Chapter 8

An odd noise caught Bobby's attention. It went off twice more before he realized it came from his glove compartment. His glove compartment door slammed open violently as the front right wheel of the pickup bounced off the road. With a string of curses, Bobby swerved back over the solid white line. His new cell phone bounced down into the floorboard, clattering hollowly.

He tried to steer with one hand while groping for the ringing cell with the other, but this situation was new to him. Why did people carry these damn things around anyway? The phone went silent as a new set of worries sprung to mind. He asked Sam to call when they found out the extent of Dean's injuries. As the phone started ringing again, Bobby figured it must be bad news for Sam to be this insistent. He slowed down to pull off the road, bouncing along glad he was in a truck and not Dean's brand of Chevy.

As he slowed to a fairly quick stop, the cell phone stopped ringing again. Bobby shoved the gear into park before diving down for his stupid phone. Things were so much easier back in the days where you actually had to be someplace in order to receive a call. None of this running off the road crap. How many times had he talked to Dean and heard road noise in the background? But then those boys pretty much lived out of that car, so maybe it was not a fair comparison.

As Bobby snatched the phone from the floor of his truck, it went off again. Really worried now, Bobby thumbed the button to accept the call and pressed it to his ear. "What is it, Sam? What's wrong?"

There was a pause before Dean's voice answered, "Bobby, we may have a situation here."

Bobby frowned at his dash. "What kind of situation, Dean?"

In the background he heard Sam's voice shout, "Dean! What are you doing outside?" Then Dean's responding shout of "Get back in the house, Sam!"

"Sam, look out!" The all too distinct sound of Dean's cell being dropped followed the panicked cry. There were muffled grunts, the noise of something heavy landing, and a shout of pain. Unable to do anything else, Bobby pressed the phone harder against his ear, straining for the slightest sound. Weren't they still at his house? Did he underestimate Sam's desire for hunting?

"Okay," Dean's voice was faint and muffled, like the phone landed right-side down in the dirt, "when I lift you pull your legs out. Sam! You hear me?" A groan answered Dean's demand. "On three. One. Two. Three!" There were the sounds of movement and then something big hitting the ground.

"Sammy? You all right?"

"Dean, you…" several deep breaths, "you shouldn't have done that. Your ribs."

His ribs? Well, Bobby figured there had to be something seriously wrong with the boy's side.

"Come on, Sam. Let's get you inside." Muffled sounds of movement, then swearing. "Shit, my phone!"

"Bobby? You still there?" Dean sounded winded.

"What the hell is going on, Dean?" he asked, his heart thudding against his ribcage.

"Something is after Sam. We're not sure if it's a gremlin or an imp, or both."

"Where, Dean?" Bobby demanded. "Where are you?"

"Your place." Dean sounded puzzled, as though it never occurred to him to leave.

Bobby's blood ran cold in his veins. His house? Those boys had something after them at his house? "I'm heading your way, Dean. Is Sam all right?" Bobby checked the road; it was clear in both directions. Cradling the phone between his jaw and shoulder, Bobby pulled onto the road back toward home. It was distinctly uncomfortable, but much better than wasting any more time. He was already a good eight hours away and could not be back home until well after dark; not the best time to arrive.

"I think so," Dean grunted. "After I get him back inside I can check him out. Hang on."

Bobby drove along for a minute or two in strained silence, his ear pressed against the phone listening for any sound. There were enough muffled grunts, footsteps and the slamming of a door to convince him that they were still connected. When his neck started to complain, Bobby drove with one hand to use the other to hold his phone. There was more to this driving and talking business than he thought. Now those women who put on makeup while driving really, really scared him.

"Hey, Bobby?" Sam asked, winded.

"Sam! What happened?" Yeah, okay, maybe he sounded panicked. So what? With a phone call like this, who wouldn't?

"Uh, well, I think we owe you some house siding," Sam said.

Now what the hell kind of answer was that? "Sam, you mind explaining that?"

"Some of the siding just fell off the house," Sam replied.

"And on you! You planning to tell him that part?" Dean's voice demanded in the background.

"Dean!" Sam hissed.

"Where did it get you, Sam?" Bobby asked, trying to maintain some composure.

"Just knocked the wind out of me, Bobby," Sam said, his voice insistent. "We're fine."

"What was that about Dean's ribs?" Bobby asked.

"Oh. That. You were right, he has several cracked ribs and maybe some torn muscles. It's still too swollen to know for sure." Sam's voice took on an accusatory tone.

"So where did the siding hit you, Sam?" Bobby was determined to understand more of the situation before he made it back. "I could hear that Dean needed to lift it off you."

Sam blew out a loud huff. "It knocked me to the ground and had me pinned. That's all, Bobby, I swear." Bobby figured the emphasis Sam used was for Dean's benefit, not his.

"Why does Dean think you're dealing with a gremlin or an imp?" Bobby asked, eyes scanning ahead.

A half laugh interrupted by a grunt came through the phone. "Oh, he thinks an imp was imprisoned in that pot I broke and a little while ago we saw a face at the kitchen window he's convinced is a gremlin."

Bobby winced at the mention of the clay pot. He had suspected there was something more to it than just a pot, but he never got around to actually opening it himself. When Sam broke it and nothing happened right away, Bobby figured his fears must have been unfounded. Well, he knew how to spell "assume" just as well as the next guy didn't he? And yes, that made him an "ass." The only thing that prevented him from slamming his head against the steering wheel was the fact he would probably crash his truck.

"What did the face look like?" he asked, pressing harder on the accelerator.

"Furry, dirty, black eyes, sharp white teeth. Ring any bells?"

Bobby ground his teeth in frustration. "Gremlin. Oh, I hate those things."

"Well, I'm not too fond of them at the moment either." Sam agreed.

"And fugly," Dean's voice chimed in. "Don't forget that."

"Put the beer up, Dean. You heard what George said!" Sam snapped. "Hey Bobby, I need to go now. We'll call if we need you."

"Wait, Sam!" Bobby shouted as his phone went silent. "Sam!" He glared at the irritating phone in his hand. Throwing it aside, he muttered, "Useless contraptions," as he pressed the accelerator all the way to the floor.

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Sam tried to stand, but pain lanced through his calves forcing him to plummet back into his chair.

"Easy there, Sammy," Dean chided, lifting the open beer bottle in salute. "Don't think you're quite ready for any marathons yet."

"Damn it, Dean!" Sam slammed his open hand on the table, narrowly missing one of Bobby's drying books. "You heard George. No beer!"

Dean grinned that irritating, lop-sided grin. "Make me," he taunted, eyebrows bobbing on his forehead as his brother danced backward a few steps.

Sam stared down his brother, mind racing for the right argument to make Dean put that beer away. As the idea formed in his mind, he had to repress the smile threatening to emerge. "Okay. Fine. So you're going to drink that beer, let the alcohol combine with those strong pain killers you're on and knock you out. That's good. You'll get a good night's sleep and I'll just stand guard."

Dean's hand paused, the beer halfway to his mouth. "What are you talking about?"

Sam had to press his lips together. He was halfway there. He cleared his throat before continuing. "Actually, now that I think about it, it's probably a good idea. You need rest for your side anyway. Yeah, go ahead and have that beer. Maybe should have two." Sam shrugged. "Or whatever you can drink before you go unconscious."

Sam stood slowly, using the table for leverage as the pain in his lower legs shot upward like lightning. He closed his eyes against the pain, willing it away. It did not work completely, but it was bearable when he opened his eyes again. Dean stood in the doorway, his face blank.

"I've had enough," the nearly full bottle of beer thunked as it hit the bottom of the trash can, sloshing beer against the sides. "Come on." Dean grabbed one of Sam's arms, pulling it across his shoulders.

"Where are we going?" Sam asked, limping along. He did not want to put any weight on his injured brother, but he found quickly that he had no choice.

"You need to put your feet up and get some ice packs on your calves before they get so swollen you can't put your jeans on," Dean replied calmly. Sam smiled to himself. As usual, he won.

"Quit smiling," Dean snapped. "I wasn't going to drink it anyway."

Sam glanced down, but Dean was not looking at him.

"I was just messing with you."

Sam's grin broadened. "Waste of a perfectly good beer, Dean."

He felt rather than heard Dean's chuckle. "Guess I should've given it to you, huh?" Dean guided him to Bobby's sofa. His brother disappeared into the kitchen as Sam tried to settle himself on the sofa, with his feet propped up on the far side. The problem was, his legs were a little too long to do that comfortably and the spot where the siding hit him kept sliding onto the arm of the sofa.

"Here," a hand appeared in front of his face. Sam leaned back and Dean dropped two white pills in his open palm. A cold bottle of water found its way into his other hand. "Take those," Dean instructed, sinking into the easy chair opposite him.

Sam swallowed the pills with a gulp of water. "Thanks, but it's really not that bad."

Dean snorted. "Dude, that's my line. Get your own." Sam watched his brother eyeing the sofa. "Back in a minute." Dean jumped up. Sam heard his brother's boots stamping up the stairs. The sound of the boots coming down were a little slower, but still distinctive. Not like there would be anyone else here. The next thing he knew, Dean was lifting up one of his legs and shoving a pillow underneath.

"Thanks," Sam grinned, the pain subsiding. "Man, how fast do those pills work anyway?" Eyelids heavy, he decided to close his eyes just for a second. Okay, maybe a minute.

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Dean watched his little brother doze off. Finally. He hoped Sam would be able to sleep until Bobby arrived. In the meantime, Dean checked his shotgun. It was loaded with consecrated iron shot. He did not know if iron worked against gremlins or imps, but he had to do something.

He kept watch over his brother, waiting for Bobby to arrive. Sam always accused him of having no patience, but what would Sam think if he looked up now, Dean wondered. Here he sat, holding his shotgun and waiting patiently for Bobby while images of stupid imps and nasty gremlins filtered through his mind. What did a freaking imp look like, anyway?