Firefly – Chapter 3

By: Suz

Ellen Harvelle was usually an intensely direct woman. Sam had known her for a very long time and in every situation, good and bad, she dove in full force, nothing held back. Her hesitation to address the reason she'd summoned them half way across the country unsettled him.

"Ellen, is something wrong? Are you okay?" Sam asked, trying ease her obvious discomfort.

"I'm okay, Sam," Ellen answered, looking down at nothing then focusing on Dean. She made a visible mental leap off the ledge she'd been standing on and began. "Dean, do you know a woman named Calley Rail?"

After a few seconds of silent review, Dean replied, "No, doesn't ring a bell. Was she a case?"

"I'm not sure." Ellen walked around the bar, talking as she went. "I got a call from her a couple of weeks ago and she sounded very desperate to find you."

***

"Dammit, Jake! The phone!" Ellen was pissed as she ran to grab the screaming telephone from behind the bar. The new help wasn't turning out to be much help at all and that phone had stopped her every time she'd gotten rolling on paperwork this afternoon.

Ellen jerked the receiver into her hand and couldn't stop the bite in her voice. "Harvelle's. This is Ellen."

"Uh, hello, is this Ellen Harvelle?" The voice was timid and shaky.

"That's what I said," Ellen answered, annoyed at repeating herself. She took a breath and tried to be more civil. If it was a rep from one of her new suppliers, pissing off one of them on the phone probably wouldn't be her best move at this early point in the Roadhouse's new life. "Sorry, bad day. Can I help you?"

"Yes, ma'am, I hope so."

The girl on the other end of the line sounded awfully young. Ellen could hear the tremble in her voice. "Well, why don't you tell me what you need and we'll see." Ellen leaned onto the bar, letting go of her initial annoyance and giving the caller a chance to answer.

"Uh, okay. Clip, the guy who owns Getty's in Beaumont, Texas, told me you might be able to help me find a man named Dean Winchester. Do you know him? Can you help me find him?"

Giving out information about other hunters was a sticky business. On one hand, you could be helping connect someone in trouble with their one and only savior. On the other hand, you could be delivering a friend into the hands of a whole lot of death. Before she popped off with that intel, Ellen would need a lot more than a simple request over the phone. Getty's was a common hunter hang out and her husband, Bill, had known Clip about a thousand years ago but that wasn't nearly enough.

"Sweetheart, why don't we start with your name," Ellen asked, taking charge of the conversation.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Calley Rail."

"That's better, Calley. How is Clip?"

"He was really nice. I mean, I just met him when I went in and he told me you might be able to help me."

Well, the girl hadn't lied and said Clip was her best friend. That was a good sign. "I may know a Dean Winchester, Calley, but how do you know him and what exactly do you want with him?"

"It's really an emergency, Mrs. Harvelle, ma'am, I've got to find him. Please, can you help me?" The panic in her voice was rising. Ellen could hear a small break after the last word.

"What's the problem, Calley? Maybe I can help?"

The voice on the other end of the line began to cross over from desperation to hysteria. "I can't, I mean, I think he's the only one who can help me. I can't tell you. I need to find him. Everybody I've talked to says that he can help us. I only met him that once but—"

"Calm down, Calley," Ellen said, trying to settle the girl down. "I may be able to find him but I need a little more

information in case I reach him."

The girl ignored Ellen's request and latched on to the first part of her sentence. "Can you find him? Please, just tell me where he is and I can get there! Please!"

Keeping her voice calm, Ellen said, "Calley, I said I may be able to find him. Give me your number and I'll make some calls." It had been a couple of years since she'd laid eyes on either Winchester and it would take some doing to track them down. "Where exactly are you, Sweetie?"

There was no answer for a few seconds, only heavy, fearful breaths over the line. "I'm not sure where I'm going to be. Maybe I can find him. I'll call you back tomorrow."

The line went silent and Ellen gently hung up the receiver. "Dammit," she whispered, pulling out her private address book.

****

"She never called back." Ellen had retrieved a manila envelope from behind the bar. "It took me a while to track down your new number but when she didn't call back, I thought maybe she found you on her own."

"Dean, do you know that girl?" Sam asked, taking in his brother's confusion.

"No, I don't," Dean answered, clearly trying to remember. "Getty's? Wait, I remember that bar! You were going to Baton Rouge to see that hoodoo priestess when I was—" Dean broke off his sentence. They didn't talk much about the year before he went to hell. Dean didn't want to and Sam rarely pushed him on the subject. "I was pissed and you dropped me off in Beaumont and went on without me."

"Maybe that's where you met her," Sam said, trying to read Dean's reaction.

"Since every woman I know I met in a bar? Thanks," Dean answered, looking out into the room at no one. "But, it could be. I was pretty wasted. All I remember was waking up in some dive motel room, hung over and pissed off at you."

"Like most Sunday mornings," Sam quipped back at him.

"So, this mystery woman desperate for me never called back?" Dean asked, trying to cover his unease at dragging up memories of his own descent into desperation.

"No, she didn't," Ellen replied, her unease tangible. "But about a week ago, a friend of Calley's showed up here. Girl named Lindsey Deaton from Austin." Ellen hesitated, nervously fingering the envelope in her hand.

"Ellen, you suck at storytelling. Can we please get on with this?" Dean's frustration was growing. Sam wasn't sure if it was his impatience to get the details or embarrassment at not being able to remember how he knew this woman who'd been looking for him.

"Calley died the night after she called me," Ellen said, sadness making the lines on her face appear deeper. "Her apartment was set on fire. Lindsey found my phone number and address in Calley's car and knew she'd planned to come here the next morning."

News of anyone's death was heavy to hear. Dean was still silently struggling to remember the dead woman and seemed strangely sad to know this woman was gone.

"Ellen, is Lindsey the person who left something here for Dean? Does she think we can find who killed Calley?" Sam was reaching for the envelope and Ellen pulled it back.

"Yeah, Sam. Lindsey left this but I don't know if it can find Calley's killer. I don't know if that's the most pressing issue at this point." Ellen held out the envelope to Dean and Sam noticed the trembling paper. Whatever was about to spill from that envelope was important.

"Finally," Dean said, quickly grabbing the envelope and moving to break the seal. Finding it open, his expression changed. "Did you open this?"

"I assume Lindsey did, but I saw what's inside." In response to his angry glare, Ellen said, "It was necessary."

"So much for the freakin' right to privacy," Dean grumbled, sliding out a single blue form. Color drained from Dean's face as he read. "What the hell?"

"Dean? What does it say?" Sam got up from the barstool and walked to his brother. Dean was clearly shaken, nearly hypnotized by the page in his hand.

Dean ignored Sam's question, clutching the form and reading it over and over again. Looking over Dean's shoulder, Sam read the page and felt his brother's shock spread into his own brain.

"Is this real, Ellen?" Sam eased the page out of Dean's hand and found no resistance.

"I checked it out before I called you. It's real." Ellen stood still, watching Dean carefully for any reaction.

Silence was all he offered.

TBC