Mount Moriah cemetery in Deadwood, South Dakota, is more famous with its celebrity graves like Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane, paved roads, and visitor's center, but it is also hallowed ground. The Winchester boys had stumbled further north into the Black Hills to a more obscure cemetery at the base of one of the dark cliffs. It's the kind of cemetery where they buried suicides, drunks, and prostitutes back in the days of the Wild West. John waited impatiently for Sam to get out of the car and show him where the coven of witches had been meeting when they cast the size spell on Dean.
It was taking Sam time because he had the newspaper reports, notes, and interview reports the boys had made when they began investigating strange occurrences connected to the cemetery spread all over his lap. His dad had insisted he go over every bit of it, and Sam was glad to. He still hadn't found something that pointed to witchcraft instead of a vengeful spirit.
"So, Dad, do you think the witches were conjuring the spirit? 'Cause we really did research it. And when you come here at night, down those dirt roads to this side of the hills, it's too dark to see ahead." Sam rambles on, trying to confront his father without getting too confrontational. Sam would rather be yelling at John for beating Dean up so much about being stupid – but he's actually a little bit afraid when Dean isn't around to intervene if things get bad.
"Drop it, Sam" John growls as he moves to the trunk to choose with weapons and equipment to bring. In a short space John starts grumbling about nothing being where it belonged, and Sam flushes. He opens the rear door and gathers the items he dumped there last night to get the duffel and sheepishly carries them to the trunk.
"I needed the bag in a hurry last night," Sam tries to explain, but stops at the look his father gives him. "I know it was wrong, Dad, and I'm sorry. I just was so freaked out…" He glances up through his too long bangs to see his father studying him like a piece of jigsaw puzzle to be placed.
John sorts through the items Sam brought, and keeps most of them. The only difference Sam sees between what Dean packed and what John does are items specifically meant to subdue humans, rope and handcuffs. But then John roots through the trunk, into one of his private boxes the boys have been instructed to leave alone, and pulls out two mojo bags, sticking one in his pocket and handing Sam the other.
"These should deflect any spells sent our way, but they're expensive as Hell and once activated their power dwindles within a day. If you boys had had them with you last night, we wouldn't have this mess on our hands." John's statement seems to be laying blame on Dean, and storm clouds form in the teenager's hazel eyes.
"These mojo bags? The ones you just took out of one of your boxes we aren't supposed to go near? You think Dean would disobey your orders like that?" Sam narrows his eyes at his father, looking ready to fight.
With a loud sigh, John slams the trunk. "You get away with too much with your brother." John warns. "Don't even start with me. When you're on a job, you need to shut up and follow the leader. Do you think you can try to do that, Sam? Because I'm starting to think I need to take you more in hand for training. I'm thinking your brother has neglected a few of the basics."
. . . . . . . . . .
The Roadhouse looms up in the distance from out of nowhere like so many things do when driving through Nebraska. The highway there looks so deceptively flat that most people don't realize it is on an incline. Bobby's happy to see their destination. He's still in pain and his pain medicine wore off at least an hour ago. Dean is still concussed, so Bobby has had to keep checking to make sure he's okay, running through the standard questions to check for signs of confusion that would mean complications.
The problem has been that aside from answering those questions, Dean has been quiet as a mouse – bad analogy while the guy is shrunken, but it's appropriate. Bobby has been trying to get him to talk, to draw him into a conversation because he's worried about Dean's state of mind right now. But as far back as Bobby remembers, Dean has held his feelings close to his chest. Internalizes them. At twenty, it might already be a life-long habit.
"What did your Dad tell you about where we're going, Dean?" Bobby needs to know before he decides what he needs to tell the boy himself.
"That they will provide a place for you to recuperate and a safe place to store me." Dean doesn't even try to hold the bitterness back, so Bobby knows this is a raw nerve.
"He tell you anything else?" Bobby asks gruffly.
Dean's voice is pretty faint, but there's only the two of them, so Bobby hears him. "He told me to keep my mouth shut."
Bobby grunts. Figures John Winchester left it to him to let Dean know Ellen Harvelle blames John for her husband's death. And ain't that a hell of a thing to spring on the young hunter when he's already had a crappy day. "Yeah, well, guess I better warn you that Ellen and her daughter, Jo, lost someone on a hunt that your dad was on too. They might think your dad could have done more about getting him home safe."
"So this woman thinks Dad had something to do with her husband's death?" Dean clarifies.
"That sums it up pretty well." Bobby allows.
The older hunter hears some shuffling from the cat carrier. "Dad's sending me for help to someone holding a grudge?" Dean's disbelief is loud, even if his voice is almost too soft to be heard over the sounds of the tire on the road.
"Yeah, well. Ellen is a good person, Dean, and a friend of mine. She'll take us in and help, for me, not for your dad. And she ain't normally the type who'll hold something against you if it ain't your fault." Bobby pulls into the parking lot. "But maybe you should let me do the talking."
Ellen Harvelle greets Bobby at the door, but pulls back from the hug when she sees him favoring his side. Instead she grabs his duffel and animal carrying case out of his hand , dropping them onto the floor and leading him over to a chair even while he's struggling to grab his bag.
"Why Bobby Singer! What are you doing here? Why didn't you call? And since when did you start bringing pets on hunts?" Ellen's questions are punctuated by her getting the older hunter settled with glass in front of him and gathering a big first aid kit from behind the bar. It's not quite time for the small dinner crowd, so the Roadhouse is empty except for them.
"Damn, Woman!" Bobby growls in mocking displeasure. "Give a man a chance to get a word in edgewise." He takes a long drink of the soothing glass of ice tea she put in front of him – and he really doesn't remember her leaving long enough to get it, but that's Ellen. "Let's see. I need a place to recover for a few day…"
"Done!" Ellen exclaims. She's glad to help and happy for Bobby's company. "And I need somewhere for a young hunter friend I got with me to be kept safe until we can break a witch's spell."
"Also done!" Ellen says cheerfully. "Where is he? And what's his name?"
Bobby lifts his chin toward the bags, and Ellen gasps. "He got turned into a cat?"
"Not quite," Bobby scoffs.
"A dog?"
"Nope."
Ellen tilts her head thinking. Then she hurries towards the cat carrier she had plunked down without much care. She carries it carefully over to the table and unlatches the top to pull it open.
"Well, damn, Bobby! This is a new one on me!" Ellen can't keep her surprise from lifting her voice, and a slim blonde teenaged girl comes roaring into the tavern.
"What's up, Mom? What'cha got?" Jo Harvelle crowds up next to her mom, throwing Bobby a cheerful smile before her eyes grow as round as saucers as she takes in what's in the cat case. "Did someone bring a Ken doll to life?"
