Chapter 15: Like Father Like Son

Dean had always found the process of making ammunition to be strangely peaceful and this time was no different. He had cranked up the burner on Missouri's stove, set up his little ceramic crucible and waited, watching as the last of the Colt's precious rounds was reduced to a bubbling silver puddle. The knowledge that any spills or fumbles might bring their hunt to a screeching halt never factored into his quick, well-rehearsed movements.

It had been a week since John's departure. A week in which the boys slept, stuffed themselves on Missouri's cooking, and debated the ins and outs of the task that now lay before them. They weren't at all sure what awaited them in South Carolina, but they damn sure weren't going unprepared. A closer inspection of the envelope that contained the info on Charlie Elkins revealed that John had also left them the slug; instructions as to the use of the bullet being implied.

"Boy, what in blazes are you doing at my stove?"

Busted. He could hear Missouri's flats click across the linoleum as she entered the kitchen and he turned around lazily, leaning back against the closed oven door. "Bakin' cookies, you want some?"

She swatted him out of the way playfully. "Cookies go in the oven, not on top of it. Now what are you doing?" She leaned over the burner to peer down into the crucible.

"I never said they were gonna be good cookies," Dean grumbled, rubbing the arm that she had just hit. "That really hurt ya know."

"Dean," the psychic turned suddenly intense eyes to him. "What is this?" It was an authentic question this time, not her normal invite for banter. Her tone left no room for jokes.

"It's what's left of the bullet that Dad mentioned at dinner the other night."

"From the Colt?"

"Yep."

"Well what are you meltin' it down for?"

Dean took a moment to gather his patience before responding. "I'm going to mold it and turn it into a new bullet, or several. I need to run that by Sam first."

"Run what by me?" Sam asked as he stepped into the room, drawing both Dean and Missouri's attention. He was dressed in jeans and a black polo layered over a long-sleeved tee, his Carhartt jacket draped over one arm. The purpling around his right eye had all but vanished and the scars on his cheek were just pale reminders of the crash.

Subconsciously, Dean ran a hand down his own belly, fingers pausing over the ridges of staples. The metal prongs were still in place, but the flesh had begun to seal together and only a tenth of his previous pain lingered. He and Sam weren't exactly in ideal hunting shape, but it would have to do.

Missouri looked to each boy, and then excused herself silently. They both watched her leave.

"The bullet," Dean said, answering Sam at last and nodding toward the crucible.

"What about it?" the younger man asked.

Dean sighed. "Well in case you haven't noticed, it's all melted down."

"So…"

"What do you want to do with it?"

"Well, gee, Dean, I don't know," Sam shrugged dramatically and tapped at his chin as if lost in deep contemplation. "Wait, here's an idea, why don't we…oh I don't know…make another bullet?"

"No, ya think? Listen up smartass, I was trying to do the polite thing and get your opinion…but I guess I'll just go ahead and make the bullets like I planned."

"Wait," the hardness began to seep from Sam's features. "You said bull-ets, as in plural?"

Dean smiled smugly and folded his arms. "Uh-huh."

Sam frowned. "Dude, you've only got one bullet, that does not equal plural bullets."

"Chill, I've got it all worked out. I'll divvy it up; put just a drop or two in each mold and fill in the rest with wrought iron. Noboby'll ever know the difference," he said proudly.

Sam's eyes bulged in disbelief. "Uh, Dean, I'm pretty sure the demon will know when we shoot him and he doesn't die!"

Dean threw up his hands in frustration. "Well what would you have me do? Do you just want one more shot at this?"

"Dean, what if it's like…Kool-Aid or something and it's not as good if it's watered down?"

"Hey," Dean scowled darkly. "Give me a little more credit here."

"Will it work?"

"Sure."

"Dean!"

"Okay, I don't know, Sammy," Dean stared down at his socks and wiggled his toes against the floor. "I really don't know, dude." He picked his head up and fixed Sam's brown eyes with his own hazel ones. His brother looked more than a little apprehensive. "Truth is, I'm afraid this might really fuck things up, but I don't know what else to do. What I do know is that I'm not gonna put us in the whole one-bullet-left situation again. That never seems to end well."

Sam nodded absently, chewing his lip and fiddling with the zipper of his jacket.

"It's your call," Dean added, drawing a disbelieving look from the younger man.

"What? Dean…" he started to protest, eyes going almost frantic.

"Like I said," Dean cut him off. "Your call. You're the one with the freaky visions and shit, so you tell me."

Sam closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, then let the breath rush through his nostrils and end in a disparaging snort. When his eyes opened, he nodded, mouth pressed in a firm line. "Alright then, split 'em."

-O-

Two hours later…

"Oh, I wish you boys would stay another week, you need more time to heal," Missouri's brow wrinkled in concern as she smoothed a crease from the front of Sam's shirt with motherly care.

Sam smiled and took her hand in his, squeezing gently. "We can't thank you enough for everything you've done, Missouri. But I know we've worn out our welcome."

"Oh no, of course not!" she insisted.

"Really?" Sam nodded toward the doorway to the kitchen where Dean was seated at the table.

As they paused, Dean's muffled rant became clearer. "…come the hell outta there, you sonovabitch! Come on, mother fu…"

"Well," she smiled. "I can't say I'll miss that mouth of his."

Sam returned her grin and leaned down as she opened her arms for a hug. "Thank you so much," he whispered, voice nearly catching. "I don't know what we would have done."

She pulled back from the embrace and patted his arm. "You would have found a way, just like you Winchesters always do. You three are the toughest white boys I ever met."

The remark was meant as a joke, but it touched him all the same. He chuckled as he turned toward the kitchen. "Dean, you ready?"

"Is the car loaded?" came the response.

Sam nodded as he stepped through the doorway. "Yep, the truck is all packed up and ready to go."

Dean looked up frown the table and frowned. "Damn truck," he muttered before returning to the task at hand.

"What's the matter?" Sam asked, coming around the other side of the table.

"I can't get the last bullet out," said as he struggled to pry the mold apart. At his words, the mold suddenly gave way and the steel gray cylinder came popping out onto the table. It landed with a clink and began rolling across the cracked, wood surface, picking up speed as it went.

Sam cupped his hand at the edge and neatly palmed the bullet before it could fall to the floor. "How many did there end up being?" he asked, holding the precious piece of metal up to the light.

Dean gave a single hollow chuckle. "Thirteen."

-O-

Saying that Dean was glad to hit the road was an understatement. It wasn't that he wanted to get away from Missouri, well maybe just a little, but rather that he longed for the hunt again. The only life he'd ever known lay on the highways of Middle America and his brief respite had him itching to return. The drive to Summerville had not been an unpleasant one; they'd allowed themselves two days for travel, stopping over at a motel for the night. Dean had refused to drive, insisting that it would be unfaithful to his precious Impala. Sam had tried his best to keep from rolling his eyes at that particular remark.

Dusk was rapidly approaching as the brothers rolled to a stop in front of 1462 Woodland Drive, dark fingers of purple stabbing through the magenta sky. The house was one in a street of many nearly identical villas; two- story grey stucco, black shingles and shutters, white trim work, neatly clipped hedges. The lot was barely an eighth of an acre and the house was all scrunched up next to those on either side. The grass was a faded green, there were minimal flowers, and one sickly, popsicle stick tree wilted up near the street, supported by wooden stakes and guide wires.

"Well this place is just bursting with personality," Dean said sarcastically, giving the home an unappreciative snort.

"Tell me about it," Sam sighed, leaning across the cab to peer through the passenger window.

"Dude!" Dean tried to push the younger man aside. "Get your own freakin' window!"

"Wait," Sam slapped Dean's hand away and pointed up to the front of the house, eyes suddenly intent. "Do you see that?"

"What?" Dean turned sharp hazel eyes in the same direction as his brother and scanned the front of the Elkins' home. Everything seemed normal; windows intact, sprinklers ticking away, flag flapping lightly in the breeze, front door ajar…

"Oh shit," they both breathed in unison. It took about three seconds for them to unlock the doors and tumble out of the truck. Dean reached the bed first and levied himself up with the aid of the rear tire.

"What do you think it means?" Sam asked, accepting the sawed-off twelve gauge that Dean handed down from the toolbox.

"Could be nothing," Dean reasoned, checking the full clip in his .45 and sliding the weapon into his waistband. "Maybe they just forgot and left the door open."

"Dean, just because he doesn't believe in his father's crusade doesn't mean Charlie is oblivious to what goes on. No way Daniel Elkins' son leaves his front door wide-ass open."

Dean flipped his brother the Glock, tucked a flashlight and another shotgun under his own arm and slammed the toolbox closed. "I hope you're wrong, Sammy," he muttered, jumping down from the bed with a wince.

They made their way across the lawn as casually as any two armed, jacketed men could hope to be. If a neighbor happened to be looking out his window at that exact moment, their hopes of getting out of Summerville without a night in lock-up were slim to none.

"Cover me," Dean instructed, sidling into the alcove around the door. What little he could see through the partially opened door was dark and shadowy. He clicked on his flashlight and toed open the door, immediately sweeping the yellow beam beneath the muzzle of his .45 with police precision. Entering the front hall, the devastation become evident immediately.

The remnants of what had once been a rather ornate hall tree lay scattered in ruin across the foyer, the mirror smashed to millions of tiny glittering bits and the wood splintered beyond hope of repair. Water from a broken vase bled the colors from an oil print that had crashed to the floor with enough force to scuff the tile. Large and small scraps of fabric were snagged on the edges of broken picture frames.

"What the hell?" Sam asked over his brother's shoulder as he stepped into the house, eyes trailing across the destruction.

Dean shook his head, bewildered, and reached up to touch a dark smear on the wall. "I've got blood," he announced, withdrawing sticky, wet fingers.

Stepping carefully, they picked their way further down the hall, both noting that the destruction was laid in a path as though following a struggle. The dining and living rooms were untouched, but the kitchen had been completely wrecked. Copper pots and pans from an overhead rack littered the counter and floor. Multiple drawers were open, their collections of knives and utensils scattered everywhere, some of the sturdier pieces actually jammed into the cabinet faces. Two free-floating shelves above the small, two-person table had been pulled down; their pictures and knick-knacks lay in a wrecked heap below. It was a different setting, a different type of home, but the damage was startlingly similar to that at Daniel Elkins' cabin. Like father like son…wanted by the night.

Sam toed over one of the few frames that hadn't been completely demolished and found a young couple smiling up at him. The woman was pretty; brunette and petite with sparkling blue eyes. Her arms were wrapped around the waist of a tall, rugged, outdoorsy kind of guy; Charlie Elkins. "What happened here?" he mused, looking up from the picture to the room around him.

"Bad shit, man," Dean muttered. A dark scowl marred the elder Winchester's handsome features as he kicked through the debris, searching for any clues that might explain the disaster that lay before them. "Whoever, or whatever did this…" he trailed off and Sam whipped around curiously.

"What is it?" the younger man asked, joining Dean beside the breakfast bar.

Dean pointed to a red splotch on the light colored tile. "Footprints. Bloody footprints."

Sure enough, the unmistakable traces of a small set of bare feet were streaked across the floor, leading away from the scene. A smudged arch, a couple of toes; the boys followed the prints down the hall and up a flight of narrow, carpeted stairs. Each stair blossomed with a fresh stain, leaving them to believe that whoever owned the prints had a cut on his foot, rather than a transferring stain.

"They go off to the right," Dean whispered as they reached the top of the stairs, guns drawn. Each hunter gripped their pistol of choice since their obviously corporeal prey wouldn't likely find rock salt to be lethal.

Sam cleared the hall and flanked his brother as they entered the room to the right of the stairs; the master bedroom. Everything seemed to be in array; the bed was made and dresser drawers closed neatly. The crimson prints tracked around the king size bed and ended in front of a pair of closed, slatted French doors.

"Closet," Sam mouthed, and Dean nodded.

They approached slowly and cautiously, walking up on the balls of their feet. When they neared the doors, Dean motioned with the muzzle of his gun and Sam moved into position; one hand taking a firm grip on the knob. The younger man waited, breath held against a pounding heart, and drummed his fingers against the butt of the Glock. Dean trained his flashlight and S&W on the door, paused, then gave a single, curt nod.

Sam twisted the knob, flung open the door, and leapt out of the firing line in one swift motion, bringing up his own weapon. A scream louder than any they'd ever heard pierced the quiet and Dean nearly fired with shock. But then his eyes registered the frantic, tear-stained face of a woman and he lowered his gun with shaking relief.

"Holy shit!" he gasped.

Sam recognized the woman almost immediately as the one from the picture downstairs; Mrs. Elkins. "It's okay, it's okay, we're not going to hurt you!" he assured quickly, pocketing his gun.

Mrs. Elkins screamed again, just as sharp as the first time, and she drew her knees up under her chin. Her entire body quivered, even her teeth chattered.

"It's okay, I promise," Sam knelt in front of her. "We're just trying to help."

"No!" she screamed, her sapphire eyes bulging in their sockets. "No!"

"Mrs. Elkins, we're friends," Sam tried to reassure, reaching a hand toward the distraught woman. "I'm Sam and this is my brother Dean. We just want to help…"

"Who did this to you? Are they still here?" Dean interrupted more gruffly than he'd intended, looming over Sam's shoulder.

She shrieked as Sam's outstretched hand neared her elbow and she wriggled backward in between the dangling row of pant legs, drawing quaking hands to cover her mouth.

"Dean, you're scaring her!" Sam elbowed his brother in the knee.

"I didn't do anything!" the elder protested. "You're the one who's touching her!"

"Fine." Sam reached up and parted the curtain of hanging clothes, this time taking care not to come in contact with Charlie's wife. "Mrs. Elkins," he said her name soothingly. "You can come on out, I promise we're not going to hurt you. In fact…you're father-in-law sent us, we're friends of his."

She buried her face in her knees and began rocking back and forth rapidly, mumbling something incoherent. The friend-of-the-family route obviously wasn't going to work.

"Mrs. Elkins…"

"Hush, Sam," Dean said forcefully, drawing his brother's attention. He twirled a finger in the air around his ear and rolled his eyes. "She's not all there, man."

"But Dean…"

"I said, she'd not all there, man." He wet his lips nervously and surveyed the room, taking in the neatness and order; the conflict had never touched the bedroom. "Something's not right here."

"No, ya think!" Sam exclaimed, wincing when his tone elicited a yelp from Mrs. Elkins.

"I'm serious," Dean scowled. "This isn't like Daniel's cabin; this isn't some haphazard vamp raid. Whoever did this was after something specific, normal supernatural things don't leave behind a potential snack," he jerked his head toward the shivering bundle in the closet. "This is some crazy-ass shit right here."

Sam's brow furrowed beneath his bangs and he chewed his lower lip thoughtfully. "Okay, so let's say you're right."

"Yes, let's."

"Theories, Einstein?"

"I'm workin' on it," Dean said defensively.

"The eyes!"

Both brothers turned startled looks to the closet at Mrs. Elkins' sudden outburst. The deranged woman flung apart the clothes before her and came tumbling from the small enclosure, waving and pawing at the air.

"Eyes!" she repeated her eyes unnaturally wide and frantic as she lunged toward the still-crouching Sam. "Eyes!"

"Get clear!" Dean shouted, raising his .45 and training it on Mrs. Elkins.

"No, Dean, back off!" Sam protested even as he recoiled from the wailing female that had taken a death grip on the front of his jacket.

"Eyes…hurt…Charlie…the eyes!" she screamed, her mouth jerking in uncontrollable spasms.

"What eyes? What about Charlie?" Sam asked, taking a firm hold on her shoulders to try and control her tremors.

"Eyes!" She screeched again, tugging desperately at the stiff canvas duck jacket.

"What eyes?" Sam demanded, shaking her gently.

Her answer came in the form of a gurgle as her own eyes rolled skyward and she slumped against his chest, a shallow panted breath the only sign of life.

"What eyes?" Sam asked softly, his voice sounding dazed even to his own ears.

Dean sighed from behind him. "Like I said, crazy-ass shit, man."

TBC