Ford Merrill pulled up just behind the black Impala and swore. Singer's car - he'd recognized it right away. The Winchester kid had to have stolen it, which meant Dean Singer was likely dead. Fear suddenly welled up in the old man's chest, and he considered turning right around and driving himself out of here before it was too late. But then he thought about Lillie. She'd been the pride of his life - first grandkid, first grandkid to go to college, first nurse in the family.
He sat still, his eyes drawn to the scrapbook that rested on the seat beside him. He leafed through and found the photo he was looking for. It showed Lillie at her college graduation, grinning a million-watt smile in her cap and gown while being hugged by her little brother. Very well then. He'd come this far, suspecting that Singer was dead. He'd had a feeling that the Winchester kid had come out the winner is this battle. That's why he had never gotten an update. Harboring guilt for feeling like he'd sent the Singer boy to his death, the old man sighed heavily. He opened the door and stepped out, photo in hand.
And then he froze.
Sam Winchester reclined in a swing right on the front porch. He wore pajamas pants and a tee shirt, and a robe lay discarded next to him. He sipped on a mug of coffee. The two locked eyes.
And Winchester smiled.
And it was the cocky smile that re-ignited the hatred down deep inside Merrill's gut. He reached back slowly and felt for the demon knife that he wore on a holster around his waist. Assured that it was there and ready, he made his approach.
###
Sam didn't recognize the older man who approached the steps, but he smiled at him kindly, assuming he must be a friend of Bobby's. The death stare he'd received in return had thrown him, and Sam toyed with the idea of getting up and going inside, but the man he assumed was a hunter was already halfway up the steps, and turning his back and walking away now seemed rude.
Sam nodded as the man reached the top of the steps. When the man didn't respond, Sam gestured to the door. "If you're looking for Bobby …" He started, but the man cut him off.
"I'm looking for Dean Singer, actually. You haven't seen him around by chance?" the man's flat voice sounded oddly devoid of emotion.
Sam frowned, deciding that ignorance was the better part of valor in this situation. "Don't know any Dean Singer." He replied, wondering if this guy was here to cause trouble for his brother. Sam silently cursed the fact that he was weaponless.
"Really? Cause That'd be his car parked out front big as you please."
"What do you want?" Sam asked, all pretense of politeness gone. Something was off about the guy.
"I wanna know how you killed him. Did you drink him like you did my Lillie?"
Sam shot to his feet, his cup crashing to the porch. "W-what? What did you just say?"
"That Singer kid, I didn't mean to send him to his death, but that's what happened, ain't it? You bleed him too? Bleed him and steal his car?"
Sam's face went pale, and he backed up away from the angry man with the long, gray hair. "I … I …"
"What's the matter? Cat got your tongue? Or maybe it's a demon has it, right? That pretty little girl with the black hair? I know what she is." The man advanced. "And I know what you are too. I told him. I told Singer you were a demon. She was a demon. But he underestimated you, didn't he? Seemed like a cocky little son of a bitch. But that don't mean he deserved to die."
"I … I didn't kill …" Sam stammered, plastering himself against the wall of the house, as far from the advancing man as possible.
The man smiled, mirthlessly. He squinted at Sam. "Oh yes you did. You killed Dean just like you killed Lillie. She was my granddaughter, you know. Whole family's pride and joy, Lillie." He looked down at the picture in his hand and then looked back at Sam. "Take a long look at what you did, you evil son of a bitch." He held the photo up for Sam to see.
Sam glanced at it, turned impossibly whiter, then looked away. He slid down the wall, arms limp at his sides. He swallowed, trying to make his voice work.
"Go on. Look. LOOK AT HER, YOU SON OF A BITCH!"
"That's enough!" Dean rocketed out the door and placed himself between Sam and the girl's grandfather.
Merrill stopped, surprised. "You're alive." He took a step back. "Why are you alive?"
Dean tried to think of an appropriate response, but none was forthcoming.
Merrill's eyes narrowed, "How can you be here? In the same house? With him?"
Bobby slipped out the door and made his way along the porch behind Dean to Sam. He reached the younger boy and knelt down beside him.
"Who's that? What's … what's he doing?" Merrill demanded. "Why is he … He's comforting that … that … THING."
"That's enough." Dean repeated. "Look, you should just go."
Merrill looked from Dean to Sam and back to Dean again. "You said you'd hunt him."
From the corner of the porch, Dean heard a surprised intake of breath.
"You said ... you said you'd find him. You'd take care of him. Did you just blow smoke up my ass?" Merrill demanded, tearfully.
"Look, you need to leave. Now." Dean said, stepping forward in what he hoped was a threatening way.
But Merrill wasn't cowed. He just stood looking at Dean as though he'd just been betrayed by his best friend. "Why are you here … with him? You owe me an explanation. I waited. I've been waiting for months! For months! For word he was dead. I thought he'd killed you!"
"Listen, I'm sorry, okay. Things weren't … they weren't what we thought they were."
"How were they? Did he kill Lillie or not? Are you saying he's innocent?"
"No." Sam spoke up quietly from the corner. "I did it. I … your daughter … I … Lillie ..."
"Shut up! You don't get to say her name! You hear me? You don't get to do that! And she was my granddaughter, but then you'd know that if you had a damned soul!"
Sam looked at the irate man through the tears that ran unchecked down his face. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I know it can never be enough. It can never bring her back …"
"Sorry? You're sorry? That's supposed to what? To make me feel better? 'Oh, the guy who gutted my Lillie and guzzled her blood, he's SORRY! Well that's alright then. Let's invite that fucker over for a barbecue!'"
"Please," Bobby spoke up. "You've said your piece. Just let the boy alone now. He has to live with this for the rest of his life."
Merrill was set to go off again, when Dean spoke up. "You don't know him, Mr. Merrill. Not like I do. Sam would never hurt anyone when he was in his right mind."
Merrill's eyes fastened disbelievingly on Dean. "You know him? You know him?"
Dean nodded, "Sam's my brother."
"Your b…?" Merrill stepped back, shaken to his core. "Your brother."
"My brother."
"But you were intent on killing him. I know it. I saw it in your eyes."
Another whimper from the corner and Dean's eyes closed, then opened again.
Dean shook his head, sadly. "Another time. Another place. Maybe I thought I could, but I can't. And I wouldn't."
Merrill stood looking, from one to the other of them, then his face turned hard. He zeroed in on Sam. "You keep this. You look at it every day because every day I have to look at an empty room where she used to sleep. You study it real good, cause when you finally die the evil, filth-ridden death you deserve, it's this angelic face that's gonna drive you straight to hell." He placed the photo on the porch swing and turned on Dean. "And fuck you! Fuck all of you!" he screamed, his voice thick with tears.
He trod back down the steps and slipped behind the wheel of his decrepit truck, backed out and drove away. In his rear view, Merrill could see the Singer kid watching him sadly.
