Rule Three: Rock salt and table salt are virtually interchangeable.
The vomit-inducing odor of greasy, processed meat hung thickly in the air, punctuated only by the acrid scent of a three-hundred-pound man's sweat as he moved up in the line. Sam had the insistent urge to plug his nose and make a mad dash for the exit, but returning to the savages back "home" empty-handed would only induce yelling and push-ups. Neither of which he particularly wanted to face at this moment.
"Next," called a woman with a faintly Mexican accent, and as Sam took one step forward – big enough to move, small enough not to press his nose into the sweaty sumo-wrestler's backside – he wondered vaguely why McDonald's was packed like a can of sardines when the food lacked anything resembling quality. But his eyes fell upon the dollar menu, the Winchester family's favorite thing next to shooting stuff, and he realized that cheapness overcame the need for quality. At least, it did when a family's income came from poker games and pool hustling, with the occasional credit card scam thrown in for kicks.
At the tender age of eleven, Sam was already more independent than many kids several years older than him… not that his dad or Dean ever seemed to give him much credit (well, mostly just Dean). He had been quite shocked when his dad shoved a wad of bills in his face and told him to run to the McDonald's across the street from their apartment in upstate Wisconsin. Though the task was trivial, the mere fact that Sam was sent for food, with no supervision, right in the area of what might turn out to be a big hunt, gave him a surge of independence from the protection (and sometimes overprotection) of Dean.
At last, Sam moved up to the counter and placed his order with the bored-looking woman up front. She gave him a toothy smile – no doubt thinking how adorable little Sammy was, which made him want to hurl – and punched some keys on her cash register. Handing over the money, Sam stepped back for a moment until the food was ready before picking it up in the grease-stained paper bag and heading for the exit.
Sure, there were times when his dad would let Sam do things himself, like loading guns and cleaning knives and spewing out a needed Latin phrase after hours of studying. But really, every time Dean was around, it seemed like Sam was the one standing around playing it safe. And it was starting to grate on his nerves. For instance, before leaving for the burgers, Dean had called out to his little brother, "Stay out of alleys and deserted areas." Seriously, Sam was going out for food… where was he going to find a deserted, abandoned, haunted area where he'd run into Marietta Stone, the woman who'd been butchered to death?
As he strode confidently forward, across the empty street, greasy bag held loosely in his hand, Sam found himself stopping before he got around the block to where the apartment was… for, apparently, there was a shortcut.
"Uh-oh, Dean. An alley," Sam whispered to himself in mock terror. Now, the thing about Sam was that he had seen way too many things in his short life, things that had horrified him down to his very core… but somehow – in the calming orange glow of the sunset, having been trusted to go on a fast-food run alone – his brain forgot all of that in favor of the more cocky, devil-may-care, hit-me-with-your-best-shot approach to life that usually belonged to Dean. And, thinking about all the things he'd faced and beaten, he became all the cockier; it was this, perhaps, that provoked him to begin sauntering down the dimly-lit alleyway.
Quick as a flashlight blinking out due to a dead battery, a wisp of gray light flashed through the alley and vanished into the shadows, momentarily halting Sam in his tracks. Spirit, a voice whispered in the back of his head, and he mentally shushed the thought away. It could have been anything. Stray cat, raccoon, trick of the light… uh… random mist…?
Giving his head a tiny, gentle shake, Sam began moving forward – but once again stopped dead in his tracks at the faintly glowing human silhouette that floated quickly through the alley before, once again, disappearing into the shadows. It left behind a faint but unmistakable scent of sulfur.
Heart hammering against his chest, Sam glanced behind him, wondering if he could backtrack now… but he was already halfway through the alley, and it would be quicker if he just went straight, and oh, Dean would call him a coward if he saw him now (while simultaneously trying to baby him and shield him with a layer of salt). Salt! Oh, what an idiot he'd been. If only he'd brought along some rock salt, then he would have at least been armed…
Flash. Light, shaped to the willowy form of a woman in a long gray dress with waving, brown curls of hair and slender arms. Sam found that his feet had somehow gotten glued to the ground, and the woman – presumably, Miss Marietta – was drifting closer, an exuberant gleam in her beady eyes and a crooked sneer on her lips.
An ethereal, dreamy voice full of unrestrained sadism: "You've been a bad boy, Jeremy."
Sam didn't know which unsettled him more: the long, shining, silver knife dangling precariously from her transparent grip, or his dad and Dean's previous conversation about her…
"Marietta Stone… says here, ten years ago, she was murdered – slashed to pieces by her seventeen-year-old son," Dean commented, his eyes dark and deep, like two fathomless wells.
"Got a name?" Dad half-questioned, half-ordered, as he bent down in front of the old newspaper Dean was paging through.
"Uh… yeah, here it is," Dean said at last, his finger finding the spot. "Jeremy."
"Well," Dad sighed, standing up straight and folding his arms, "looks like we've got an avenger on our hands – target, young men."
As the woman drifted closer still, seeming to enjoy taunting him, Sam regained movement in his feet and stumbled backwards, the greasy paper bag slipping from his grip and smacking onto the gravel. As Sam tripped over himself and landed on his back, he quickly found himself unable to pick whether to look at the murderous ghost or the scarlet ketchup which had splattered all over the bag.
"You've been a bad boy, Jeremy," she repeated, her voice slick like bloody intestines. Then, without any hint of a playful smirk – "It's time you were punished."
As she raised the butcher's knife in preparation of zooming forward and hacking Sam to tiny pieces, the eleven-year-old did the first thing that came to mind: he reached into the greasy, ketchup-y bag, yanked out the complementary plastic knife (which he always wondered about, burgers being finger-food), and hurled it as hard as he could in her direction.
It was comical, really: a homicidal spirit with a butcher's knife versus a young boy wielding a dinky little plastic one.
The pathetic excuse for a weapon passed easily through her – in fact, it stopped her from attacking right away simply by causing an amused chuckle to escape her lips. Sam reached into the bag again, his hand slippery with ketchup, and grasped an aluminum-wrapped burger. Just as Marietta looked prepared to strike, he chucked the burger at her, knowing the folly of his actions but praying that, somehow, he'd buy himself enough time to get out of there. The burger made a clean arc through the air, flying through Marietta – and leaving a sizzling hole in her chest.
What?
Sam's eyes fell upon the burger, lying behind the hissing spirit. Smashed onto the tinfoil wrapper was a crushed bit of fried potato, something that had probably gotten crushed against the burger in his mad haste of grabbing it.
It was a french-fry.
Everyone who was anyone knew how enthusiastically McDonald's salted their fries… but would that really cause Marietta such pain? After all, the Winchesters usually used rock salt, which was ideal for throwing large chunks at close range (and, Sam would later discover, quite ideal for loading in shotguns when they were aimed at ghosts, but not quite so ideal when aimed at brothers)… but would the measly grains of average, everyday sodium chloride clutching the fried edges of fast food so easily repel a spirit?
Well, there was no time to ponder, for Marietta was once again advancing on Sam – only now with a truly infuriated look on her face. She swung the knife up over her head, prepared to bring it down on Sam with a fatal blow –
But he grabbed a handful of french-fries and hurled them with all his might up into her face.
Good old NaCl.
Marietta gave an unearthly wail as the offending fries passed through her transparent form. Clutching her face in agony, she dropped the knife with a clatter, whirled in a circle, and vanished.
Breathing hard, Sam sat up slowly, wary of the silence and stillness. When he decided that he was, indeed, alone, he pushed himself to his feet and tried to wipe the ketchup off on his pants. Grabbing what remained in the greasy, dyed-scarlet paper bag, he ran all the way to the apartment.
Slamming the door open, Sam hurled himself inside – clearly to the shock of both his dad and Dean, who were sitting in their respective chairs with their eyes trained on the youngest Winchester after his dramatic entrance. He could see the questions in their eyes, and without any exposition, announced, "I just had an encounter with our new friend."
Dean leapt from his chair as if he'd been electrocuted, and his dad asked, "Marietta Stone?"
As Sam nodded, his fifteen-year-old brother grabbed his head roughly, checking for injury. Sam wriggled out of his grasp, annoyed, and tossed the ruined paper bag onto the nearby table.
"You okay?" Dean asked, looking ready to grab Sam's head again, but the younger merely grinned.
"No, actually she hacked me up and sold my meat to McDonald's," he retaliated. When he saw his brother's gaze resting on his red-smeared pants, he nodded in understanding. "Ketchup."
Dean visibly relaxed and clapped his hand on Sam's back. "So, what happened?"
"Well, she was coming at me, and then…" he trailed off, frowning. At his father's and Dean's imploring looks, he added lamely, "and then I got rid of her. See, here's the thing," he continued, becoming more confident by the minute. "It turns out, regular salt works just as good as rock salt when you want to ward off a spirit. And it's a lot easier and less conspicuous to carry around, too." Grinning proudly at his discovery, Sam looked up to see what his dad would say.
But his dad and Dean were both smirking, apparently quite amused with themselves. "What, you didn't think it would?" Dean asked at last.
Sam stared at him, confused.
Dean continued. "C'mon, Sam… what do you think we make salt circles with?"
It was a moment before Sam realized he was biting his lip at his own mistake… of course, how could he have been so stupid? Still, clinging onto a shred of hope that he had still thought of something good, he glanced up at his dad for confirmation that his confusion was justified.
John Winchester shook his head gently, and with a grin, replied, "Dean's right. Rock salt and table salt are virtually interchangeable."
Sam mentally logged that away as he trudged over to the table and plopped down. He could feel, more than see, the smug, I-know-more-than-you-do smirk on his brother's face as the older boy reached into the paper bag on the table, pulling out the contents. Still sifting through the effects of table salt versus rock salt in his mind, Sam watched idly as Dean sat down at the other end of the table and stared into his hand for a moment. His indignant exclamation brought a triumphant smile to Sam's face.
"Dude, where are my fries?"