Disclaimer: I still own nothing...well, very little anyway, and nothing Winchestery.
Author's Note: I know, it's short. But at least I got something down, right? At least I'm getting back to it. Right?
"You have to be kidding," he drawls under his breath, batting away yet another hanging sigil. The porch was covered in them, swaying in the thick wet air like toneless wind chimes.
Sam shoots him a shut up glare before knocking on the door. And they both wait. In silence. No words on their side, no footsteps on the other. "Maybe she's not home."
"Break in?" Dean suggests, his face briefly lighting up.
"No," Spoilsport Sam says, looking down on him with chiding eyes. "We'll wait."
"For what?" They both jump at the voice from behind, turning quickly, immediately on guard. One hand flies to Dean's chest in you almost gave me a heart attack fashion, as he eyes the woman.
She is small and round with plump lips that curve into a deep frown. Skin so dark the whites of her eyes pop, making them appear buggy, unnatural. Her hands rest staunchly on her wide hips, elbows thrust out far enough to make it seems as though she's taking up the whole porch.
No escape.
"Uh," Sam starts, recovering from the startle before plastering that patented bright and gleaming smile on his face. "We were just looking for Mama Danto. Does she still live here?"
"Mama Danto," the woman says, almost a question, and her large lips curl into a sly grin. "No. Mama Danto doesn't live here anymore." Her voice is thick and heavy, words long and curled round the edges, accented.
Dean stares, perusing her firm stance, soft face sending out a stony glare. Directed at his brother. "Who are you?" he asks in a short and warning tone.
She turns to face him, all warmth and welcome flowing into her eyes as her hand extends. "Call me Ana," she says, followed quickly by a quirk of her eyebrows and, "I live here now."
Dean shakes her hand, hesitantly, and throws his gaze around the porch. He lets out a long whistle before landing his eyes back on her and saying, "You sure got a lot of…protection here." His voice sharpens, lids drop just enough to set off a harsh squint. "You scared of something?"
And she breaks into a hardy laugh, huge guffaws wracking her body as she nearly doubles over. Her hand grasps Dean's shoulder, nudges him around, urges him through the unlocked door, crowding Sam in as they go. And still she laughs. Even as they stand in the big dark room, eyes flitting around, taking it all in – the book-lined shelves and dusty old furniture, the jars of powders and herbs, ranging in shapes and colors, the burned away candles set atop nearly every surface.
"Oh, you are funny," she says, breath hitching in between syllables.
"Yeah, well," he starts, but is quickly cut off by her fleshy hand being thrown up in an all too authoritative manner. She motions to the couch and they both sit, plumes of dust jumping from the cushions.
"Now then," she says, taking a seat across from them, dabbing at her moist eyes. "Who are you?"
Her smile now is open and deep, inviting even. So Sam says, without hesitation, "My name's Sam. This is my brother, Dean. We're looking for our father."
"Are you now," she asks, taking in Dean's incredulous glare.
"We think…we know, he knew Mama Danto. And we just thought she might…"
"Know where he is?"
Sam nods.
Ana leans back in her chair, makes a soft tsk tsk sound that echoes through the otherwise quiet room. "You," she says, looking at Dean, "should know better." His face drops, but before he can get out the astonished what that plays on his lips, she goes on. "If you know what those symbols mean, what they are, you should know better than to be here."
"We have to find our father," Sam says simply, looking over to silence Dean.
"Mmm hmm," she mutters before rising to her feet. "Well," she continues, arm extended toward the door, a friendly invitation to leave, "as I said, Mama Danto doesn't live here anymore."
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She knew they would be back, knew they had lingered too long after being dismissed, casing the place. There was no way around it. Those boys were on a mission. And if they were anything like their father had been, they would not give up. Not ever.
She sits heavily on the edge of the bed, remembering that time, when John Winchester was tenacious, did his job with a fervor that only wrath could bring out. A time when he truly believed in the shoot first, ask questions later method. When it came to bad things, evil things.
A time when he believed in anything at all.
She turns with a sigh, gazes at the shell of a man in front her, and feels a pang of guilt. But really a pang is all there is, because he did this to himself.
A job is a job, and a purpose a purpose. He knew what his was. He knew what he had to do, what needed to be done. And he refused. She had thought him a hunter above all else, but he caved like only a father would.
"John," she says gently, her hand falling to his knee, "I have another task for you."