FOUR

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The bar door swung open and Dean smiled for the first time all weekend; the place was dimly lit from above but neons selling everything from Budweiser to Bushmills cast garish luminescence over the lively patrons. Round wooden tables housed two or four people each, pint glasses and shot glasses adorned every flat surface, and the juke box in the corner was vibrating with happiness at the Rush belting out for the content drinkers.

Dean went straight for the counter. Sam followed, and then John appeared. They stopped at the bar in a line, making the black-haired woman behind the wooden divide smile broadly.

"Ok," she beamed. "Which one of you first?"

John leant his elbows on the counter top. "Definitely him at the end," he winked. "It's his round, love, and then when the black goes down, it's all me."

She shook her head in a refusal to even begin to figure out his meaning. "If you say so," she smiled, then turned to Dean. "What'll it be, handsome?"

Dean looked directly at John with angry intent, pulling his wallet from his inside pocket. "Three beers, please."

"You got it." She turned away from the counter.

John looked across the bar. "Right. Phone call. You two stay put." He rubbed his hands together and took off across the room.

Sam let his mouth hang open in disbelief until he turned and noticed Dean paying for the three bottles on the counter. The barmaid took his money and ran it through the till, before placing the change in his hand along with a card. Dean's face took on a much more pleasant expression and he leant on the counter to talk.

Sam shook his head and picked up two of the beer bottles. He wandered deeper into the room, looking for space at a table. He caught sight of John with a large black phone receiver to his face, his other hand resting on the wooden surround that housed the rest of the phone. He waved a bottle up to get his attention. John nodded and waved him to sit. Sam pulled out a wooden chair at a free table and sat himself down.

John turned his back to the room at large before he hung up the phone receiver. His hand ran down the cord to the end that was still hanging free, unconnected and unloved. He cleared his throat and stuffed it in the gap between the body of the phone and the wall casually to make it look for all the world like it still worked. HIs hand swept the mixture of ash and carefully prepared condiments to the floor as he turned. Checking the people around him to make sure no-one had seen his handiwork, he weaved through the tables to sit opposite Sam. "Cheers mate," he said, picking up the bottle and taking a good swig.

Sam gestured to the bar behind them with his head. "Dean paid for this round, remember?"

"Nah - for setting fire to that stick up your brother's arse," he said. "I needed a drink. Didn't think he'd go for it till you stepped in."

"I didn't—"

"It was The Look. All siblings have it," John said wisely, then let his eyes wander over the bar room.

"So how many siblings have you got?" Sam smiled.

John smiled ruefully. "That is a long complicated story that no-one wants to hear."

"Ouch."

"Pretty much." John took another mouthful of beer. "Just you two is it, then? No other family?"

"Who's grilling who, here?" Sam smiled.

John put a palm up in surrender. "Just askin'."

"Well while we're 'just asking' - what book did you get?"

John smiled. "The Voynich manuscript."

"You're kidding," Sam grinned, but John was absolutely certain he was overawed.

"Well it's one bloke's translation, anyway. Who's to say it's the real one?" He looked up and then did a double-take. "Hey, keep my seat. I've found 'im."

"'Him' who?" Sam asked.

"The bloke who's going to pay for the three of us to get hammered tonight." He pulled off his trenchcoat and laid it over the backrest of the chair. He rolled up his sleeves and headed toward the back of the room - and the pool tables.

Sam smiled and sipped his beer before the sound of boots stopped to his right. Dean pulled out a chair and poured himself into it. "Where's English?"

Sam chucked a thumb over his shoulder. "Playing pool. You want a turn?"

"Think I'll stick to beer." He adjusted his jacket and then put a hand inside to bring out a thin blue book. "So now he's safely out of our hair… What does this do again?"

Sam took it from him. "This," he said with close to childlike excitement, "is the Book of Soyga. In here are the original instructions on how to get a demon out of a live body - any demon, any paygrade - and kill off the demon."

"Even someone like Crowley?" Dean gasped.

"This thing could probably even kill Lucifer if it came to it," Sam beamed.

Dean slapped the table in approval. "Sam, I take back all the bitchin' I did on the drive down here. This is awesome," he smiled. Sam said nothing, but he picked up his beer and sipped with smug amusement. Dean drank for a long moment. "That demon in the basement is in for such an ass-kicking when we get back."

"Did you hear that demon in the library? She wanted to know where Malakatch was."

"Mala-what?"

"Malakatch. How much do you want to bet that he's our demon?" Sam grinned.

"Well we got him and we got the book," Dean sniffed, then picked up his beer and sipped it. He looked over at the pool tables. "He's just gonna hustle beer money out of those guys, is he?"

"Looks like," Sam said. "What do you care? It keeps us in beer and him over at the tables so he's not talking to you." He paused. "You only need to put up with him for another few hours - we're leaving early in the morning, remember."

"Yeah… I know." Dean let his head tilt and things go through his head. "You know what? You're right, Sammy. Let it go, and all that jazz. We got the book, he's buying us beer… things could be worse."

"Hey, uh… are you still worried about those two missing women?" Sam asked.

Dean frowned. "You know, it's weird… But not so much. Kind of like… it'll be sorted tomorrow. Like… it's urgent, but not till tomorrow."

"Yeah, me too," Sam said, puzzled. "I can't explain why."

"Me either."

Sam thought hard for a minute. "Huh," he managed.

"Huh," Dean agreed. He sipped his drink.

.

ooOoo

.

"But that wasn't the worst of it!" John laughed, banging his shot glass down on the table. "Her brother comes home right when we was a bit busy, and just rips the bloody door open - he had a sodding great baseball bat in his hand. I nearly shat myself!"

"But you got out, right?" Dean chuckled.

"The window!" John protested. "I mean, bugger me - do you know how cold it gets in London in bloody January?"

Dean laughed. "Bet that shrank the mood real quick."

"My balls were a couple of rocks in the pit of my stomach, mate, all the way to the nearest bus shelter tryin' to get my clothes back on," John chuckled. "I swear I had to check they dropped back out again the moment I warmed up."

Dean moved two shot glasses in front of John and Sam with a flourish. "Right. Last one to finish does the next one."

Sam picked up his glass. "One, two, three, go!"

They drank. The glasses clinked back to the wood. Dean pointed at John. "Ha! Your turn again, John Lennon!"

"Don't go mistakin' me for that bearded muppet," he grinned, then reached for the packet of Silk Cut on the table. He lit up a fresh cigarette and rubbed an eye. "Right, right, let me think… Worst fright of my life after Penny's rugby prop brother…" He sniffed. "Ok. Meeting demon-me and thinking it really wasn't as bad as all that."

Sam and Dean's faces froze. Slowly they slipped into uncertain worry.

"What?" Dean asked, his face now losing all of its colour, too.

John took a drag on his cigarette. "I'm not even joking. There was this… thing. And I had reason to… well… There was a demonic version of me. Not a demon, per se, but… evil me. He was a twat an' all, but… he was still me, you know? Still, we parted ways and… it was all sorted. So I thought. But these things… sometimes they come back and bite you in the arse."

Dean stared.

His frown stared.

His hair stared.

Hard.

Sam knocked his elbow deliberately, then got up. "I'll get another round," he said. He swiped up the last of the crumpled dollars by John's hand on the table and wandered off toward the bar.

Dean's eyes went anywhere but John.

John considered his sudden cagey mood as he enjoyed his Silk Cut in silence. Eventually he cleared his throat and pinned Dean with a look. "So, tell me seriously," he said quietly. "And be honest."

"What?" Dean dared.

"You got that barmaid's number or what?"

Dean smiled, then realised it was in relief. "Yeah."

"Nice one. Fancy sharing?"

Dean chuckled. "You don't strike me as the type to do sloppy seconds."

"Who said anything about seconds?" he asked, surprised. He puffed on his cigarette. "Tag-team, change ends at half time… Either works for me. Or, you know, whatever."

Dean smiled somewhat apologetically. "I have this thing about the other two in the threesome having lady parts. Sorry."

"Don't ever apologise for something you like," John said sternly, pointing at him with his cigarette hand. "Don't get caught up in that bollocks. You do what you want, my son, and screw everyone else. It's the only way to live."

"You know something?" Dean grinned. "I think I like you, John."

"Good - cos you owe me a round," he smiled. "I've run out of pool winnings."

"Well at some point we got to get back to the motel and I ain't driving my baby back after all these shots. Last thing I want is to have to rebuild her bodywork again."

"I can get us a cab anywhere."

"Out here?" Dean scoffed. "Now that's a skill."

"Nah - s'magic, innit?" John grinned.

Dean laughed as Sam came back to the table with six new shots and three pints of beer.

"Here we go," he said happily. "So what's the next topic?"

"Uhm… first time you drew a sigil in blood and then realised you had nowhere to wipe your hands," John said. They picked up shots and downed them.

Sam groaned in defeat as the other two pointed at him, crowing eagerly. "Ok, alright," he said, palms up. As he recounted his story, the other two men laughing at his turns of phrase - and his poor luck - the time crept by. The drinks kept coming, until eventually the other patrons began to slip out of the bar and into the night.

Sam got up - a little unsteady on his feet - and pushed his chair in under the table. "Right, so… door's that way, right?"

"Right. You go on. I've got to make a pit stop first," John said as he turned for the sign that promised washrooms.

Sam and Dean went for the front door, opening it up and stepping out to take in great, welcome lungfuls of cool night air.

"Hey man," Sam slurred. "You keep John's card?"

"Yeah. Why?" Dean managed past the comfortable alcoholic haze.

"Cos maybe if we need a third on a case, we could ask him. I mean, he knows about all this crap."

"Yeah. I had him all wrong," Dean said, before he pushed a closed fist into his chest and belched beer mist. Sam patted him on the back - something that made them both laugh.

The door opened behind them and John squeezed between them, leaning up to hang his arms over their taller shoulders. "Right then lads - the next bar, yeah?"

"No," the Winchesters chorused.

"Lightweights," John grumbled. "Alright then. Cab?"

"Yes," they said.

He began to chuckle. "S'funny when you do that." His arms slipped from their shoulders and he reached inside his pocket. "Now don't laugh," he warned, attempting to sound firm. Sam and Dean turned and watched him play with two small rubbery loops in his fingers. He twisted and shaped, until eventually he had a small ball in one hand. He covered it with the other and then rubbed it slowly between his palms. "Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus—. No wait. I think I just tried to exorcise demons from a rubber band. Shouldn't have had that ninth shot," he grinned.

"Try again," Sam laughed.

"Ok, here we go… Rah ah gah ee oh es, vee nu nohno kee ah seh peh teh poh ah ma lah deh zod."

"You speak Enochian?" Sam marvelled.

John shuffled his feet. "That's all I know to be honest, squire. It summons pretty much whatever I'm thinking of."

Dean pointed at him. "I get one whiff of a Staypuft Marshmallow man and I'm singing Beatles tunes all the way back to the motel."

John's hand slapped into his shirtfront as he wheezed and gasped in fake pain. "Fate worse than death, mate!"

Dean chuckled, shaking his head.

John thrust his hands in his pockets and looked around the car park that was empty save the Impala, still waiting patiently in the space near the bar door. "Just give it a minute."

"Sure?" Dean asked. "We ain't going to be standing here all night, are we? Get the cab to hurry."

"Shut it," John grinned.

"Did he just tell me to shut up?" Dean marvelled. Sam grinned.

"You don't want to offend the Great God Joe Baxi," John went on. "He may not send one of his minions."

"Joe who?"

They waited.

Dean folded his arms.

They waited.

Sam yawned and stretched.

They waited.

"Ok," Sam said, checking his watch. "This is not working."

Dean huffed. "We go in that bar and ask the lady for a cab company."

John seemed to deflate over the course of a few seconds. Abruptly he was six inches smaller. "Fair enough," he sighed.

The three of them turned to the door.

And jumped back in shock as a bright yellow taxi cab blocked their path. The three of them collided and ended up in a heap of drunken arms and legs. They fought their way up out of the pile and scrabbled to look presentable.

Sam pushed John forward and he knocked on the passenger window. It went down silently. "Alright?" John asked hopefully.

The brightly flickering celestial blue vapour currently sitting behind the wheel turned its head and smiled at him. "Hey bro. Where can I take you?"

John cleared his throat professionally. "Uh - just the Dew Drop Motel. Do you know it, mate?"

"I know everywhere," the ghost replied. "Get in. Have you there in a tick, Mr Constantine."

"You know me?" John blinked in surprise.

"I know of you."

John appeared to mull this over. "You're not a friend of Map's, are you?"

"Maybe, Mr Constantine, maybe," it said. Its hand swirled up in blue gracefulness. "Get in. And bring your fine car with you."

John gestured to the back door. The boys climbed in but John walked back to the Impala. He pulled something from his pocket.

Dean wound down the window and looked across the car park. "Hey - don't you scratch her."

"Wouldn't dream of it," John said.

Sam and Dean watched as he muttered something to himself, rubbing something from the palm of his hand on each of the tyres. Then he went back to the driver's window and bent over as if looking in the side mirror.

"What's he doin'?" Sam asked, trying to see past his brother.

"Looks like a towing spell," the driver offered.

Sam and Dean looked at him. Then each other. Then back out of the window.

John stood back. "Do us a favour, missus," he said to the Impala. "Follow that cab." He turned and went to the yellow car in question and opened the front passenger door. He settled himself in the wide seat. "Been a cabbie long?" he asked innocently.

The blue mist of the driver appeared to smile. "A few millennia. Right then - off we go."

The car pulled around in utter silence, but Dean turned around to watch his car steer herself out of the parking lot and follow them to the main road. The three passengers noticed the road speed up to a blur. Barely three seconds later they were sitting outside the motel.

"Holy crap," Dean managed under his breath. He spun to check the Impala was still with them. She coasted around their cab in a graceful arc to come to a stop by the windows of the motel. "I have got to find out how he did that."

The three of them piled out and then John stopped and turned back to look through the open window, across the interior of the car, to the driver. "Uhm, what do we owe you, mate?"

"One of those there cigarettes," the blue vapour said happily. John dutifully handed it over. The ghostly smoke had grabbed it in an approximation of lips, making the cigarette appear to float inside the blue vapour. John leant in through the window to light it. He flicked the Zippo lighter and the end of the Silk Cut burnt red. "Oh," the driver added, "and just make sure you're all good boys. I'd hate to have to come back here."

The three of them stepped back cautiously. "Right you are," John said, rather gingerly.

The cabbie wafted its hand up in goodbye and then the taxi turned to head on out of the motel parking lot. It turned onto the main road in complete silence before it faded away before their eyes.

"Whoa," Sam breathed.

"See? Told you I could get you a cab anywhere," John blustered. He marched off toward the motel. "Room forty-two, wasn't it Sam?" he called over his shoulder.

Dean looked at his watch and found it to be nearly four in the morning. He shrugged in happy freedom and hurried after his brother. John had mysteriously opened the door before they caught him up, and the next thing they knew, two Winchesters were face-down on their respective beds, and John was face-down on the floor with only a pillow and a raincoat for comfort.

.

ooOoo

.

Dean mumbled something and shifted. Something tickled his face and he opened an eye. His hand came up and swiped at the sensation, and he had the wherewithal to realise a very small, very insignificant spider had been attempting to make it across his forehead.

He sat up and rubbed at his face, noting nothing much had changed from the night before. A bleary blink at the curtains revealed the comforting shadow of the Impala. He swung his boots over the edge of the bed and groaned, pausing to rub his head again. He scrubbed his fingers against his scalp and yawned.

"Ok John, up and at 'em," he called. He stood and went to the small coffee machine on the table under the mirror, a few feet from the end of the bed. He stopped as he realised the carpet was empty. "Huh," he managed.

There was a snort and snuffle from the other bed and Sam blinked an eye open. "Whut?" he managed.

Dean picked up two coffee cups and went into the bathroom, filling them both. He went back to the coffee machine and filled the reservoir with one cup's worth, slotting the mug underneath and then looking for coffee filters. He gave up and went into the bathroom.

Sam heard the toilet flush and sink taps go, and levered himself up and over onto his back. He groaned and rubbed his eyes.

Dean emerged from the bathroom. He went through a box on the counter before he found a coffee filter and put it all together in the machine. He pressed the red button and then leant back on the table to yawn. "You alive over there?"

Sam ran his hands through his hair. "Kinda." He yawned. "How's John feeling?"

"John's split."

"What?" He sat up. "Seriously?"

"Looks that way," Dean said. "Unless he's gone out for coffee and doughnuts, or whatever it is English people get for breakfast."

"Oh," Sam said, blinking in surprise. "Kind of a shame. Woulda been nice to say goodbye."

"Yeah well," Dean sighed. He heard the coffee start to drip through the filter behind him. "You want the first cup?"

"Nah. I'll shower first. You get that one." He pushed himself off the bed and into the bathroom.

The coffee made, Dean binned the hot filter and then refilled the reservoir to put the empty cup underneath. He pressed the red button and then yawned, peeling off his jacket before he sat on the bed and unlaced his boots. He heard the shower go and lay back on the bed.

What felt like a split-second later, Sam was shaking him awake. "Hey. Your coffee's done and the shower's free," he said with a smile.

Dean groaned as he pulled himself up. He got to his feet to see his jacket slip off the end of the bed. He muttered something and whisked it up. Something fell out of it and he cursed as it hit his foot. He crouched and picked it up. "Hey - what's this?"

Sam, still in just a towel from the waist down, turned to see what he was doing. "Looks like a book. What is it?"

"Uh… Voysnit—. Voynich. Voynich manuscript," Dean read.

"What?" Sam gasped. Dean looked up as Sam came round the bed and snatched it off him. Sam's eyes went over the cover of the red book very carefully. He opened it and paged through it. "Oh no," he said as he looked at Dean.

"What?" he demanded. Sam went around him and picked up his jacket, shaking it out. Dean stood up a little wearily. "What, Sammy?"

Sam glared at him. "John."

"What about him?"

"He's not here," Sam snapped.

"Hey, I know. I told you that, remember?" Dean paused. "What about it?"

"Neither's our book. John's gone, and so's our book."

"Son of a bitch!"

.

Thanks for sticking with this, people! Very much appreciated.