Dean found and this new evidence, I say we're dealing with a voyeur type of serial killer. Watches through the walls, grabs them through the walls."
"Yeah, but who is it?" Dean questioned. "The building's history's totally clean."
"I was thinking about that," Jo spoke up again, slipping off her jacket. She moved towards the table, hanging the jacket on the back of one of the chairs. "I was looking over pictures this morning and I remember seeing something off." Her hands sifted through papers and photos, and then she picked up a photo in particular. Her eyes narrowed down at the picture. "Maybe we were just looking in the wrong place." She handed him the grainy black and white photo. "Check it out," she instructed. "That empty lot is where this building was built," she explained as Dean and Sam examined the photo. Tracee had chosen to put a donut in her mouth. "Take a look at the building next door. The windows are barred."
"We're next door to a prison?" Dean asked. "That would explain the majorly pissed off spirit. Might be a hellava lot of people that died violently."
"I'm calling Ash to see if he can find out more about the prison, and then we'll go from there," Jo announced, and then walked further into the apartment, stopping at the window to pull her cell phone out. Dean watched her for a moment through narrowed eyes. She seemed… different. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something had changed about her demeanor. Shifting his eyes to Tracee, she approached the Slayer with his arms crossed.
"You really think this guy's a serial killer?" he questioned.
"Well, shyeah," she replied after swallowing the sweet dough in her mouth. "There's actually quite a few female tenants here, but only blondes have been taken so far. This guy obviously has a penchant. If Ash can provide us a list, we could narrow it down by charges. Find the name. Find the graveyard. Find the bones. For now, breakfast."
After a few minutes, Jo had gotten off the phone with Ash, causally threatening the genius with pliers if he spilled the beans to Ellen Harvelle. She had told them that Moyamensing prison had been the building next door, and apparently their style of execution dealt with hanging prisoners in the empty lot. Like Jo had said, the apartment had been built on that empty field. Now, they were waiting around for Ash to email the list of people who were executed. Sam and Tracee were at the table while Dean and Jo were in the living room part of the apartment. The blonde was standing near the window, eyes directed outside, and fingers expertly twirling her small blade through her fingers.
A giggle suddenly came from the kitchen area, causing Jo to stop maneuvering the knife and shift her focus to the table. Dean had only glanced in that direction, already knowing that the girly laugh had come from Tracee. She sat on Sam's lap, whispering something in his brother's ear. Those two… Jo made a face, muttering something that might have been 'gross.' Dean stood up from the couch, heading towards her. "Welcome to my world," he said, leaning against the brick wall. "Just be glad you don't have to travel around with them."
"Are they like that all the time?" Jo asked, curious.
"Not all the time," Dean admitted. "But still, they're definitely one of those annoying couples that paw at each other and forget when other people are in the room." The blonde chuckled a bit, smile lingering on her face. Her eyes shifted back outside, expression turning just a bit wistful. Maybe she was thinking about a past relationship…? Hell, if wanted to hear about it, though. But just as quickly as it appeared, her expression changed back to neutral. She began flipping the knife again. Dean recognized it as the blade that she had thrown at Tracee during their initial meeting. "You know, for a pig stick, that thing can do some real damage," he said, gesturing with a head tilt.
"Throw it hard enough and anything can do some real damage," Jo countered. Again, she halted her ministrations. "And ever since I… changed, I can throw things pretty hard." She pressed her lips together. "But this is only a weapon in appearance," she stated. Almost shyly, she handed the knife to Dean, hilt facing him. He took the offered knife, examining it. On the side, initial had been engraved. W.A.H. "William Anthony Harvelle," she supplied. Oh. Her father's. Understanding, Dean handed the knife back to her. "What do…?" Appearing hesitant, she cleared her throat. "What do you remember about your dad? I mean, what's the first thing that pops into your head?"
Dean swallowed. He hadn't expected a question like that. Truthfully, the very first thing that had come to mind had been his father's last words. He loved John Winchester and there had been so many good things, but that had been the worst and first thing he could think of. Clenching his jaw, Dean shifted his line of sight to the floor. No way in Hell he would say something like that. "I…" he started, but his mouth felt particularly dry. Glancing towards the kitchen, he realized that Sam and Tracee weren't paying any attention. "I was seven. He took me shooting for the first time." Yeah, that was the one. Harmless. A memory he could look back on in fondness. "You know, bottles on a fence—that kinda thing. I bulls-eyed every one of them. He gave me this smile, like…" Shrugging, he focused back on Jo. "I don't know."
"He must have been proud," she said.
"What about your dad?" Dean asked, pushing thoughts of his father away.
"I was still in pigtails when my dad died, but I remember him coming home from a hunt," Jo admitted. "He'd burst through that door like… like Steve McQueen or something. And he'd sweep me up in his arms, and I'd breathe in that old leather jacket of his. And my mom, who was sour and pissed from the minute he left, she'd start smiling again. And we were… we were a family." She tilted her head, frowning now. "I wanted to do this, not because of what some barfly may or may not have told me, but because of him. It's my way of being close to him. As romantic as you think that is—there's nothing wrong with it."
"… No, I guess not," Dean acknowledged. He understood perfectly. "Look, Jo, I'm sorry about being hard on you. I am, but, uh… this—what we do—it's no walk in the park, even for a Slayer." He thought back to the time Tracee had been freaked. Even someone like her had been traumatized by a hunt gone bad. Luckily, she hadn't been alone when it had mattered. Other Slayers, with just one bad hiccup, hadn't been as lucky. He didn't want Jo to become one of the unlucky ones. Because if she would, it would become concrete in his mind that Slayers could die just as easily. He couldn't let that happen. "You want to honor your old man, and I get that, but you are not him. You're not like any other hunter, so you've got to stop thinking-"
"Like a hunter? And more like a Slayer?"
"Well, yeah," Dean said with a nod. "Our potential is limited, but it isn't that way with Slayers." Victor, Tracee's father, had drilled it into his head that week they had spent in Ashland. Slayers were never to think they were less than they were because in a crucial moment, it was ultimately their downfall. Dean would never claim to be the smartest guy, but he had understood the correlation with past Slayers' deaths and their will. A hunter's will could reach its peak, but a Slayer's will could be limitless and powerful.
"Yeah," Jo murmured, snapping Dean from his thoughts of ascending. "I get that. I mean… I'm starting to get that."
"Guys…!" Sam's voice interrupted their conversation. Dean looked over at his brother to find him and Tracee staring at the laptop's screen. "I just got the email," he announced. Hurriedly, Dean and Jo made their way over. On either side of them, they peered at the laptop as Sam clicked on the attachment in his email from Ash. Tracee hadn't removed herself from Sam's lap, so she had a good view of all the names that had suddenly popped up on the screen. She sighed heavily when Sam's scrolling went on too long. "It's a hundred and fifty seven names." He, too, sighed. "Even if we narrow it down with charges, it could still be a lot."
"A lot is too many stiffs to dig up," Dean remarked, unhappily.
"Wait…" Sam stopped scrolling. He clicked on a particular name, highlighting it. "Herman Webster Mudgett." Tracee made an inquisitive noise. "Wasn't that H.H. Holmes' real name?"
"You've gotta be kidding me!" Dean took the laptop and sat down at the table to confirm his brother's inquiry.
"H.H. Holmes…? You know the wanker's real name?" Tracee asked.
"I'm surprised you don't," Sam commented.
"Oh, I always referred to him as 'Not Sherlock' or 'Bizarro Sherlock.' That was his real name according to my teenaged self," Tracee shrugged. Her boyfriend chuckled. Of course, the nerd would find that funny. "But it'd make sense if it's him. Not that kidnapping and killing blondes is so unique."
"Who is this guy?" Jo questioned.
"History goes that he is America's first serial killer," Tracee answered, absentmindedly twisting a bit of Sam's hair. "Back then, serial killing hadn't been a thing. At least, no one had gotten caught for it yet. But when he was put on trial for the murder of one person, he ended up confessing to a lot more."
"Twenty seven more murders," Sam confirmed. "But some put the death toll at over a hundred."
"And like Trace said, his victim flavor of choice happened to be pretty, petite blondes," Dean said, still reading the article he found on the guy. "He, uh… used chloroform to kill them… which is what I smelled in the hallway last night."
"Uh, question…! Why do you know what that smells like?" Tracee asked.
"Not important," Dean retorted, voice higher than necessary. He cleared his throat and continued reading, ignoring Tracee's suspicious eyes. "At Holmes' place, cops found human remains, bone fragments, and long locks of bloody blonde hair." He shifted his sight to Jo. "Boy, you sure know how to pick them."
"Well, now we know who he is, so we can get rid of him by burning his bones," she said.
"It's not that easy," Sam said. "His body is buried in town, but it's encased in a couple tons of concrete."
"What? Why?" Jo questioned.
"Because he was afraid someone would dig up his body and violate him—the balls on this guy, right?" Tracee replied.
"Uh… We might have a bigger problem than that," Sam mentioned. He tapped Tracee's side, causing her to stand from his lap. He went through the things on the table, clearing in search of something. Finding it, his fingers remained on a photograph. "Holmes built an apartment building in Chicago. They called it the Murder Castle. The whole place was a death factory. They had trap doors, acid vats, quicklime pits. He built these secret chambers… inside the walls. He'd lock his victims in—keep them alive for days—suffocate some of them. Others, he'd let starve to death."
"… So Teresa could still be alive," Jo translated. "She could be inside these walls."
"We've gotta smash these walls then," Dean said, standing up. "Anywhere thick enough to hide a girl."
"Wait," Tracee halted his advance. "That's not right. She's not here."
"How do you know?" Sam asked.
"Despite this being a ghost, Not Sherlock is still a serial killer. Serial killers are predictable. They fall into a routine, and don't stray from that—it's part of their compulsions," Tracee explained. "Over the last eighty years, girls have gone missing from this building. However, nothing indicates foul play. Nothing. Not even… a complaint about a foul odor. Assuming those girls were the victims of Not Sherlock, keeping them here would be a big risk. Not to mention, inside the walls isn't exactly roomy enough. Most serial killers have a secondary location so they can do what they do without worry or interruptions. And a guy like that with that type of preference would want to take his time. No—this is his hunting ground. She's not here."
"What about the Murder Castle? Could he have taken them there?" Jo questioned.
"Maybe, but it'd be the same thing since the place is a post office now," Sam stated. "Not secluded enough, but…" He trailed off, fingers rummaging through the papers on the table again. He found a blueprint and laid it on top of everything else. "If you look at the layout, there's other torture chambers inside the walls, right? But there's one we haven't considered yet. The one in his basement."
"It's a lot more secluded," Tracee said. "But surely the post office would end up using that, too, right?"
"Right, so if we go by this guy's M.O., the secondary location must be underneath the hunting ground," Sam replied.
"This building doesn't have a basement," Dean stated.
"You're right. It doesn't," he agreed. "But I just remembered this." Sam's finger pointed at the blueprint, directing the attention to a network. "Beneath the foundation, it looks like part of an old sewer system. It hasn't been used in so long, most people probably don't realize it's there. I'd say it's pretty much the perfect spot."
"Good enough for me. Let's go find an entrance," Jo said, grabbing her jacket and heading towards the door. Sam and Tracee moved to follow, and Dean found himself doing the same. Huh. Something had definitely changed about her. Taking charge, and expecting no lip. Dean couldn't deny that it was impressive. It looked good on her.
0-0
They must have looked like quite the group to the average bystander. Three of them, shadowing Sam, who held a metal detector. The taller of the Winchester was focused almost completely on his task. Tracee, directly behind him, held her sword—katana—by its hilt, having had slid the object through her side belt loop beforehand. She was focused, too, but more so on making sure Sam wouldn't run into anything, again, while they searched. Jo and Dean tailed after, both holding shovels. The older Winchester also had an old holdall bag, which held shotguns, primed and ready with rock salt. With the sun high in the sky, the group of four continued searching for buried manholes. So far, nothing.
Sam suddenly veered into an alleyway, taking them away from the populated street. He took another turn, bringing them to a small empty lot. The grass barely had any green left. Jo looked up, noticing that the apartment building was still in sight. "Here," Sam announced, drawing her attention again. The metal detector's squeal indicated that had found something big. Dean removed the bag from his shoulder, dropping it to the ground. He then stuck the shovel deep to begin digging. Jo prepared to do the same, but Tracee caught her attention.
Her fellow Slayer held out her hand. In her palm, there was a simple black hair tie. "Thanks," Jo took the offered accessory, and then began pulling her hair back into a ponytail. They were heading into an old sewer line after digging up an entrance. Things were bound to get messy. Tracee, too, held her dark hair back into a ponytail. Once done, Jo picked up her shovel and began digging alongside of Dean. Sam and Tracee stood on standby, on the lookout for those who might stumble across them. It probably wasn't necessary as this particular alley had a dead end.
They dug for several minutes until Jo's shovel hit something hard. The clang of the impact cause Dean to stop digging as well. Throwing their shovels aside, they dropped to their knees to swipe at the dirt. They found latches to a manhole. "Jackpot," Dean said, gripping one of the handles. Jo nodded as her fingers curled around the other. "Got it…?" She gave him a look. "Right—asking the wrong person." With a grunt, he began to pull. With minimal effort, Jo also pulled, easily lifting the door to the manhole. "Showoff," Dean muttered as Jo slipped her hand into her pocket for a small flashlight.
Shaking her head, yet smirking, she turned on the light and shined it down into the manhole. Critters raced away from the both the natural and artificial lights. A chill went through her as she examined the hole. "Eww…!" Tracee shuddered, also looking down. "Do I have to go in there?"
"Trace, now is not the time," Dean remarked. The shorter woman faked a sob, but Dean ignored her. "Ladies first," he said, gesturing into the hole. Jo stood a deep breath before positioning herself to go down. As she moved, she saw that Sam gave his brother a larger flashlight and kept one for himself. A shotgun was also given. Tracee did not take either a flashlight or a gun. Jo stuck the end of her flashlight in her mouth before descending into the dark. Tracee followed after her. Sam came next, and then Dean.
They climbed down for quite a bit until Jo finally came across a tunnel. Realizing how small and cramped the tunnel was, she let out a sigh. Apparently, they would be crawling. Eventually, they would hit a spot where they could move comfortably, but for now, it was on all fours. Jo led the way, flashlight in hand. Several groans of displeasure came from her fellow Slayer as she followed behind. If they were feeling cramped, Jo could only imagine how Dean and Sam were feeling. And poor Sam—he had to deal with all this with a cast on, and yet it was Dean who was griping.
Just as she was about to tell him to shut up, a ringtone beat her to the punch. Everyone stopped moving, listening to the ringing. "Crap," Dean muttered, realizing that it was coming from him. Grumbling to himself, Jo could hear him trying to maneuver his cell phone from his pocket. Somewhat annoyed, she waited. The ringing stopped. "Yeah…?" he greeted. "… Ellen!" The squeak of her mom's name caused Jo to flinch. Really? Now? "Uh… She's gonna have to call you back. She's, uh… taking care of… feminine business."
"Really?!" Jo and Tracee hissed in unison. They were ignored as Dean continued to converse with Ellen Harvelle. Ash must have run his mouth. When she got her hands on him… "Definitely using pliers," Jo muttered darkly.
"Now's not a good time," Dean stated. "We're in the middle of hunting this thing… No, she's fine! I promise nothing will happen to her… What…? … It won't! I won't let it! Besides, it's not like she needs-" For a few seconds, he stopped speaking. "Ellen…? Ellen?! Damn it!" Apparently, her mother, having heard enough, had hung up on him. "Great, now your mom's pissed at me. Awesome."
"Well, at least she can't smack you upside the head from where she is," Tracee reasoned.
"Yeah… about that… She's flying out."
"Prepare yourself to be smacked then," she teased, causing the older brother to snap at her. Tracee only chuckled, not at all bothered by his fuming.
"Just what I need," Jo retorted sarcastically. "Thanks, Dean." His grumbles were ignored in favor of continuing down the narrow tunnel. They really needed to pick up the pace. She knew that her mom would drop everything to come to Philadelphia. The four forged ahead for a time, and then Jo abruptly stopped. Her flashlight had made out an opening up ahead, but what had stopped her had been the revolting presence she had sensed. It chilled her, crawling through her skin to her veins. Jo recognized it as the same presence she had felt in the apartment building, only this time, it was intense.
"Oh, God…!" Tracee whispered, disgust in her voice.
"What? What is it?" Sam questioned.
"We're close," Jo answered. Biting her lip, she began moving again. Despite the overwhelming presence of the malicious spirit, she crawled until she made it out of the tunnel. Her feet hit the ground, the beam of light already surveying the area. With a grunt, Tracee landed beside her, taking in the surroundings. Her fingers gripped her katana, slipping the weapon from the belt loop. Like the blueprint had indicated, the chamber seemed to be an octagon shape. Jo tilted her head, having spotted a rusted metal gate, gesturing towards the right. Tracee nodded, and then they both moved towards the entrance to the chamber. As they stood on either side, Jo swallowed hard, clicking off her flashlight. She slid it into her pocket before slowly pulling her father's blade out of her jacket. She could so clearly feel the spirit now. Obviously, he was right inside, which meant Teresa had to be, too.
Jo leaned, looking inside the chamber. She spotted the spirit, Not Sherlock, hands seemingly passing through a wall. He was elbows deep, and completely unaware of them, probably too distracted. Her eyes narrowed, guessing that he was in the midst of torturing Teresa. Clenching her teeth, Jo gripped the handle of the blade, clutching it close to her chest. Dean and Sam quietly crawled out of the tunnel, joining them on either side. Older with her, younger with Tracee. Her fellow Slayer met her eye. Jo nodded her head, and Tracee lifted her hand, fingers deftly, and silently, twisting the rusted metal, allowing the leverage to open it.
"Hey…!" Jo shouted, gaining his attention. The spirit sharply turned, facing her. She sharply flung the blade from her hand. It embedded deep into his eye, causing a roar of pain to echo throughout the chamber. "How do you like that?!" The creature vanished in a swirl of ashes. "Pure iron, you creepy-ass son of a bitch!" It might have been a memento, but it was still useful. Mentally, she thanked her father as she moved inside the chamber. "Teresa…!" she called, dropping down to pick up the blade.
Coughing and gasping could be heard where Not Sherlock's arms had been. Tracee hurriedly made her way over just as Jo stood to her full height. They both examined the compartment, which looked as though it was just big enough to fit a body. Bloody fingers slowly slipped out of the small opening. Teresa had been imprisoned, but she was alive. "Hey," Tracee said. "We're here to rescue you." Her hand found a latch, unlocking the prison. Jo wasted no time in lifting the compartment's door.
"I-Is h-he gone?" Teresa stammered out, as she slid out of the prison. She held onto Tracee, visibly shivering, made even more noticeable with Dean approached, shining his flashlight on her. The woman was a mess—dirty, bloody, and obviously scared out of her mind. She had only been gone a few hours, but the trauma had definitely set in. Jo bit her lip, choosing not to answer.
"Get her out of here," she ordered. The answer, simply put, was a hard no. Jo could feel the heavy presence, crackling unpleasantly against her skin. The iron may have warded him away for a time, but that time was quickly dwindling. Dean looked at her, and Jo almost thought he would protest, but he only nodded his head, urging the scared woman along back towards where they had come in. Sam busied himself by checking the other compartments for other girls, but… no. The one before Teresa had been taken three weeks ago. There was no way she could have survived for so long down here.
Then, without warning, all at once, the presence came back full force. Concentrated, manifested right beside her. Jo had no time to react. Let alone defend. She took the full brunt of a backhand, which sent her crashing into a wall, a few feet from the floor. The impact jarred her brain and rattled her senses. Panic seized her, spreading throughout her core, made worse by the dirty hand clamping around her lower face. Eyes wide, she stared into the face of H. H. Holmes as he cut off her airways. Nose and mouth covered, Jo realized that she couldn't breathe and that she had dropped her father's blade. "Slayer…!" the spirit snarled in her face.
"Jo…! Damn it!" Dean's voice caught her ears, but she was rapidly losing oxygen. Her arms came up, fingers curling around the spirit's wrist, but he did not release her. "I can't get a good shot!"
"Me either!" Sam's voice exclaimed.
"Bloody hell!"
Just as dark spots began appearing her vision, Jo saw the sheath of Tracee's katana come into view. With a yank, it smacked against the spirit's throat. With a cry of surprise, Not Sherlock was ripped away. Despite the air being unclean, Jo welcomed the oxygen that rushed to her lungs now that her mouth and nose were no longer covered. She watched as the spirit backed up and slammed Tracee against the opposite wall. Sam called her name, outraged at the sight of his girlfriend crumbling to the ground.
Using the wall as leverage, Jo threw herself at the spirit. She twisted her body, on the ball of her left foot, to viciously swing her right fist. She returned the earlier backhand tenfold, causing the spirit's body to soar away from standing position above Tracee. But Jo wasn't done. She charged after him, rearing her fist back. She pelted his body with punches. Then followed the barrage with a sharp kick to the abdomen. Not Sherlock crashed into the wall behind him. Jo went at him again, lifting her leg in a high kick. To her irritation, her foot went right though the spirit's head and collided against the wall. "Pretty little Slayer," he taunted. "You can't hurt me."
His fist shot forward, catching her mouth. Jo felt herself flying through the air again. This time, however, she flipped, instead landing on her feet beside an awestruck Dean. The creepy bastard was right, of course. No matter how hard she punched or how long the fight was drawn out, the fact remained that Not Sherlock was already dead. Scowling, Jo glanced at Dean, and then hurriedly wretched the shotgun away from his hands. With one hand, she cocked the shotgun. Then keeping her aim steady, she pulled the trigger. The blast of rock salt nailed the spirit in the chest. He was knocked off his feet, and with a dramatic wail of 'No…!' the spirit disappeared out of sight.
In the silence that followed, Jo realized that the presence had dissipated. The rock salt had done the trick, and she could no longer feel the spirit. He would be back, of course, but it would take longer for him to recover from that blast. It would give them ample time to escape the sewers and get Teresa to safety. "Let's get the hell outta here before he comes back," she said, heading towards the door they had entered.
"Actually, I don't think you're going anywhere just yet, badass," Dean spoke up. Jo furrowed her brow, turning her gaze to the older Winchester. He took the gun away from her. His movements were almost cautious, but the look of wonder hadn't left his expression. "You were right about being the bait. That's what we've got to do now." Jo narrowed her eyes, glanced at the other occupants in the chamber—Sam had stood by Tracee's side while Teresa shivered near the gate—and then returned her attention back to Dean. As she listened to his plan, she couldn't help but be impressed by it. She cracked a smile. Unorthodox, but any orthodox method couldn't be used this time around since the bones weren't accessible. Dean's plan was the next best thing. He definitely wasn't like any other hunter.
"You clever boy," Jo commended. Dean grinned at her, causing heat to rush to her cheeks. She pursed her lips, and tried to will that reaction away. "Okay, let's get Teresa out first."
"You got it, Slayer," Dean replied. This time, she didn't try to hide her pleased smile.
Jo had to admit; it had a nice ring.
0-0
"So…" Tracee began from her spot on the bed. Jo blinked once, having just come out of the half bath to discover her fellow Slayer. The bedroom door had been shut. Only a few hours after trapping the ghost of H.H. Holmes in that ring of salt, and cover the sewer's entrance with cement, the four had gotten back to the apartment building. To pack, and to shower because they had all smelled awful. Teresa had been returned to her apartment. The woman had been so grateful that she had offered to buy them dinner. She hadn't even faltered about how much she had to spend either. It had felt good. Not just saving the woman, but also making sure that Not Sherlock wouldn't be hurting anyone else. "I know what you told Samuel… but level with me, Slayer to Slayer, how was it?" Tracee questioned.
Biting her lower lip, Jo walked forward. She plopped down next to Tracee. "It was amazing," she confessed. "I've never felt anything like it." Her fellow Slayer chuckled lightly. Jo hadn't told Sam the entire truth when he had asked. Yes, she had been glad that Teresa had been rescued, but the thrill of the fight had been the glamourous part of it. She had been scared, just for a moment, but afterwards… Jo clenched her teeth. Just thinking about it caused a shiver to run through her. Real action… excited her to her very core. "Is it going to be like that every time?"
"Just wait until you actually slay something—feels real good," Tracee said. "But you don't have to be embarrassed about it. It's normal for us." Jo slowly nodded her head. "You've got to remember something, though," she continued. "We let you take on Not Sherlock, mostly by yourself. I think it's something we should all do—handle a fight by ourselves. To really reinforce what we are. However, it shouldn't be that way all the time."
"What do you mean?" Jo questioned.
"I honestly think we aren't meant to be alone," Tracee said. "Out of all our predecessors, only a few of us have reached adulthood."
"You're talking about the one that activated us? And the one that had a child?"
"Shyeah, they had support. They survived longer because they had support," she confirmed. "See, we might be the powerhouses, but it means nothing if there's no support, no connections keeping us grounded, keeping us alive. If you truly want this life, Jo-" The younger Slayer almost let out a gasp of surprise. That had been the first time Tracee had called her by her real name. Well, her nickname, but still. It had mattered that she hadn't gotten the name wrong. Tracee, seemingly not caring about the shift continued. "-you can't do it alone. No matter what happens, don't slay alone."
"Okay," Jo said. "I see the benefits."
"Good… Keep my number, sister," Tracee said. Jo smiled. Despite the initial hostility between them—well, it had been mostly on her part; Tracee had seemed mostly indifferent—things had lightened up quite a bit since they had worked a case together. It was almost funny, really. Jo had been hoping to get closer to Dean, but ended up feeling a lot closer to the older Slayer instead. "I'll text you the Madam's number later, too. She knows a lot about Slayers, so if you're ever curious, you could contact her." The 'Madam' happened to Missouri Moseley, a psychic and ally. Before, Tracee had mentioned her in passing, but apparently, she was a helpful source.
"Don't play games with me, Dean Winchester! You tell me where the hell my daughter is!"
Jo found herself wincing, recognizing the voice of her mother. She looked towards the closed bedroom door, frowning at what was to come. Although she had been expecting her, Jo would honestly choose to fight another ghost than deal with the hurricane that was Ellen Harvelle. Sighing lightly, she glanced at Tracee. The older Slayer merely shrugged, and then stood up from the bed. Guess there was no stalling anymore. Once again, she had the face the storm. Jo stood up, following Tracee to the door.
As soon as the door opened, three heads swiveled in their direction. Grimacing, Jo walked forward. Her mother's hardened gaze focused on her, and then grew wide, a soft murmur of 'Oh my God' on her lips. She had probably just noticed the bruise on her cheek and the split lip. The signs of battle would probably be gone before the night was over, but they were eyesores. There was also a large bruise on her back. "Mom," Jo greeted. The glare came back full force. "You're angry. I understand."
"Angry? Angry doesn't begin to touch it!" her mother retorted.
"Ellen… Please don't be mad," Dean attempted to calm the situation. "I lied to you, and I'm sorry. But Jo did a hellava job. You should be proud. I think her dad would be proud, too."
"Don't you dare say that—not you!" Jo jerked in surprised by how hostile her mother was being towards Dean. She had every right to be angry, but to focus it on him? That had honestly been out of the blue. "I need a moment with my daughter… alone."
"Mom…!" Jo protested.
"Now, you listen to me, Joanna Beth! You do not have the sense to do this job! You are not a hunter!"
"No!" she exclaimed, nearly shouting. Her mother looked surprised by the outburst. "No, mom! I have the best sense to do this job! But you're right… I'm not a hunter." Her insides vibrated with anxiety, but she couldn't keep this within herself anymore. She wouldn't. Jo looked away for a second, and then released a heavy sigh before returning her focus back to her mother. "There's something that I haven't told you… The real reason I quit school. Something happened to me back in 2003." Her mother's face scrunched up in confusion. "Only Ash knew until now. I… changed."
"What…? What are you talking about?"
Jo swallowed hard. "I was never meant to be a hunter. I know that now," she accepted. "I may have been naïve for a while, but… but I have decided that this is what I want to do. This life is what I have chosen. Not to be a hunter, but to be what I was activated for. I'm going to do this because..." Jo walked away, heading towards the living room area. She noticed the confused stares she was receiving from most of them. Tracee, however, had her arms folded over her chest, lips tugging upward in a smile. Honestly, it made Jo feel better about what she was about to do. Taking a deep breath, she dropped down, fingers curling around the bottom of the couch.
"What are you doing?!" her mother demanded to know, clearly exasperated.
"Showing you what I am," Jo retorted. Again, her mother frowned, not understanding. She would, though. In time. Gritting her teeth, the young Slayer stood to her full height, lifting the couch with her. It wasn't heavy at all, and so she lifted it high above her head. With only one hand. Her eyes looked towards her mother. Her face had gone pale at the sight of her tiny daughter doing something that not even the strongest human male could do. "I'm Joanna Harvelle," she continued, and then tossed the couch to right, clear across the room. "The Vampire Slayer."
Ellen Harvelle promptly fainted.
0-0
