Look Back in Anger, Ch.6

The bell over the front door rang as Sam and Jane entered.

"'Den of Antiquity,'" Jane read aloud from the sign painted on the window. "Cute."

"Witches like puns. I've never figured out why," Sam confessed.

It was a weekday afternoon, so they were the only ones in the small shop. Bookcases were stacked high with volumes of forgotten lore, and the air was rank with incense. Crystals suspended from the ceiling stirred a bit in the breeze created by the opening and closing of the door.

A sleepy-eyed young woman behind the cash register barely glanced up from her book.

Jane looked back at Sam. "Are you sure we're in the right place?"

"Best witchcraft supply store in the Tri-State area," he vowed. "If what Dean told us on the phone is right, and this Heather person is dabbling with dark magic, this is the place she'd come."

He stepped up to the counter. He had settled on a low-key approach, so he wasn't in a suit and tie.

"Excuse me. I was wondering if you could tell me if you've seen this girl?"

It hadn't been hard to find a picture of Heather Murray on the Internet. She maintained half-a-dozen blogs and websites, all devoted to discussing her fascination with all things witchy. Most prominently featured her photo, which showed an attractive young woman with unnaturally red hair and pouting lips. Sam suspected a lot of the traffic her sites got had more to do with Heather's looks than with any interest in her writing.

The clerk barely glanced at it. "We get lots of girls in here," she shrugged. "I can't remember all of them."

Sam tried again. "Would you take another look? I'm trying to contact her for a news article on the local pagan community I'm putting together."

The salesgirl only sniffed. "Why, so you can make us all look like weirdoes, like you guys usually do? No thanks."

"Well, how about you, then? Maybe I could interview you."

"No, thanks." The clerk looked back down at the book in her lap.

Sam glanced back at Jane and shrugged.

"Is there someone else here we can talk to?" Jane asked.

The salesgirl slammed her book shut. "Fine. Boss?" She hollered. "Newspaper people here to see you!"

"Well, then show them back!" A muffled voice responded from somewhere in the rear of the store.

"I'm busy!" The clerk yelled. "Customers!"

"Customers! Bull! It's been dead as a doornail all day!"

Nonetheless Sam and Jane could hear the sounds of someone shifting boxes and stumbling over piles of books to reach them.

"That's OK—we'll come to you!" Sam called back.

They moved deeper into the murky light of the shop. While the front of the store held the more mass-market products—books on astrology, candles, and the like—back here the shelves held older, dusty books and jars of strange dried herbs. The real deal stuff, as Sam liked to think of it.

He rounded the corner of a bookshelf and came toe-to-toe with the store owner.

"Bobo!" He said in surprise.

"Sam Winchester! Holy crap, man, ain't you dead yet?" The older man with the graying ponytail grinned widely.

"Um, not yet," Sam said with a smile.

The two men embraced, the older one slapping Sam on the back enthusiastically.

Jane caught Sam's eye.

Bobo? She mouthed.

Sam pulled back. "Bobo, this is Jane Winchester. Jane, this is Burt 'Bobo' Reed, an old friend of the family. And one of the best witches I've ever met."

"Flattery will get you everywhere," Bobo chuckled. "Nice to meet you, Jane."

"Same here," Jane said politely.

"I didn't know you owned this place," Sam told the other man.

"Yeah, bought it about three years ago, after Rollo bit it. Natural causes," he added quickly. "Stroke."

"That's too bad," Sam said.

Bobo shrugged. "Hey, he died in his own bed—what more can any of us want? Anyway, my old lady had been hassling me to stop spending so much time on the road, and I had a little money saved up, so here I am." He grinned again. "But where are my manners, huh? Come on back to the office and I'll make us some herb tea. Macy?" He called.

"What?" The clerk hollered back.

"I'm having tea with these folks! Yell if you need me!"

"Fine!"

Bobo rolled his eyes. "Stepdaughter. Hired her to make my wife happy," he added apologetically.

Sam and Jane trailed him back to a cramped little room at the very back of the store, just big enough for a desk, a few chairs, and a hot plate.

Jane looked pointedly at the line of salt across the doorway as they crossed it.

"Demon trouble?" She asked.

"Not in a long time, but you can't be too careful." Bobo winked at Sam. "Your old man taught me that."

While the older man filled the kettle and set it on the hot plate Sam explained about Heather and why they had come. He didn't say anything about Claire, of course. But Bobo had dealt with enough hunters over the years not to expect the whole story anyway.

"Oh, yeah, I know Heather," he nodded after a quick glance at the photo. "Nice girl. But I wouldn't worry too much about her. She's just a dabbler."

Jane raised her eyebrows. "A dabbler?"

"A dabbler is someone who plays with witchcraft, but doesn't study it seriously," Sam explained as Bobo filled mugs with tea and handed them around. "They buy a few books, maybe take a class or two, that kind of thing. But they're not willing to put in the years it takes to become a really skilled witch."

"All that stuff you see in the front of the store? The crystals and wind chimes and Yanni CDs? That's dabbler shit. They want a quick spell for love, or maybe a charm to help them win the lottery, but it stops there," Bobo explained for Jane's benefit. "I like Heather, I do, but trust me—in a few years she'll chuck all of her witchcraft stuff in the Goodwill bin and settle down in the suburbs like everyone else."

Jane sipped at her tea. "What about another girl that Heather spends time with, a bit taller and thinner? Pink hair?"

The store owner leaned back in his chair, mug in hand. "That'll be Claire. She doesn't come in as often, but I've met her. Claire's one of those bruised souls, you know?"

Sam titled his head. "How so?"

"You can read it in her the moment you meet her. Some shit went down in her life and she hasn't dealt with it yet. It's all over her aura, man."

"Has she said anything to you about that?" Jane asked.

"Claire? That's a laugh—she usually doesn't say two words to anybody. Let's Heather do all the talking. Heather's a lot bolder, so I think Claire's happy to just stand behind her. I saw that kind of thing in my own kids when they were teenagers." Bobo was thoughtful for a moment. "Sam here was raised on the road, so he won't get that, but you probably will," he told Jane.

"I do, actually," she admitted. "When you're young and insecure it's really helpful to have a more outgoing friend to sort of drag you along behind them."

"Exactly." Bobo nodded sagely. "Heather looks out for Claire," he told Sam. "She won't hurt her, at least not on purpose."

"Heather's gotten her hands on a copy of the Malleus Maleficarum," Sam told him.

"Not here, she didn't. I don't carry that, and I never have. I don't deal in that witch hunter garbage," Bobo said firmly.

"She said it was for a paper," Jane supplied.

"Then it was. The Malleus Maleficarum would have been way over Heather's head anyway. I doubt she'd have understood half what's in there. Hell, I've been studying witchcraft since '68 and there're parts of that thing I still don't get."

The cell phone in Jane's pocket rang and she quickly checked the number.

"It's Dean. I'd better take this."

"Go ahead." Bobo waved to her.

After Jane had stepped outside to take the call Bobo turned back to Sam.

"So, that's her, huh?"

"'Her' who?"

"The angel's baby mama." Bobo smirked a bit. "He's got good taste, I'll give him that."

"Don't start, man," Sam cautioned.

"I know, I know, but I hear things, you know? Can't help but be curious."

"Well, don't be. Dean and I have a strict 'don't ask, don't tell' policy where Jane and her daughter are concerned. "

"Sam, that woman out there helped prevent the end of the world. Then she gave birth to a kid that might very well be the savior of humanity some day. Even by witch standards that is some heavy-duty shit." He laughed. "Besides, I've heard you've had hunters in the house when both she and the kid are there."

Sam sipped his tea. "Not if Dean can help it."

"She patched up Tom Wheeler that time he got blood poisoning, didn't she? He would have lost that leg if his buddies hadn't have brought him to you."

"They should have taken him to the hospital," Sam corrected.

"With him having the law after him in two states? Not likely. Everybody speaks highly of her, Sam; you don't have to worry about that.

"I'd prefer it if people didn't talk about her at all."

"Dean says they're on their way back to the motel," Jane supplied as she reentered the room.

"OK." Sam regarded his old friend seriously. "Bobo, is there anything else you can think of that would help us out? Anything at all?"

The store owner was quiet for a long moment. "If it's bad mojo you're looking for, I'd check out Heather's boyfriend. Chris something-or-other. He's not a witch, any more than she is, but he's definitely more into the darker stuff. Guys usually are—they think it makes them badass and gets them the chicks."

"Does it?" Jane asked.

"He got Heather, didn't he? And guys were lining up around here to date her."

"They met here?" Sam frowned.

"Yep. At an author signing for a new book."

"A spellbook?" Sam wondered aloud.

"Tantric sex manual," Bobo corrected with a wink. "Illustrated. One of my best sellers."

"I see." Sam hastily stood up. "Thanks for the tea, Bobo."

"Any time, man. Jane, it was a pleasure to meet you."

"Same here. We appreciate the time you've given us," Jane said honestly.

"Least I can do. The Winchesters have pulled my ass out of the fire more times than I can count," Bobo chuckled. "Sam, you bring that cranky brother of yours by. I'll see if I can get his chakras better aligned so he mellows out a bit."

"'Mellow' isn't in Dean's vocabulary, Bobo. But I'll tell him you said 'hi.'"

"Wow," Jane said again, causing Sam to look up from the paper he was trying to read.

"What now?" He asked.

The two of them were sitting at the small dining table in the motel room. Sam had Heather's term paper in front of him, and Jane had Claire's. Judging from the number of times Jane had exclaimed over something Sam thought she'd definitely gotten the better end of the deal.

"Nothing interesting in Heather's paper, Sam?" Dean asked. He and Angela were sitting in front of the TV, eating microwave popcorn and watching Scooby Doo cartoons.

"It's amazing that anyone could make a paper on the 17th century witch trials boring, but Heather somehow managed it," Sam complained. "It's totally generic stuff."

"Not something a big, bad witch in training would write?" Dean asked.

"No."

"Unless she was deliberately trying to make us think she isn't a big, bad witch," Dean mused.

"I think you may be giving her too much credit. She couldn't have known we'd be reading this," Sam argued.

"Yeah, well, teaching assistants should learn to lock their offices, then, shouldn't they?" The older Winchester chuckled.

"I hope the professor recorded the grades first," Jane said without looking up from Claire's paper. "I wouldn't want Claire to get stuck with a '0.'"

"I'll put 'em back, don't worry." Dean ate another handful of popcorn. "So, what's the verdict on Claire's paper?"

"Well," Jane said thoughtfully. "I think her professor grades a bit harshly, for one thing. It's an unusual topic. But Claire's got some great sources and she's built a really strong argument…"

Dean stared at her for a moment. "Thank you, Professor Nerdling. I meant what's in it?"

"Oh, that. It's a hatchet job on angels. Basically, she argues that they're a paramilitary hit squad, and that they smite first and ask questions later. Really harsh stuff."

"So she's out of line?" Sam asked.

"No, not really. That's the thing—she's pretty much dead on." Jane smiled a bit. "At least it jibes with a lot of my own experience with them."

"Ariel says angels are soldiers for the Lord," Angela announced around a mouthful of popcorn.

Dean snorted. Of all the angels he liked Ariel least. Not just because Ariel was now in charge of Heaven, but because Ariel had been the one most determined to stop Angela from being born. The angel had backed down only when Jane had put her newborn daughter into his arms and he had seen that she was, indeed, a celestial child and thus living, breathing evidence of God's grace.

The fact that Ariel now had the nerve to even speak to Angela put Dean in the mood to do a little smiting himself.

"Yeah, Cass said something similar when I first met him," he said instead.

"Claire went back to the Bible for most of her evidence," Jane continued. "She even got the Sodom and Gomorrah story right, which almost nobody does. Mainly I think what this paper shows is that Claire is still really, really pissed at Cass, and by extension the rest of Heaven, too."

"Which Amelia had already told us." Sam nodded.

"Not is so many words, but, yeah." Jane rubbed her eyes. "It does explain a lot about Claire."

"How so?" Dean checked his watch and then reached over and turned off the TV.

"Hey!" Angela protested.

"7:30," Dean told her. "Time to start getting ready for bed. Go wash your face and brush your teeth."

"I thought this was supposed to be a vacation," the child protested.

"Hunting is work, kiddo," Dean explained. He pointed in the direction of the bathroom. "Now march."

Once the child had disappeared Dean came to stand next to his brother.

"So you were saying this explains a lot about Claire," he reminded Jane.

"Well, yes. I'm no psychologist, and I don't know how it works with fathers and sons. But fathers and daughters…" She sighed. "When a woman doesn't have a good relationship with her father it can wreck the rest of her life. My theory is that Claire lost Jimmy at exactly the stage in her life when she needed him the most. Now that loss is coloring everything else she does."

"So the whole Lisbeth Salander act is Claire's way of dealing with her daddy issues?" Dean asked.

Sam smiled. "Dude, how do you know who Lisbeth Salander is?"

"I read." Dean shrugged. "Ok, I don't, but I've seen the movies."

Jane's cell phone rang, and she picked it up with a quick, "Hello?"

Her eyes widened a bit. She held up a hand to get Sam and Dean's attention.

"Yes, she's here. Hold on a second." Jane placed her hand over the phone's mouthpiece. "Angela, phone for you," she called out. "It's Claire."

Angela, face still damp, zipped out of the bathroom and grabbed the phone. "Hello?" She asked breathlessly.

The adults watched as Angela listened to the person on the other end.

"Yes, I knew you would call me," she now said.

Pause.

"Because you promised, that's why."

Another pause.

"Yes, I think we should definitely meet tomorrow. There're a lot of things I still need to tell you."

Angela looked up at her mother and uncles. "Ten a.m.?" She repeated for their benefit.

Jane nodded.

"Yeah, that would be good," Angela said happily. "Where do you want to meet?"

Dean quickly grabbed a piece of paper, jotted something down, and handed it to the child.

"Hang on, Claire." Angela looked down at her uncle's scrawl. "There's a park on Burnside Ave., not too far from the river…Oh, you know it. OK, great. I'll see you there. Bye."

Angela hung up the phone with a triumphant expression.

"See, I told you she would want to talk to me."

The adults exchanged more skeptical expressions.

"Let's take it one step at a time," Sam urged.

From a distance Claire could see Angela rocking back and forth on a swing as she waited. The sun was warm, and the child seemed to be having fun running her sneakers across the grass under her feet.

She finally glanced up and saw Claire heading towards her.

"Hi, Claire," Angela said cheerfully.

"Hey." Claire shot a skeptical glance at her. "You're here all by yourself?"

"Uh uh. My mom and my uncles are right over there." Angela pointed at the fence along the river.

Claire glanced in that direction and saw three adults: a fair-haired woman; a grim-looking man, also with fair hair; and the tall, brown-haired man she had seen outside her house a few days earlier.

"That's my mom, Jane. You haven't met her. But you've sort of met my uncles, Sam and Dean." Angela gazed up at Claire. "It was a long time ago, though, and they didn't want to freak you out by coming over. Do you remember them at all?"

"Should I?"

"They were there that night, Claire. They helped save you and your mom from the demons."

"Demons?" Claire echoed. She stared at the child again. "How do you know all this? Did my mom…"

"Oh, no, not your mom. She could barely talk about it at all. I know about what happened from Sam and Dean. And Castiel, of course."

"OK," Claire finally said. "I know I'm going to regret this, but I'll bite. Who is Castiel?"

Angela's blue eyes widened. "You mean he never told you his name?"

"Who never told me his name?"

"Castiel."

"What is this, an Abbott and Costello routine?" Claire flung up her arms in frustration. "Who is Castiel?"

"The angel."

It was as if someone had punched Claire in the stomach, knocking all the air out of her. "Don't start that again."

"I'm sorry, I thought you knew. The angel you met, the one that uses Jimmy as his vessel, his name is Castiel."

For a brief moment Claire allowed herself to remember—the roaring sound in her ears, the voice that had spoken to her from inside her own head…

"Never heard of him," she snapped quickly, shoving the memories aside as quickly as they arose.

She glanced around her again. It was such a peaceful, sunny day. People in the park were laughing, eating, talking. Why was she the only one who was dealing with this insanity?

"He's not an Archangel, so he's not as famous as some of the others. But his name is known," the child explained. "You can Google him."

"I'm not Googling anybody. Do you have idea how totally, completely crazy you sound?" Claire demanded. "That most people would have you locked up for saying what you're saying?"

"As a matter of fact, I do know that. But," Angela said thoughtfully, "that doesn't change the fact that it really happened. Demons really did come to your house, and Sam and Dean really did fight them off."

Claire sat down on an empty swing next to the child before her knees could give out.

She was silent for a long moment.

"I don't remember much about what happened that night," she finally admitted quietly.

"Sam said to tell you that your mom and dad wrapped you up in a blanket and your dad's coat," Angela offered. "And that you slept in the backseat of our Impala. And that later he hot-wired a car for you and your mom. Does that help at all?"

Claire thought for a long moment. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Demons are real, Claire. And so are angels, and so are a whole lot of other things we aren't supposed to believe in, either."

Angela chewed at her bottom lip for a moment. "Maybe you should tell me what you do remember."

The older girl shivered a bit as long-repressed memories began to bubble up again.

"I remember…I remember coming out of the house and seeing my father standing there. Only it wasn't my father. It was something else in my father's body. I called out to him. 'Daddy,' I said. But whatever it was said it wasn't my father, and then it walked away."

"Oh, that was a terrible thing to say!" The child was genuinely horrified. "But that was the angel talking, Claire. That was Castiel. He wouldn't have known how cruel that sounded. Angels don't understand human emotions very well."

Claire squeezed her eyes shut.

"Everybody assumed he had gone crazy, walked out on us. People from church brought over casseroles. My mother cried and cried. He missed my birthday, then Thanksgiving, and Christmas. After a few months we started to adapt to him being gone-dead, we thought."

She drew in a shaky breath. "And then one day he came back. He'd been gone a whole year. At first he seemed like himself. He looked the same—tired, but the same. The only thing different was that he wouldn't say grace at the table. Then his best friend came over and…and…"

"Sam and Dean tried to stop Jimmy from going back to you," Angela explained gently. "It wasn't safe. But he wanted to see you and your mother so badly he went anyway."

"I remember black, black eyes, like dolls' eyes…"

"Demon eyes."

"Yes. I do remember sleeping in the back of somebody's car. I remember my father leaving us again, and my mother slapping me across the face…"

Angela shook her head. "That wasn't your mother, Claire. That was the demon inside of her."

"I know that," Claire snapped. "Anyway, it doesn't matter now."

"But it does, Claire, don't you see?" The little girl looked up at her. "That's why I came all this way to see you. I had to. I was told to."

Claire gave her a frosty look. "Told by whom? God? More angels?" She laughed bitterly. "Yeah, right."

"I don't know where the message came from. Maybe it just came from inside of me. But I had to listen to it, and I had to make you listen to it, too."

"So what does it want, kid? This magic voice inside of you?"

Angela pressed her lips together in thought. "I wasn't sure at first. But now that I've met you a few times, I think it wants you to forgive Jimmy for what happened. It wants you to stop being so angry at him, so you can move on with your life."

Claire scoffed. "I have moved on with my life! I'm here, aren't I? I'm in college, right?"

The little girl looked at her solemnly. "But you're not happy. I want you to be happy."

Claire put her head in her hands. "You're still little. When you're older you'll realize that most people aren't happy."

"But 'most people' don't have me," Angela corrected. "You do."

"And what are you going to do to help me, huh? Play therapist? Lend me your teddy bear?"

"No, I'm going to give you some advice. That's all."

Claire groaned. "Advice from a kindergartner. Perfect."

"My body may be young, but my soul is actually very, very old," Angela said in her odd little way. "When I say I have advice you ought to listen. Now, do you want to hear it, or not?"

"Fine."

"OK. You need to be open about what happened to you and your mom and Jimmy. I think your mom is finally ready to talk about it with you. You need to be there for her when she is. Don't shut her out. She loves you very much, and she'll need you to listen to what she had to say."

Claire felt chastened by the child's words.

She'd known for years that she was being too hard on her mother. Claire had been so busy pushing her mother away she hadn't been able to see Amelia's own pain.

Hearing another person say the same thing was like a splash of cold water in her face.

"Fair enough," Claire said simply.

"And then, I think, you should tell whoever else might be willing to listen."

Claire was far more skeptical of this prescription. She shook her head.

"Uh uh. No way. They'll say I'm nuts!"

"Maybe so. But you'll know you're telling the truth. You shouldn't lie about who you are to people who love you, Claire. Nothing good ever comes of doing that."

The older girl rubbed her temples. She took a shaky breath.

"I won't promise to follow all of your advice," she said. "But I'll follow as much as I can. How's that?"

"Good," Angela said with a beaming smile. "That's all I ask."

Claire stood again. Her legs felt a little shaky, like a newborn colt's.

The little girl's face fell. "Oh, do you have to leave so soon?"

"Um, I guess not. Why?"

Angela smiled up at her. "I was hoping you would push me on the swings for awhile. Please?"

Claire blinked. "What, you're back in kid mode all of a sudden? You want to play?"

"Yep. Pretty please?" Angela gave her a wide, beguiling grin.

Claire stifled a laugh. "You know, if you weren't so cute you'd be kind of scary."

"Yeah, I get that a lot."

Sitting on her bed, Claire contemplated everything that had happened to her that day.

The visit in the park had been productive, in a strange sort of way. After their oddly intense conversation Claire had stayed for awhile and pushed Angela on the swings as requested. They had discussed ordinary things, like their favorite ice cream flavors and what movies they had watched lately.

She didn't know why, but Claire instinctively trusted the little girl. There was something so familiar about her that Claire understood why she had initially mistaken Angela for a relative.

That familiarity now made an odd kind of sense. Angela knew the angel; the angel had once used Claire as a vessel; and, according to the child, it was still using Jimmy as one. So they were connected, just not by blood.

Claire hugged the pillow in her lap. She had skipped out on her afternoon classes, desperately needing to lie down and process the events of the day. She had ended up falling into the soundest sleep she could remember having in a very long time.

Now the sun was setting outside her window, but Claire was still not inclined to get up.

There was a tap at the door, and Heather's fiery red head appeared around it a second later.

"Claire, are you awake?"

"Sure. Come on in."

"You've been spending an awful lot of time in here lately," Heather rebuked her gently.

"Yeah, I know. How was your day?"

"Pretty good." Heather gestured for Claire to move over, and she did so. Heather climbed onto the bed and leaned back on another pillow. "But Chris got fired."

"What, again? How hard is it to keep a job as a mechanic?"

"Anyway, it doesn't matter, because he's thinking of opening his own place. There's that closed-up garage over on 4th…"

Claire knew which one she met. "That place is a dump."

"No, it's perfect! Chris and I went by and peeked in the windows. There's still a lot of equipment in the service bays, and there's an upstairs, too. We could have one of those totally awesome New York-type lofts up there."

"Where would Chris get the money to pull off something like that? You're talking tens of thousands of dollars…"

"Chris has friends. Even Toby said he could kick in a few thou, like a silent partner. And I'm gonna ask my parents. Chris is such a good mechanic I know it'll be a great investment."

Claire didn't bother sharing her opinion on what Heather's parents would probably say if asked to "invest" in their daughter's boyfriend's business. Instead she studied her friend for a moment, thinking about what Angela had told her.

"Hey, Heather? If I told you something, something really important, would you promise to listen to me, no matter how crazy I sound?"

Heather rolled over and propped herself onto her elbow. "Oh, intrigue! I love intrigue!"

"No, I'm serious. You're my best friend, and if you don't take me seriously I don't think anyone else ever will."

"Of course I will, babe!" Heather's eyebrows lowered as she frowned. "You're not in trouble, are you? Oh my God, you're not pregnant, are you?"

"No, no, nothing like that." Claire took a deep breath. "It has to do with something that happened when I was younger…"

"Wow," was all Heather could say an hour later, when Claire had finally finished telling her story.

"I know."

"I mean…wow."

"Yep." Claire glanced over at her best friend in the pale moonlight. "You believe me, don't you?"

"Oh, Claire, sweetie." Heather reached over and hugged her. "Of course I do. I mean, it sounds crazy, I'll admit. But if you say it happened then it happened."

"OK, then." Claire had to admit her heart did feel a bit lighter. Maybe there really was something to talking this all out.

"I mean, it's actually kind of…awesome." Heather sat back. "To think that there really are angels and demons and monsters…"

"If by 'awesome' you mean freakishly terrifying, then yes."

"I always knew there had to be something else out there. Other than just us humans I mean." Heather sounded a bit smug.

Claire turned back to her friend. "But you can't tell anyone, all right? I'm, like, not ready for everyone to know about this. I don't know if I ever will be. So you can't tell anyone. Especially not Chris. Promise?"

Heather drew an "x" over her heart with her finger. "Promise. Your secret is safe with me."