Chapter 7

Staring up at the grimy ceiling, Dean wondered whether he was doing the right thing, keeping secrets from Sam. He was uncomfortable taking credit for the research, so he had avoided answering Sam's questions. He hated lying to Sam. He could lie to everyone else, even to his father, to some extent, but not to Sam. So he put on a grinning mask, and said nothing.

He was worried by his father's uncharacteristic recklessness, giving him the website over the phone. Surely, with information like that, he would instruct them to meet up with him so that they could end it together, as a family. It was also unlike him to just give them the information – almost as if he wanted us to finish it without him, Dean reflected, a chill running down his spine.

Suddenly it occurred to him that the last time his father had behaved so out of character, he had been possessed by a demon. For several moments he lay paralysed as the implications of the idea flashed through his mind. The website was a fake, John was in its power again, it would find them easily.

But the site was too old to have been set up simply to trap the Winchesters, Dean considered, and anyway, the solution didn't appear genuine enough to be a trap. And when he thought about it, his father hadn't seemed a different man on the phone. He was the same as he had always been, but in a mode of panic more severe than Dean had ever known him.

And this led to his other fear, of course. What could have caused such panic? Unless… unless the demon had found John, and he knew it was coming for him. He would have tried to pass on what he had found out so that his boys could take the thing out when he was gone. It seemed horribly likely. Dean wanted more than anything to convince himself that this theory was implausible, unlikely. But he had heard the fear in John's voice. And the finality. 'Take care of yourself, Dean. And take care of Sam.' Goodbye.

The sensible part of Dean's mind, the part which knew denial was not an option, knew too that the whole thing would be easier to deal with if he told Sam. But, before everything else, he was programmed to protect Sam, and it had seemed so cruel to spoil his little brother's moment of triumph by telling him '…and the bad news is, our father's probably dead.'

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For the first time in weeks, Sam slept deeply and mercifully dreamlessly, and he woke up to morning sunlight filtering in hazy stripes through the blinds, instead of the half-hearted birdsong and distant arguments that he usually woke up to in the small hours of the morning. He felt refreshed, full of optimism, somehow living in a blissful lull between the frustration of the unsuccessful research and the looming terror of the fight to come.

Dean was nowhere to be seen, but an untidy scribbled note on the table seemed to include something like the word 'breakfast'.

By the time he had showered, singing loudly and completely out of tune, Dean had returned with some coffee, looking pale and tired.

'You ok?' Sam asked him.

'Yeah… couldn't sleep,' he mumbled, pulling a newspaper out of his jacket. 'There was an electrical storm in a town in Georgia.'

'Really?' Sam snatched the newspaper and flicked through it, rustling the pages loudly in his hurry.

'Well… it doesn't necessarily mean anything,' Dean pointed out.

'It's worth looking,' Sam replied, typing the name of the town into his laptop. It was the latest in a series of towns. They would hear of unusual weather somewhere and investigate the area's climate over the last couple of weeks. Usually, it had just been a one-off occurrence. Once or twice, they had noticed a pattern of temperature fluctuations, but never one conclusive enough to suggest the demon's presence. One area was plagued with electrical storms, but it had been for several years – clearly there was a problem with the area, possibly even a supernatural one – but not the demon.

The Georgian town in question was small and insignificant, and its weather report showed the expected warm climate. However, browsing through old reports, Sam pulled up a previous storm a few days before, and another a week ago, along with a comment from a resident saying that he had never known so many electrical storms in one month, and he had lived there his whole life. Looking back at the recent reports in more detail, Sam noticed that, although the temperature was averaging a not-unusual 75°, they had recorded drops as far down as 50°, and a peak of 88°. Sam looked up, wide eyed.

'Dean, I think this one might be worth checking out.'

'Hmm?' Dean wandered over and glanced at the figures. Damn, I think you're probably right. He felt a cold lump growing in his stomach, and wondered if he was ready to face this. He still felt stiff and his chest ached constantly, hitting him suddenly with sharp pangs if he tried to breathe too deeply. And, quite apart from that, he still felt vulnerable mentally from the demon's last series of attacks. He didn't want to come into contact with it again so soon. On the other hand, Sam's desire to kill the thing had only been increased by the recent damage it had caused. Dean could see this, and despite his disquiet, he would also be glad to be rid of the thing.

'I'll start packing,' he said eventually. 'You start thinking about where the hell we'll get hold of pure gold.'

Sam grimaced at the reminder. Our next problem. Fake credit cards were useful, but it was risky to use them for anything too extravagant. Somehow, they needed to find cash.

'What do we have that's worth anything?' he wondered aloud, gazing around their scattered possessions in search of inspiration. Well… a lot of weapons… silver bullets? But who would want to buy them? Might cause awkward questions, anyway… and then there's…

'The Colt'

Dean looked up. 'What?'

'Well, it's a real antique… gotta be worth something, if we find the right dealer.'

'We don't have it…' Dean hadn't noticed its absence until now, but he had sorted through the trunk of the Impala, and, he now realised, he hadn't seen it.

'I saw Dad throw it into the woods that night, after… it must still be there.'

'The cops will have searched the area…'

'We would've heard about it, if they'd found it.'

Dean nodded. 'You might have a point. So…. We go back. But we should hurry,' he added, pointing at the laptop's screen, from which the Georgian weather report was still glaring.

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An hour later, having packed up their belongings and checked out of the motel, Dean was driving the Impala slowly along a familiar tree-lined road, scanning the view carefully for the track leading to the cabin and the nearby site of the ambulance crash. Sam, beside him, was fidgeting nervously, his earlier bright mood replaced by a gnawing feeling of trepidation.

'There's the turning,' Sam pointed out, his voice slightly hoarse.

Dean nodded silently. 'Must be just along here somewhere, then.'

The wreckage of the ambulance had been removed, but the site was identifiable by the remains of deep tyre tracks and broken branches on the trees, as well as a few smaller pieces of twisted metal which had been left behind when the authorities had cleared away the main body of the ruined ambulance.

Dean pulled over carefully, conscious of the steep slope which began close to the edge of the road. He killed the engine, but, despite the urgency of the situation, neither of them seemed to be in a hurry to get out.

'You ok?' Sam asked softly.

Dean nodded and grunted. 'You?'

'Yeah,' Sam replied. It was half a word, half a sigh. 'I just… it's not a good place.'

Dean nodded again. He clapped a reassuring hand on Sam's shoulder, then quickly opened the door and climbed out, slamming it heavily behind him. Sam followed more slowly.

The brothers picked their way cautiously down the slope, which was uneven, partly dry dirt that gave way under their feet in streams of sand, partly tufts of brown, stringy grass. The sky beat down an oppressive grey, and in the woods at the bottom of the incline, trees cast heavy shadows.

They split up, wandering among the trees, eyes fixed on the ground. The Colt, Sam reasoned, could be anywhere within throwing distance of the crash site, but was unlikely to be outside a radius of maybe 100 feet, unless it had been carried off by a squirrel or something. The search was slow and dull, and Sam was beginning to wonder whether the gun had already been picked up, maybe by a passing hiker. A dark grey gleam caught his eye; and he uncovered the object with the toe of his boot. It was a piece of slate. He kicked it angrily, and above his head, a bird took flight, cawing in surprise.

To Sam, the area was unpleasantly full of memories. He could glance at a tree and think I was looking at that tree that night, because I was trying to avoid watching Dean dying. He found it unsettling, and it made him edgy, so that when Dean tapped him on the shoulder, his heart leaped into his mouth.

'Oh, Jesus Christ, Dean…' he objected.

Dean smirked. 'Going a bit deaf, there, Grandma? I called you.'

'You found anything?'

'Maybe'

'Maybe?'

'Yeah.' He held up the gun. Its three week period in the wild hadn't changed the Colt much, but it was dusty, and was showing spots of rust. Back in the Impala, Sam cleaned the mud out of the barrel and oiled it meticulously.

'There might be some paint in the trunk you could use to cover the rust,' Dean suggested.

'Wouldn't that be a bit... you know... dishonest?'

Dean shrugged. 'It'll be worth more.'

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The next town they came to, they drove up and down the main streets in search of a suitable antique shop. Knowing that the gun, though rare, was probably not worth as much as any significant amount of pure gold, Dean was hoping to find a dealer with a particular enthusiasm for guns, who would be willing to make a slight loss in order to own the Colt. As a result, he rejected the first few stores Sam pointed out.

'There's one'

Dean glanced over. 'No.'

'Why the hell not? We don't have a lot of time, Dean.'

'He's got a window full of furniture. He's not interested in guns.'

Sam fell silent for a few minutes. They had come out of the main shopping area into a labyrinth of narrow back streets lined with boarded up shops. They turned a corner, and Sam piped up again.

'There, look.'

Dean looked. It was a dusty little shop, exhibiting a jumbled mess of items in the window, including furniture, ornaments and strange objects whose use Dean could only guess at. In pride of place, in the centre of the display, were an old French musket and a 16th century pistol, both polished until they shone.

'That'll do'

The shop was dirty and untidy, full of ancient junk which could only be called 'antique' because it was so old that it had begun to fall apart.

'Hello?' Dean called hesitantly. 'Probably the first customers in about ten years,' he muttered to Sam.

'Look at this.' Sam was holding a heavy table ornament, made out of what could be gold or brass, it was hard to tell through the dust. It was a little sculpture of a winged child driving some kind of chariot attached to four horses. It was so flamboyant and hideous that Dean wondered what kind of person would ever want to put it on their table. The whole thing was around the size of his hand.

'Conversation piece?' he suggested, making a face at Sam.

Sam rubbed a thumb across its surface, pushing aside the dust.

'It's gold'

'Yes, indeed. Pure gold,' agreed a high pitched, elderly voice behind them. The proprietor, a skinny man of about seventy with enormous pale eyes, translucent skin and thick-rimmed glasses, shuffled eagerly into the shop. 'I've had it for a very long while, now. Not much market for it.'

'It's the most tasteless example of late Victorian sculpture I've ever seen,' Sam commented disdainfully, clunking it down on a table.

'I'm afraid I have to agree. Are you an expert?'

'A dealer.'

'Oh? Here to buy?'

'Possibly. Or even to sell. I have an extremely rare Colt revolver, in excellent condition. But I haven't had it long, and I'd like to hang on to it unless I get a tempting offer.'

Dean turned his back, impressed by his brother's performance, but also tempted to laugh.

The little man's eyes brightened up, and he stood up straighter, but tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. 'I'm interested.'

Sam took out the Colt. He had worked on it thoroughly in the car until there was no rust to be seen and it appeared to be in finer condition than it had been when it had first fallen into the Winchesters' hands. The antique dealer drew in a long, awed breath.

'I've never seen an example quite like this before,' he breathed, extending his fingers towards it as though he were afraid to actually touch it. 'How much do you want for it?' he added, with such a note of reckless desire in his voice that Sam was inspired to be ambitious with his asking price.

'Ten thousand.'

The man's eyebrows shot up, and his face fell in tragic disappointment.

'I'm sorry, I can't afford that kind of money. Do you really think you'll get ten thousand for it?' he asked, disbelief filling his voice.

Sam hadn't the faintest idea how much he should expect to get for it.

'Well, yes. This particular model is actually unique.'

The man's eyes were filled with longing, clearly, antique guns were his passion. 'Are you sure you wouldn't accept… say… six thousand?' he asked hopefully.

Sam shook his head, hard faced. 'No. I'm quite interested in old guns myself, so I'm not too anxious to sell it.'

The dealer spread his hands in defeat, and Sam turned and headed for the door, then suddenly stopped and turned back.

'Would you be willing to exchange it for this ornament?' he asked suddenly. The dealer looked from Sam to the ornament and paused. The part of him which was an expert knew, despite Sam's ambitious pricing, that the gold statuette was worth more than the Colt revolver. But the part of him which was an enthusiast wanted the Colt more than anything, and argued that he would never sell the extravagant, gaudy monstrosity if he lived a thousand years. Another part of him wondered what on Earth this young man wanted it for, when he had described it as tasteless himself. Despite the inner debate, it didn't take him long to reach a decision, and he stuck his hand out.

'Done'

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Don't have time to write a long author's note, but I should warn you here that I will kill a character before the end of this story. I don't want anyone to stop reading, but I thought I should put a warning.