Featured in this chapter: The first time ever (in my little universe) that Sam and Dean have the 'bitch' 'jerk' banter.

Also featured, the dreaded belt. Yeah. If you grew up in the nineties, you know what the belt meant. The sight of either of your parents removing it from their waste made you immediately run over a list of possible offenses in your head. Yeah. Yeah you know it.

I'm sorry for the delay, length, and significant lack of (let's be honest) substance to this chapter-it has some weight towards the end, I promise. I haven't had a whole lot of time these past few days, but I wanted to give you all something, at least, because you guys are awesome.

Enjoy!

John did have a plan, as it turned out, One that Bobby immediately deemed idiotic and reckless before John had the chance to finish. Sam and Dean watched with a practiced air of neutrality. Such was the occasion whenever Bobby visited—he and John would dispute over the plan, John's years of experience pinned against Bobby's raw instinct and sense of self-preservation.

"We can't assume these guys aren't practiced demons, John! We don't know how smart they are!" Bobby half shouted.

"We can assume they're not the brightest if they're acting out this much—getting a hunter's attention!"

"We don't know that! Figuring they are just that ignorant, how do we know they won't assume we're gonna get the jump on us?"

"So what do you want to do, Bobby?" John snarled, slamming one of Bobby's books closed.

"Sit down and think for a minute!"

"We have thought about this. We need to get this done—now."

"John if you want to catch a demon, we can catch a demon but not this way!"

"Fine, then, you don't have to help me! I can go on my own."

"Like hell!"

John's plan was severely flawed, admittedly, but he couldn't wait any longer.

"You want to ambush a demon. Lead it into someplace you're not familiar with, and hope that it's stupid enough to walk right across a devil's trap."

"A hidden one. They wouldn't know—"

Bobby threw up his hands in exasperation. "Right. A hidden one. That makes it ten times less crazy."

"Bobby would you just listen? It only has to work once. Once we have it caught, we have everything else we need."

"If Bobby doesn't want to help, then I will," Dean stood up. Sam pulled him right back down into the chair next to him out of base instinct.

"No!" John and Bobby's ringing voices came in unison this time. Dean slammed a fist into the table with barely concealed frustration.

"Dean, you and I will talk later," and the threat behind his father's words was so prominent that Dean's eyes flicked automatically to the belt that still lay on the bed. Bobby bowed his head, rubbing his temple.

"Okay, John. If you want to do it your way…that's fine. But at least let's take our time finding someplace defendable?"

"I already have a place," John said. With that, the decision was made. Bobby sighed and crossed his arms over his chest.

"Well then, we'd better get moving. Which care are we taking?"

"We can't let them get the Impala. The arsenal in the trunk is either gonna scare them away or make them want to torch it."

"The truck's just the same, but if the boys are staying then I reckon leaving the stuff with them can't do any harm."

"Bobby, you and Sam get the stuff loaded. I need to have a talk with my son," John's voice was placid enough, but just as Bobby was marching Sam out the motel room door, Sam saw John grab the belt and he knew that Dean was in for a rough time. He couldn't say he hadn't deserved it—disputing with his father in front of Uncle Bobby had been a new level of defiant.

Sam watched Dean toss the baseball up in the air and catch it deftly for what must have been the hundredth time. It landed in his hand with a definitive smack, the noise grinding at Sam's nerves, but he didn't say anything. He knew how frustrated his brother was.

"Do you think dad is just making you stay behind because he doesn't want me in the way?" Sam asked after a few solid hours of perfect silence. He'd finished all the Algebra he could do, plus some English. Sam Winchester had officially become bored of learning. At least for the next few hours.

"Dude. You're anything but in the way." Sam tried not to imagine why in the world Dean sounded so jealous. "He probably would have taken you with him over me."

Sam laughed. "No. I wouldn't listen to him."

"You're probably right," Dean smirked. "Why do you guys always have to fight?" His tone evoked more emotion than usual—there was a hint of something like exasperation there.

"I'm sorry," Sam said quietly, feeling a little guilty. "I didn't know it bothered you—"

"Well it does. One of us has to be the good son, and apparently it isn't going to be me anymore," Dean deflected quickly. "So toe the line, or I'm going to get on your ass about it, too." He got up and replaced Sam's baseball next to his bag on the bed.

"You already do," Sam muttered.

"What was that?" Dean turned around, giving his brother a playful shove. Sam toppled over in his chair and landed on the ground.

"Nothing. Why are you such a jerk?" Sam pulled on his brother's leg from the ground, so that he landed in a heap within arm's reach.

"Why are you such a bitch?" And that was that. Sam rolled over so that he could properly pin his brother with the intent of harm. He hadn't quite passed Dean up though, height or weight wise: he was still a gangly thirteen year old. Dean had him flat on his face in a minute, tasting the fibers of the cheap motel carpet. Sam's arm was behind his back before he had a chance to react.

"Uncle!" he yelped before Dean could twist it any more. Dean's grip slackened and he took the opportunity to shrug off his brother. Sighing he returned to the table, feeling his brother's restlessness almost infect him. He shifted through the notes again, feeling useless. Bored, he picked up one of the odder pieces of paperwork—an intricate drawing of a revolver.

"What is this?"

"I don't know. Dad thinks it might have something to do with this. He's not sure. It may be what they want."

"A gun?"

"I guess."

"Why would demons need a gun?"

"Dad wouldn't say," Dean answered.

"Dad talks a lot for someone who never says anything."

"You mean bosses us around a lot," Dean corrected. Sam nodded. "God, not this again."

"I'm just saying."

There was a pause, in which Sam realized that Dean was considering something—an assumption he could make through brotherly instinct, based on the distinctly thoughtful look that came over Dean's features—a fleeting moment of the combination of insight/stupidity he usually got when under pressure.

"What are you thinking?"

"There's a place down the street just a few blocks. They sell guns and knives. Do you think they could tell us more about this thing?"

"Dad said not to leave."

"Since when do you do what Dad says without question?"

"Since you stopped," but because Dean was pulling on his shoes and Sam knew he was probably obligated to go with him, he picked up his shoes from beside the door and pulled them on. Dean grabbed a bottle of water from the duffle bag and a small drawstring pouch of salt. He threw another to Sam and pulled on his jacket. "I figure if dad and Bobby are out trying to get the attention of these demons, they're not going to be paying much attention to anything else. Especially not some gun store. They've probably already checked the place over anyways."

"What makes you think this guy will know anything?"
"I don't know. It's old time stuff, you know? Antique or whatever," Dean watched Sammy shrug into his jacket, grabbed the key off the table, and led the way into the breezy dusk.