Author Notes in Chapter One.
CHAPTER FOUR
Broken Bow, Nebraska
The phone on the wall begins to ring, a shrill sound not loud enough to take immediate precedence over the classic rock thumping from the jukebox across the barroom floor.
A pair of hunters sits at the bar top, both mid-forties, been in the game for decades. Regular customers. They wear matching neutral tones: Carhart jackets, khakis with cargo pockets, steel-toed boots, and concealed unregistered weapons. They sip IPAs from tall draft glasses, chuckling with one another in rough bass tones as they trade the stories of their latest kills in an attempt to catch the attention of the attractive widow tending the bar.
And she knows it; puts the tips bozos like these two leave into her daughter's college fund. She leans over the polished countertop, showing the goods her more modest maroon button-down conceals, allowing the low-cut tank and ample gifts God gave her work in tandem to send Joanna Beth to a good, though preferably nearby, school. "You boys ready for another round?"
They trade looks, and the larger of the two slaps a cheerful palm on the bar top. "What the hell, Ellen? Pour us another."
"You got it." Never mind it's nine in the AM and she just unlocked the door. End of a hunt, guns still smoking in the trunk, that's when she gets the best tips. Ellen turns to the tap, lets a bit of foam run out before drawing two clean glasses from under the counter.
"You know your phone's ringin'?"
Ellen throws a glance at the receiver on the wall as the amber brew fills the glass to the lip. "Thanks, Jimmy. Couldn't hear over that racket you boys keep playing on the box."
"What do you have against Zeppelin?"
"Not a damn thing." Ellen grins, setting the beers in front of the hunters and stepping toward the phone. "The first ten dozen times."
Her daughter comes down the steps and into the bar with the heavy feet of the perpetually aggravated adolescent, and Ellen motions to the few glasses in the sink awaiting washing. Jo rolls her eyes, and Ellen snaps her fingers, sets her daughter to work. She flips her thick brown hair over her shoulder and cradles the receiver with her shoulder. "Harvelle's."
Sioux Falls, South Dakota
There isn't much privacy to be had, sharing a house with two hunters. They see everything and hear even more. Bobby's acting like he's after something, like John is a safe he's looking to crack. He can't put a word to what Dean is after. Doesn't have a word for might be after Dean. But there are people he knows, who hear more than he does, who are better at keeping friends.
If he's going to call Ellen, put her to work listening the way she does best, he's going to have to get out of the house. Dean's in the shower, and moving pretty slow this morning, and Bobby's puttering around like an old housewife. There's work to be done, but he can surely sneak out for a few minutes without tipping the first domino in the line.
"I'm gonna make a quick run into town."
"What for?" Bobby pries. "I've got a store in the basement like the end of days is comin.'"
John throws excuses at Singer like rapid gunfire. Bobby is a professional, dodges them one by one. Even the real police don't go out questioning people this damn early. His coffee is a good brew, and piping hot this morning, no need to go out for something chain and flush money down the toilet. He subscribes to all the local papers not to mention the ones he has shipped in, what do you think I am, an idgit?
Gimme a break, Bob, John implores silently. "Smokes," he says finally, the only thing coming to mind that Singer won't have in the house. Never had any use for them; won't have something that small and manmade become his ultimate demise.
John slides behind the wheel. He takes hold of the worn leather and pauses a long moment, the first quiet, solitary moment he'd dug out for himself in days. Dean's been tough to ditch – bad choice of words. He doesn't necessarily desire being away from his son, but he's fallen into a fairly singular zone of comfort that ends at John plus one. Bobby is the plus one, and yet John sought him out.
His instinct, as always, is to run. As quickly and as far away as possible. He can't, and knows as much. Knows his responsibilities, and Dean is his responsibility. Dean's SAFETY is his responsibility. There's a job here to finish, and he means to finish it, if that spooky little son of bitch is bringing Dean into the mix. And then…then, he's not quite sure of yet.
John drives only so far as his aging eyes need to spot the morning sunlight gleaming off of the top of a pay phone outside the gas station at the first major intersection he happens upon. He figures that'll do just fine.
Morning comes cruelly too soon, the couch horribly hard and lumpy beneath Dean as he wakes slowly, fully clothed, aggravating still-tender bruises and ribs in all the right places. He opens his eyes, gluey from sleep, and winces away from the rays of sun pouring into the room, feeling like he didn't rest at all. The jackhammer of pain in his head is indescribable, and his muscles are stiff from being in this position for so long.
It takes a moment for the fog to lift, for Dean to remember where he is and why he's nursing the hangover from Hell. He groans and rolls to stand, instead goes right over the edge of the cushions and onto the dusty hardwood floor. He instinctively curls to protect his side. "Ugh."
Bobby's study is nearly unrecognizable from this angle; towering stacks of books inches from toppling over onto his face, obstructing his view of anything else. Early morning sunlight streams through the cracks, particles of dust floating in the beam. Dean gingerly pushes up on his elbows. His vision is blurry for a few slow blinks, and then he notices his father seated across the room in Bobby's armchair. Still and quiet, despite Dean's extremely recent and surely hilarious tumble to the floor, staring at him with an unfamiliar and concerning expression.
"Dad? Is…is everything okay?" Dean asks, voice like gravel in his dry, scratchy throat. His mouth tastes like ass, and the breath he's exhaled in front of his face doesn't smell much better.
John takes a long, slow sip from a steaming coffee mug. His rigid posture suggests tension. "Not sure yet."
"Huh?"
"Nothin,' kid."
Dean shakes it off. This certainly isn't the first time his father's been cryptic and monosyllabic first thing in the morning. Pretty much par for the course, actually, and if Dean made HALF the jackass of himself last night that he thinks he did, well, he's hardly in a position to be asking for more than clipped, annoyed responses. "What time is it?"
"Still early." Another slow sip, another long stare. "You've been asleep a while. How you feelin'?"
"Headache. Sore." Dean slowly sits up fully, dragging himself back onto the couch with a grimace. "Not the most restful night of sleep I've had."
"Anything else?"
Disappointed? Dean frowns, not sure what it is his father's looking for. Probably an explanation for his night alone chugging Wild Turkey. "I know I shouldn't have, uh, hit the bottle like that last night. We're working a job."
John holds that look, almost like he's sizing Dean up. He finally looks away, squints and swallows. He glances at the mug in his hands and nods, a few heavy bobs. "Just so we're clear." His heart doesn't seem to be in it. "Need a refill." He stands and moves to the kitchen.
Bracing his palms on the couch cushions, Dean arches his back and rotates his neck, eliciting a series of pops and cracks all along his spine and one nasty twinge in his side. A finger catches on the sticky underside of the Band-Aid that had been on his forehead, came off against the coarse fabric. He tosses the bit of plastic to the coffee table and cradles his aching head in his hands.
The idea of coffee sounds amazing but the smell of the bold aroma wafting from the kitchen turns his stomach. His head feels shaken; a hangover, obviously, but more than that. He's confused, unsure of the state of things without actually being aware of what those things are. He rubs the tender spot at his temple. His father's right; he's got a hard head, but it's been almost a week and he's never had a knock to the noggin that messed him up quite like this. He's been hearing things, and last night, maybe…
Dean's hands fall away from his head and drop to hang between his knees, and he stares at the floor. Last night, before he finally passed out, he could have sworn he'd seen…someone, here in the house with him. A boy who looked a hell of a lot like Sammy. But that's crazy. He'd obviously had too much to drink; it's as simple an explanation as that.
A pair of scuffed, muddy boots invades his field of vision and Dean looks up to see Bobby holding his morning cup of joe.
Dean swallows thickly and forces a grateful smile. The expression also squashes the nausea. "Morning, Bobby," he rasps.
Bobby appraises him from under the low bill of his trucker hat, offers Dean the mug. "How ya feelin'?"
"'Ugh' pretty much sums it up." Dean straightens on the couch and accepts the cup, staring into the dark liquid with a grimace.
"You gonna be up for this today?"
"Depends, I guess. What's 'this' gonna be?"
Bobby chuckles. "Not sure yet, but your dad's always got something cookin' in that head of his, don't he?"
"Yeah," Dean scoffs. "Well, like I said. Depends." The filter between his brain and his mouth seems to be very broken. Suck it up, kid. He takes a sip of coffee, a fresher cup than what he settled for the morning before, and shakes off the look Bobby's giving him. "I'm good. Thanks," he adds, bringing the mug back to his lips. Despite earlier feelings to the contrary, the coffee might actually be doing some good.
Bobby nods and produces a second cup he must have been holding the entire time. He drinks the fragrant brew absently. "You know, you shouldn't have to thank someone for carin' about you, kid."
The combination of hangover fog and too little caffeine allows the older man to slip out of the room before Dean can save face and verbalize something characteristically smartass. He stays on the couch, spluttering without an articulate response, until his father reenters the room.
"Still in bed? Get your ass movin.'"
"Yeah," Dean says, giving up this slow start and taking a big gulp of hot coffee that scalds both his tongue and his manners. "Yes, sir," he amends. He sets aside his mug and pulls himself up with some effort. It takes longer than he'd like to steady himself against the arm of the couch before he moves toward the bathroom, avoiding Bobby's eyes on the way and not going back for the coffee he forgot on the table.
The previous evening
Harrisburg to Sioux Falls, South Dakota
Bobby pushes his way out of the police station, squinting in the late afternoon sunlight. "Well, I don't think he's lying, and I don't think it was premeditated."
"How do you figure?"
"He spoke about his father in present tense. Wasn't sorry for it, that's for sure, but seemed surprised it happened. If he hadn't said a few of the key words in there, I'd say this was a cut-and-dry homicide."
John nods. "And there's the pattern."
"And there's the pattern," Bobby concedes. He seems to think for only a moment before adding, "If we are dealing with a spirit of some kind, I think we should err on the side of caution."
"More so than usual, you mean?"
Bobby pauses at the car. "You find a spirit can make a boy kill his daddy and your own son can barely stand to be in the same room as you?" John opens his mouth but Bobby holds up a hand, stopping him. "Right or wrong, John, s'way it seems to me." He opens the door to the Impala. "So, yes, more so'n usual."
John jerks open his own door and falls to the bench seat. "I'm not sure exactly what it is you're attempting to imply, Bobby, but I'll ask you to keep your observations to yourself."
"Just because you don't want to hear it doesn't mean it's bad advice," Bobby braves before the return trip turns uncomfortably silent.
John almost wishes Singer would go back to NOT calling bullshit on him. There are hours of light left but it's not quite so bright. The sun is hot and low and fighting to be seen between the trees when they pull into the drive. The house is just as uncomfortably silent as the car when they enter, and dark, no lights switched on yet. There's a stillness in the home that is an unfamiliar sense when one his children is supposed to be around. His boys are loud, movement and chaos personified. They aren't still.
"Dean," John calls, shrugging out of his jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair.
There's no response, and he moves to the living room as Bobby removes his own suit jacket, pointedly draping it on the coat rack.
Kid's been on some kind of rebellious kick ever since Sammy took off. Dean has always done and always been everything John could have wanted. He'd never once raised his voice until the day Sam came home from school with that tone.
Dean had never disobeyed, never argued, never been smartass in a disrespectful manner until it was just the two of them. He's always thought of Dean as the buffer between himself and Sam. It had never occurred to him that Sam's rebellious nature might have been diffusing some passive aggression from DEAN for all these years.
Now Sam, that attitude, and all of those distracting and time-consuming fights are gone, and this is not a good color on Dean.
John didn't really think Dean would use the solitary hours he'd been given to rest as instructed. He figured Dean would stew and sulk because that's what Sam would have done and that's who Dean has been acting like.
Dean's never been a regular heavy drinker but the past few days have been an exception to that rule and here he is in front of John, splayed and snoring on the couch well before nightfall with the neck of a near-empty bottle of Wild Turkey hooked precariously in his limp fingers; drunk straight from the damn bottle from the look of it.
Despite himself, he's embarrassed to have Singer see his boy this way. Embarrassed for the both of them, for what Bobby must think has become of them.
Bobby tsks. "Poor fella."
"Poor fella, my ass," John growls. "We're workin' a job."
Bobby attempts to intercept the frustration, gently shakes Dean's shoulder. The kid doesn't so much as twitch. John jiggles Dean's booted foot, nothing gentle about it.
"Sammy?"
"Sorry, kid," John says with an edge in his voice. "S'just me." He frowns, doesn't turn to Bobby as he requests, "Give me a moment with my son, would ya, Bobby."
"A'course." Bobby obliges, but won't go far. Lord knows what sorts of nonsense Dean was spouting to him the night before.
"Sammy was here," Dean mumbles with moving. "He left. He was…right to leave." His eyes never fully open but he sure sounds awake.
The bottle falls from his fingers and John crouches, moves it to the side of the couch. He stays close to Dean's head, and can't seem to help himself. "How so?"
"Right to get the hell out while he could. Out of this…" His right hand flails overheard as he gestures wildly, and he nearly backhands his father.
John intercepts Dean's wrist gently, drops it back onto his chest. He doesn't want to take advantage of what the alcohol is letting slip out. Then again, with the turns his life has taken, he's grown accustomed to knowing he should take what he's given. "You want out of this life, Dean?" he asks quietly.
"Who would want in?" he asks, almost a whisper.
John swallows. HE did this to Dean, to all of them. "Why's that?"
"Always movin.' Always alone. Huntin' things people can't…and not bein' able to tell anyone. That's not really, that's not any life at all."
All of the air's gone out of the room, and John sits back on his heels, slowly, drawing his hands away from his son.
Dean then jackknifes from the burgundy sofa, face white as a sheet of paper. Bobby's suddenly there with a small plastic trash can just in time, like he knew this was coming. When he's finished, a truly spectacular display of gastrointestinal gymnastics John hasn't seen from his son since he was fourteen and a special kind of stupid, Dean falls back against the cushions with a faint yelp, features screwed up and arm pressed tightly to his side. That heaving can't have done anything good for the cracked rib.
Bobby grimaces, gingerly takes the trash can into the kitchen while John gets a drowsy Dean settled back on the couch in a position more suitable for sleep.
Over the sound of Bobby rinsing out the sick in the sink, John returns to a crouch, loosens the knot of his tie and removes it to mop the sweat dotting his son's pale forehead. The tap shuts off in the kitchen and John pulls away, cramming the damp tie into his pants pocket. "Where does this end, kiddo?" he whispers.
"I'll see to Dean," Bobby says from behind him.
"He did this to himself, and he doesn't need to be babied." John stands, rolling up his shirtsleeves.
Bobby is just as seasoned to the rough edges of John Winchester as he is to his life as a hunter. He doesn't blink as he says, "No, he needs to be fathered."
Here we go again. "I just came here looking for a few resources, and a hand in taking care of what's killin' folks, Bobby."
"Just because you're not looking for it doesn't mean you don't need to hear it." Bobby loosens his tie and gazes out at the setting sun. "I'll be out in the garage a while, you decide you need me for anything else." The man has an honest life to lead, after all.
John's just getting around to thinking he could use a drink, himself, Bobby keeps on like this. The man seems to have figured as much. All of his puttering around in the background, cleaning and tidying, but he leaves on the coffee table what Dean didn't finish for John to polish off. No more than a quarter of the bottle, so John does his part as gracious houseguest and forgoes leaving a dirty glass for his host, takes the bottle by the neck, settling into the armchair across from where Dean is now softly snoring.
Bobby reenters the house after a bit with an offer of dinner than John waves off, before retiring upstairs for the night. He sits that way in the dark living room for a while, drinking, thinking, and watching Dean sleep. A sound from outside the house draws John's attention to the picture window. He knows what lurks in the night, knows how often sounds aren't what they seem, but sometimes what sounds like the innocent creak of a large dog settling on the floorboards of a rotting porch is just that. Damn dog.
But the hairs on the back of his neck stand up in a very familiar way and his head whips back toward the center of the room.
John's no stranger to seeing things that aren't there; he's been seeing ghosts for years. He shakes off the feeling, easily explained as a shadow in an unfamiliar house, a trick of the light, Mary. Seeing ghosts is why he put the bottle away the first time, and there's no denying what he's looking at.
John squints to see if the shadow before his eyes is due to the drink but the wisp of a boy is still there, bending territorially over his sleeping son. He doesn't appear to be doing much, certainly doesn't seem to be hurting Dean, so John holds his breath and his position across the room. If anything, he seems to be saying something to the dozing and unaware Dean; John catches a low whisper but can't identify exactly what's being said.
The clouds shift and a wash of unobstructed moonlight falls across the room. Dean's face contorts into a grimace and he shifts away. The boy's hand comes up and drifts nauseating close to Dean's head and John shows his hand, rising on instinct from his chair. His boot knocks into the empty bottle at his feet. It topples with a clatter and rolls noisily across the floorboards.
Damn it, Winchester. The spirit is gone, winked away in the blink of an eye.
The damage has been done, but John has more information than he did before. He moves quickly to Dean's side and lays a gentle hand along the side of his face.
They've both shown their hand, right out of the gate. Exposed nerves, weaknesses.
John retrieves the bottle. He squints and makes a decision as he swallows the last drop of whiskey. It burns on the way down, and he fully deserves the sudden tightness in his stomach.
Earlier that day
Sioux Falls
The sun travels lazily across the heavens, and Dean tracks it for most of the afternoon, until the light reaches a clear patch of sky, beam striking his eyes through the window without a cloud or tree to break up the light.
Framed in bright afternoon sunlight, a halo effect in the small window over the sink. He's been staring for what could be hours.
The bottle of liquor is staring at him longingly from where he's momentarily discarded it on the kitchen counter. Dean loses the game of chicken and averts his blurry eyes then waits for the room to catch up, drawing his cell phone from the pocket of his jeans. He studies his reflection in the darkened screen. He would call Sam, he really would if he could be certain there would be an answer on the other end. But Dad made sure that wasn't going to happen, didn't he? With the encouragement of that thought, the bottle collects its winnings as Dean grabs it up, taking a furious, hungry pull.
The curtains in the den rustle, and a whisper of white on the edge of his peripheral vision catches his attention. Pale skin, a small dark-haired boy with beady, sunken eyes. Dean starts, nearly dropping the bottle, and thinks Sammy before he thinks ghost. Through the layers of pain, exhaustion, and alcohol, he doesn't move, doesn't know for a long moment which is right.
Lowering the bottle shakily to the nearest flat surface, his eyes flick to where his father's left a stray shotgun on the counter, out of easy reach but not out of the question. His instincts, his training is to shoot but the shade of a boy doesn't seem to be dangerous, just standing there next to the door John can't stop running out of.
Dean squints. "Who are you?" he asks, because he can't shoot a boy who looks this much like Sammy, even a dead one.
A blank, lifeless stare. No verbal response.
"Can you talk? What do you want?"
"I don't like your daddy." A silky, innocent chime of a voice, echoing in his head and sending a chill through Dean like a familiar blue-steel knife.
"Yeah, not many people do." Dean inches toward the shotgun, listening to his instincts. His fingers grasp the smooth wood of the stock and he looks back to an empty room. What the hell?
"Hello?" he ventures softly, cautiously, and feeling not a little like a jackass.
Rumsfeld barks deeply from somewhere outside, and Dean startles.
"Get it together," he scolds himself, tossing the shotgun aside. Fuck, Sammy. He rubs his eyes roughly and moves away from the kitchen into the darker study, entombed in the middle of the first floor without an excess of natural light, grabbing the bottle on the way.
Harrisburg
Identifying themselves as Agents Cook and Clifford, John and Bobby flash IDs at the pimply kid manning the front desk. He can't be any older than twenty-one, and on his skinny body the officer's getup looks more a Halloween costume. "You're here for that guy who killed his dad, right? You guys got here quick." Too enthusiastic. Too green. That gusto for the job will fade away after he's been in the world a bit.
"We're going to need to get rid of any surveillance in that room," John orders with the expected air of authority. With these small town PDs you can get just about anything done with the right tone of voice, especially with a kid this green. No question he's been reamed more than once for questioning the order of a superior.
A second officer, older and looking more the part, leads them to an interrogation room disguised as a post-apocalyptic underground bunker. He shuts the door behind them and John appraises the cold, cement-encased room. "Cozy."
Bobby wrinkles his nose. He looks uncomfortable in his cheap, starchy suit. "Place has a smell to it."
John rolls his eyes impatiently and flops into a rigid aluminum chair. "Smells like a lot of lies have been told in this room. Maybe a disinfectant of some kind." He adjusts the knot of his too-tight tie, the same solid gray from the day before.
Bobby's patterned red is faintly wrinkled, rescued from a crush of tangled fabric in the bottom of a drawer, and knotted in a casual double Windsor. He chuckles, rolls his shoulders and leans just as casually against the wall, hands stuffed into his pants pockets. He falls into the role he's assuming like the flick of a switch, and looks like a different man without his ball cap, under the station's harsh fluorescent lights. Older, really, by nearly ten years. Long ones, too, from the look of it. John supposes he appears just as changed to Bobby.
He's suddenly and unexpectedly overcome with the wave of nostalgia he's been fighting off since pulling the Impala into Singer's drive. Sammy seems so far away and Dean somehow further still, and he's really glad Bobby is around, for both their sakes. He swallows and looks away.
"Don't go gettin' all soft on me now, John."
He looks over to Bobby and chuckles, shaking his head.
The door to the room opens and the same officer who led them here guides a scruffy greasy-haired kid of no more than nineteen to the chair opposite John, cuffing him to the bar running across the tabletop. Bobby remains propped against the concrete wall.
"You gentlemen need anything else?" the local LEO asks, hands on his hips.
"No, thank you," John says, settling back in his chair. "We'll take it from here."
They wait a moment for the officer to retreat into the hallway. John flicks a glance at the CCTV camera mounted in the corner. The red light blinks twice and disappears. He gives Bobby a quick nod and the other man takes a seat next to him, so they're both facing the young man. He hasn't yet met their eyes, just stares down at his cuffed hands.
"You wanna tell us what happened at your parents' house, Steven?" Bobby opens, not unkindly but without preamble.
"I've told a lot of people already," Steven Mann says quietly. "What more is there to talk about?" He looks up at them for the first time. "Who are you guys, anyway?"
"Agent Clifford," Bobby obliges, nodding at John. "This is Agent Cook. We're not local PD. In the area on a related case."
"What kind of case could possibly be related to my…to what I did?"
"That's exactly what we need to find out, Steven."
"So you guys are here to hear a story." Not a question. This kid has no use for questions. He's been through hell, his eyes dark and distant. They're here looking for answers but can't assume young Steven has them. He seems plenty confused, himself, has the same look they must: on a search for the truth of what happened.
"Can you tell us one?" Bobby asks kindly.
Lay it on a little thicker, Singer, John thinks. Geez.
Steven scrutinizes them from behind a curtain of unwashed, overgrown brown hair. They appear to pass whatever test he's putting them under; he gives a relenting sigh and leans forward conspiratorially. "What I remember, it's just bits and pieces. Like when you're trying to remember a dream. It feels like something I watched on TV, not something that actually happened to me."
"How do you mean?"
It's difficult to watch the thoughts and emotions play out on Steven's face. They both know how this story ends, what he will eventually have to tell them.
"It was like I was having an out of body…whatever. Like I was watching it happen, but it was still…me." Steven swallows thickly, eyes red.
They remain silent, giving Steven a moment to pull himself together, but John is ready to hear what happened, not just what it felt like.
"I called over to my parents' around seven-thirty last night, like I do every night, ever since I got my own place a couple of weeks ago. My mom…she's simple. She's kind, and loving, and everything my father's never been to me." Steven's eyes sharpen suddenly, his face taking on a cold, hard look. "Don't get me wrong," he says. "If I did what I think I did, what they're telling me I did, it wasn't right, but it doesn't mean the bastard didn't deserve what he got."
We're losing him. John attempts to convey the message to Singer as their eyes meet in twin sideways glances. This is Bobby's gig, why John asked him along. Without Sammy, the people department is a weakness in their hunting scheme.
"You called your parents around seven-thirty," Bobby prompts, trying to get him back on track.
Steven recoils like a child being scolded without understanding why. "I call because of my mom, but always end up on the phone with my dad, being belittled and berated. Like I mean nothing to him. Like I ruined his life."
Bobby tenses beside him, and John leans in over the table. "Tell us what happened in the house, Steven."
"That's the fuzzy part," Steven says, shaking his head. "It's like a chunk of the night is missing from my memory. The last thing I remember, my dad was ripping into me over the phone, telling me…telling me I was worthless, and a mistake, and I'd never amount to anything. All of a sudden I was sitting in my truck outside the trailer, and I knew what I was supposed to do."
John can't help but notice the odd phrasing. "And what was that?"
Steven lifts an indifferent shoulder. "Blow the bastard's head off."
"And your mother?"
Steven recoils, horrified. "Why would I hurt my mother? She never…she's never done anything to anyone. Not ever. She wouldn't hurt a fly. Literally. She still calls me to take care of spiders for her."
"Your dad won't – wouldn't, do that for her?"
"He wasn't really known for doing favors for people. Or good things, in general. Kind of a dick, you know."
John's eyes narrow. "Strong words against the man you just killed, Steven. Aren't you at all worried about how it looks, you saying those sorts of things?"
"I already did what I did. Can't change it now." Steven's face has run the gamut of emotions since he's come into the room, and now his expression is calm. Resigned. "Like I said, he deserved what he got."
Sioux Falls
Left alone for a few hours, Dean wanders through the whole of Bobby's home, a long slow circuit of the downstairs floor, alternating hardwood and area rug. A fine coating of dust covers nearly every surface, not neglected, just not of import. His head still aches, a sharp twinge of pain if he moves too quickly or bends at all in any direction but the rib isn't so bad this morning. It's hard not to feel the stitches, though, a nauseating pull in the skin of his side with seemingly every motion, but he has to get his muscles loosens up. It hurts to move like this but beats the alternative of sitting on his ass all day. Bobby's not one for television, has no cable package, just an ancient set of rabbit ear antennae and a small collection of old movies on VHS. Westerns, mostly, and a few black and white monster flicks Dean's seen at least twenty times over.
He's missed this place. Bobby's feels like HOME. The blue farmhouse is a curious mishmash of a life that was and the life that is, and it's what he imagines a Winchester home would look like, if they ever stayed in one place long enough to actually make one.
It's definitely a bachelor's house, and Dean feels comfortable here. Sam never had, not really. He never voiced any sort of objection to staying with Bobby, just felt encased by all points of the hunting lifestyle once here. He always liked Bobby well enough, said more than once he has more common sense than their own father. Dean doesn't know he'd go quite as far as that, but Bobby's a different kind of smart; book smart, where Dad is street smart. They should have bonded more than they did, Sam being the nerd he is. The buckling shelves of Bobby's numerous bookcases are overloaded with huge, heavy, ominous-looking tomes, rarely written in English, piled on tables and spare chairs, and stacked in leaning towers on the floor. Hundreds of them, maybe more; maybe these are only the books he keeps out, maybe only the books he keeps in the house. Collected and found and squirreled away over the years. Sam would always stalk and sulk and pick a book at random to collapse with into a dumpy armchair. He was an expert in a wide variety of beast and monster at a very young age, and his Latin's always been better than Dean's.
Bobby's gruff like their father but different in a hundred more subtle ways. He smiles on occasion, for starters, and while his face is weathered by age and life experience, his eyes are naturally kind. He doesn't bark in clipped sentences or demand attention by simply entering a room. He doesn't stomp or scowl. He makes you feel welcome and he listens, and when he smiles at Dean, John frowns.
They're both great hunters, with different strengths and skill sets. Books. Bobby's about books and information, not weapons, though he has a healthy stash of those, as well. It causes Dean to think about the kind of man, and the kind of hunter he wants to be. A healthy mix of both, he supposes, if such a thing is a possibility. Bobby's smarts and huge network of contacts, with his father's natural strength and prowess as a hunter.
John Winchester does have one book. His journal. It's a part of him, an extension of his being, an inseparable part, like Dean's charm or Sammy's attitude. John has always had the book on his person, for almost as long as Dean can remember, writing, documenting even when they've been between hunts.
The journal is lying in the open now, on the table in the kitchen. Left out in haste, by mistake or some unknown design. Touching the journal is off-limits without exception, as he's learned through many head slaps over the years, and Dean cautiously approaches the table. One eye is on the window, ears perked for the growl of an engine that always sounds angry when it's his father's boot on the gas pedal.
He's only ever seen the pages John's shown him when he sees fit, filling the lines while Dean was still a kid, as a teaching tool, training his boys to find the similarities between this beastie and the last. He feels like a kid now, like he's about to get caught with his hand in the cookie jar. He lightly tosses the pages aside one by one, not really reading anything, and not knowing what he's looking for.
And then he finds the monster cookie.
In the very back of the book, behind a cluster of unfilled pages, is a scrap of California highway map, edges ragged, hastily torn from an atlas at a stand in a gas station. A route sketched out with the harsh tip of a black marker. A circle drawn around Palo Alto. On the bottom of the page opposite the map, an address.
Sammy.
He doesn't know what hits him harder. That his father's being such an ass while the entire time thinking about Sammy, himself, about SEEING Sammy, or that he's doing it all without involving Dean. He's barely permitted to speak his brother's name, and here Dad's mapped out a…what? Rescue plan? Extraction? It strikes him like a fresh blow to the stomach: this could be where the man's been sneaking off to.
Maybe this is where he disappeared to while Dean was passed out, injured and alone in a crappy motel room for two days.
Dean's been having traitorous, unwanted thoughts since the moment Sammy stepped over the threshold of the house in Abilene, but they seem more pronounced in his head since arriving at Bobby's, growing in frequency and intensity. He attributes it to nostalgia, the memories of being here with Sam and the fact he's never stayed at Bobby's without him. Lately, the voice in his head has been Sammy's, telling him he's been treated unjustly, unfairly, that he should stick up for himself. Easier to stomach such thought when you're hearing them from someone else.
The pain in Dean's head and side reach a crescendo simultaneously; he's been leaning over the table too long. He straightens, spotting a fresh bottle of whiskey on the cabinet across the room and can't keep the grin off of his face.
"Atta boy, Bobby," he mutters, grabbing the bottle by the neck.
That morning
By the time his son and Bobby finally decide to come back into the house John is scribbling notes in front of the police scanner. The good scanner. His.
Bobby sets up shop at the brewer on the counter, tipping what's left of that lukewarm motor oil into his mug. "What've you got?"
"Murder in a trailer park on the outskirts of town."
"Which town?"
"Harrisburg. Right in your own backyard, Bob. Nineteen-year-old blew away his old man with a shotgun."
"Hmm." Bobby leans heavily against the counter, shoves the hand not holding coffee into his pocket. "This is an interesting pattern you've stumbled onto, John. Sons killing their fathers."
Dean's head whips up. He does a poor job masking the motion, running a hand through his hair. "Cops know for sure it was this kid that did it? Could have been something else, a burglary gone wrong or something."
Dean doesn't question his father. That was Sammy. This, this is Sammy's doing. John shouldn't have to explain himself or his way of thinking quite this much to his son. "He already confessed."
"Your daddy's right, Dean." Bobby steps up to the table and shuffles the papers on the surface, scooting a couple of loose sheets towards John. "When I was digging into recent reports last night, I found these two murders, nearby, from the past week. Both fathers also killed by their sons."
Why don't you say it one more time, Bob? John shoots him an annoyed look. These should have been the first words out of Bobby's mouth upon waking. Waiting for John to make the first move, waiting to see what was really important to him. "Well, this kid from the park just got scooped up. Odds are he'll be at the county jail for a while."
Dean bobs his head. "I should go with you."
There's a part of John that hates himself, because he knows Dean knows just as well as he what's coming next. He sniffs, keeping with the part in which everyone in this kitchen, and many more on the outside, have cast him. "Think you had enough excitement last night. You need to rest."
"Whatever." Dean stands before remembering himself. "I mean, yeah, sure."
Bobby eyes them a moment before turning towards the front door. "I'll be outside, John." At least he makes a point to stay out of this one.
Dean has enough respect to wait for Bobby to have completely vacated the house before speaking up. "Wouldn't hurt to have backup."
John nods. "You're right. I'll take Bobby."
Dean falls back against the table, rests his palms on the wooden surface behind his back as he rolls his eyes. "Come on, Dad – "
"You're not being punished, Dean. You know that. You can pass well enough as a reporter, kid, but a detective?" John shakes his head. "Come on."
"Yeah."
John stands and moves around to brace his hands on the back of his chair, appraising Dean a long moment. His son looks beaten, exhausted, abandoned. He knows the reason for those slumped shoulders, for the bags under his eyes. The reason he looks so weathered and older than he is, than he should. John has put this on him, this weight on his shoulders. Dean's always seemed older, taken on too much at too young an age. It's never been more apparent or heartbreaking than right now.
He sighs, leans in and places a hand on his son's suddenly tense shoulder. "I mean it this time. Get a little bit of rest. We won't be gone long." He gives Dean's shoulder an obviously unwanted squeeze and goes to join Bobby.
"Never heard that one before," Dean mumbles.
John's senses were well-honed, his hearing strong before he became a hunter and as he moves to the front of the house he hears the muttered response perfectly. He wants to pause, wants to remind his son to watch his tone, but this time he doesn't.
Bobby's waiting on the porch, rough hands wrapped around his chipped coffee mug, leaning casually against the railing. TOO casually. There's something staged about the way he's watching Rumsfeld stalk a squirrel in the yard. John lets the screened door thwack into place in the frame, rousing the man's attention. He turns, staying quiet but his eyes ask plenty of questions.
John lifts a shoulder. "He's just a little tired."
It takes Bobby a long moment to nod his acceptance of this write-off, for the strangeness of Dean's behavior, the smart mouth he's never had before, and for telling him to stay behind. The nod is about as genuine as the casualness of his pose against the railing. There's no doubt in John's mind the two of them had quite the conversation while he was out the night before, no doubt that Bobby is far from through digging.
At the edge of the yard Rumsfeld barks deeply at the squirrel, run just out of reach up the trunk of an old Oak.
John joins Bobby as the big dog trots over. Bobby shoos him away with feigned annoyance. "Go on, ya idgit."
John is cool, not cold. He knows he owes Bobby more than he's told him, and more respect than he's shown thus far. Bobby's not just a fellow hunter, he's a mentor, and an old friend, and those are growing few and far between these long days. "I am sorry about showing up like this, Bobby."
Bobby waves a hand, clucks his tongue dismissively. "You've got your reasons."
John's eyes narrow. It's an unexpected show of restraint from the one man who's never failed to call bullshit on him. "Thanks, Bobby."
"Yeah, well. You'll want to get on to the station, I expect."
John turns, appraises his friend. "When's the last time you were in the field, Singer?"
Bobby shakes his head. "Am I rusty, you mean to ask?"
John shrugs with a smile. If he didn't know Bobby like he does he would worry he'd offended the man. "You're gonna be watching my six, I want you sharp."
Bobby raises his eyebrows. "Oh, I'm plenty sharp."
John really hates when Singer does that. Says one thing but means another. "I told you what happened with Sam, Bobby. You don't believe me, I can't do anything about that."
"Didn't say I don't believe you. Just like to hear all accounts, is all."
John rolls his eyes. Bobby drains what's left of his coffee and sets the mug on a short table next to the front door. "And anyhow, we're just talking here."
Bobby enters the kitchen just in time to see John shoving his trusty police scanner to the one corner of the table not covered with the evidence of the late-night research he'd done for the hunter, pushing aside computer printouts and newspapers to set up his own scanner. "Sure," he says with a bob of his head. "Go on and make yourself at home." He tosses the morning paper to the pile on the table and watches as John plugs in the device and fiddles with the dials. "S'like they always say, one man's treasure is another man's trash."
John blows a sheet of dust from the top of Bobby's scanner and gives him a sideways look. "Some treasure."
Bobby absentmindedly picks up a dishrag from the counter and wipes his hands. Habit. He's used to wiping away grease from working on the cars all day. "Yeah, yeah. So I ain't one for housekeepin.' Got a real business to run and, oh yeah, a constant string of jackasses callin' at all hours for ideas on how to not die spectacularly because they were too stubborn n' pigheaded to properly research a job."
John scrutinizes his old friend. "Might be time you start thinking about switching to decaf."
Bobby chuckles and tosses the rag into the sink. "Anything in particular you're listening for?"
John leans back and rubs his chin. "Right now, this is a single incident. I hear of even one more and we've got a pattern. If it's going to be a pattern we've gotta put a stop to it."
Bobby pours himself a cup of coffee. There's only about a cup's full left, and John's looks even too jittery for it to be from caffeine, so he figures Dean's around somewhere. It's no surprise he's absent from the room his father's occupying, but it is a new, concerning development in Winchester saga. "Guess I should get back to work then."
"Get Dean to help you. He needs to do something useful."
Speak of the devil. Bobby looks around the room, the house quiet but for the crackle of static and low voices coming from the speakers of the scanner. "Speaking of, where is Dean?"
John shrugs, waves his hand. "Out in the garage, I think. You got anything out there you're worried about the kid breaking?"
A crooked grin livens Bobby's face. "Nah. Hell, I'd give that boy a payin' job, he stuck around town for any length of time."
John doesn't look up, so Bobby knows he felt the sting that was intended. "Well, if you go out there, you tell him not to waste his time and energy on any of your crap cars."
No offense, Bobby supplements, banging out onto the porch without responding. In less than twenty-four hours John Winchester has completely taken over control of his home. He's known John a long time, is more than familiar with his no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners approach to the job, so it's not a surprise to feel inferior to the man when it's just the two of them in the room.
He's not a particularly large man but he certainly fills a room. He can shut down a conversation with just a look, has the deep, rough voice that many seasoned hunters have eventually developed; underused and hoarse.
John elicits an odd sort of respect, something that's implied rather than demonstrated through actions and manners. He calls you out of the blue, or appears on your doorstep, because he values your expertise or opinion. He knows you're a trustworthy man, thinks of you as a friend, because he's left his sons in your care for a short stretch of time here or there, but you will never be thanked, and it's foolhardy to think otherwise.
So little has gone right for the Winchesters, the whole lot of them have a hell of a time expressing gratitude, to a frustrating degree. Bobby's wondered more than once what sort of friends they'd be if they'd met before they were hunters. Or if they'd be friends at all. He doesn't care to muse for too long on the subject, because he feels he knows the answer.
Bobby stretches on the short walk across the gravel lot to the garage, sips from his mug, really feeling that refreshing three hours of sleep he'd managed. The hot, stale coffee swirling on his tongue is a less than appealing sensation on a muggy summer morning like this, but necessary to jumpstart the day.
The garage appears empty, but a clank and clatter from the somewhere within the mess of cars awaiting attention draws his gaze. "That you, kid?"
The hood of the old Mitsubishi sedan is popped. "Uh, yeah." Dean extricates himself from the guts of the foreign car, wiping a greasy forearm across his brow. "I tightened up the fan belt, should take care of the whine and the rattle on Black Beauty here."
Bobby raises his eyebrows. "I need to pay you for that?"
"Nah." Dean closes the hood gingerly, with the genuine, near-professional respect for cars he picked up from his father. "S'keepin' my hands busy."
They walk back to the garage together, and Bobby can't help but notice the arm Dean has wrapped around his middle, protecting that rib and whatever other injury is there. He goes to his workbench and finds a small piece of real estate not occupied by nails or oil stains and leans on an elbow. "You've really got a knack for cars. Same as your dad."
"Same as you, too," Dean says without looking up. "You know, we've spent so much time here, I think I've actually learned more from you than my dad."
"What about Sam?"
"Sam wouldn't know the engine from the battery. Never cared to learn. Said I only did because Dad did."
"Well, that's not so."
Dean won't raise his eyes, keeps staring at splinters in the wood workbench. "What if it is, Bobby? How do you know why you like what you do?"
Bobby gives him a long, appraising look, taking in a lost, bruised young man. "You ever given any thought to doin' something else?"
"You mean besides hunting?"
"S'exactly what I mean."
Dean squirms, put on the spot. "I mean, maybe if Mom never…but who knows, really. Now? No, I guess." He takes a breath. "Did you?"
"Dean, I was on the wrong side of forty when I fell into hunting. I wasn't a kid, with my whole damn life ahead of me."
"This is my life, Bobby. I'm not ashamed of it."
"No, you really seem to be enjoying yourself."
"This is a temporary setback."
"Dean, your brother's gone. That's more than a temporary setback."
A sharp whistle draws the attention of the both of them back to the house. John is leaning out of the screened door with a put-upon casualness he should have trademarked. "Got a live one."
It's not uncommon for Dean to wake to an empty room, in fact he's grown quite used to it over the past couple of months. Bobby's guest room is certainly the warmest, most comfortable room in which he's stayed recently, and his weary body would love to stay wrapped in this quilt, mothballs and all, but for some reason he finds himself not wanting to be here when Dad comes back from the shower.
A hot wash of water would do wonders for his sore muscles, but seeing as the shower is occupado at the moment he settles for a long stretch, extending his limbs as far as his nagging injuries will allow. It will take some time, some walking around, to truly loosen up for the day. He dresses quickly, jeans and a black t-shirt, and bites his lip as he bends to pull on his socks and boots.
He'd had just enough whiskey the night before for a wonderfully cozy down blanket of fog to fall over his mind, which is slow to clear up for the start of the day.
It's a hot summer morning, the rising sun rapidly heating the interior of the farmhouse, rays of early sunshine rebounding on the deep red walls of the hallway as he makes his way quietly past the closed door of the bathroom and continues downstairs. They've only been here the one night, but it's already beginning to feel cramped inside, suffocating. Dad demands a lot of attention, takes up a lot of space and despite the unused square footage of the house, he's barely leaving enough room for his son, not to mention their host.
Bobby's up and about somewhere, but that somewhere doesn't seem to be anywhere inside the house. There's a pot of coffee on the counter, hot but not fresh. Dean splashes a bit into a mug and takes a sip. At least an hour old, a filmy iridescence on the surface like an oil slick, but it's drinkable, he decides, and fills the mug with the dark brew. One of their working mottos: No matter the situation you find yourself in, you've always had worse.
Rumsfeld trots around the corner as Dean goes out the back door. The big dog pauses to size Dean up, recognizes him quickly enough and thankfully doesn't come forward to stick his nose in his junk, and slowly wags his tail and continues on around to the front of the house.
Dean surveys the junkyard, shielding his eyes from the sun, but can't spot Bobby amongst the rows of rust-eaten clunkers. At the corner of the gravel sits an old GMC truck, '68 maybe, and beautiful original baby blue paint job peeking through pockmarks of ugly rust. As he draws closer he notices the step up to the bed on the driver side of the truck is nearly eroded through, hanging precariously and obviously unusable.
A pity, he thinks, gravel crunching under his boots as he approaches the front row of cars. Next to the truck is an aesthetically unappealing black sedan remarkably nondescript and not in any kind of obvious disrepair. All four tires are well-inflated and there's no visible rust marring the exterior but the paint is faded in large patches on the roof and hood. Mid-nineties, the kind of car Dad'll lift if he needs a quick ride and doesn't want to risk the old girl.
Dean meanders through the rows towards the open garage, sipping his coffee. On the workbench just inside the aluminum-sided structure is a jar of rusted and warped washers and screws of all shapes and sizes, presumably collected over the years from the shoulders of highways, just like Bobby would, and a thin leather-bound notebook open to a page smeared with grease and containing a barely legible list of dates and the same cars Dean was just perusing, small tight scrawls in pencil, Bobby's hand – ''68 GMC' – he was right – 'detail, radiator. '95 Galant – rattle. Fan belt.'
Easy enough. Dean sets the mug on the table and cracks his knuckles. Finally, something he can do around here. Something comfortable, and easy. He can tighten a fan belt in his sleep.
John wakes quickly, eyes snapping open with a sharp intake of breath. It's never been any other way, not for eighteen years now. He never feels fully rested but some nights are better than others. This was not one of the good nights, and the setting isn't helping.
This bedroom of Bobby's has always been a spare, never had the chance to be occupied by a child but the thought had maybe been there at some point. It's a touchy subject for Singer, but he treats the room differently from the others in the house, almost reverently. There are no books or weapons stored here; the only room untarnished by evidence of a life anything other than ordinary and so far as John knows, he only opens the door for his boys.
The paint on the walls is faded by sunshine and the passing years but was once a soft, vibrant yellow. The small bedroom contains a costly matching furniture set two decades old: twin beds, dresser, nightstand, and a small desk in the corner. The tops of the dark wood pieces are dusty in splotches collected between the more favored of Bobby's houseguests. Singer has an open door and a bed for anyone needing it, but for more casual acquaintances that bed is the couch downstairs in the den, the floor if you've done something to end up on his bad side. Sam and Dean slept in this room several times as children.
The feeling elicited by this room is a splash of cold water to the face. Fuck a splash – it's a whole damn bucktetful. It brings to mind bedrooms like this one, from the past, from a life that seems more dream than memory.
John turns his head to face the other bed, where Dean is still sleeping. He's spent many rough, sleepless nights watching his boys sleep and knows sleeping on his back like this requires conscious effort on Dean's part. He's more comfortable on his belly, but those stitches must really be getting to him, the rib, too. John feels a pang of guilt, as if the physical stitches, the loops of silk thread placed by his hand are the cause of Dean's discomfort, and he's the reason for his son's pain.
Dean's face is pale, virgin snow, freckles in stark contrast to the white skin, like flecks of paint – or blood – on his nose and cheeks, just visible in the low light of dawn. He's been rundown for far too long, and John can't stand to see him like this for much longer. He doesn't know how long he'll be able to keep his son safe.
A stark realization comes to the forefront – maybe it would be the best thing for both of them if they split up for a while. It's the first time John has the thought, but it certainly isn't going to be the last.
Dean frowns and stirs, hates being stared at to the point it will rouse him from sleep, and John rises as quickly and quietly as he can manage, slips out of the room before Dean fully wakes. He showers and by the time he returns to the room Dean appears to be up and a bout, sleep clothes discarded in a pile at the foot of the bed.
The previous night
John's got his jaw clenched so tightly, looks like it might damn near put a crack in his skull. He waits only until Dean has cleared the kitchen's threshold, like he just couldn't keep it in any longer. "He's my son, Bobby, not yours." Not quite a whisper, but not loud enough for the kid to hear.
They both watch Dean gingerly make his way to the staircase, heading for the upstairs guest room. Bobby scratches his beard, looking thoughtful. He's not going to take what John said personally; they've been too close for too long, and he's too tough for that. Decides to chock it up to stress and exhaustion, but he won't apologize for lending an ear to Dean. Boy's in all sorts of pain right now.
John's eyes move between the capped bottle of whiskey in the middle of the table and the coffee percolating on the counter, like he can't quite pick his poison.
Bobby catches the look as easily as a fly-ball on a cloudy day, stands and moves the whiskey out of easy reach. He pulls a pair of mugs from the cabinet over the sink. "What's really goin' on here, John?" he asks, his back to his friend. "And I'm not meaning this murder you've conveniently sniffed out. I mean, why're you here in my kitchen drainin' my liquor cabinet without so much as a phone call first?"
"You don't have a liquor cabinet."
"I have a – I don't need to have a cabinet to make my point here. It's the principle of the thing. What the hell happened with Sam?"
"A lot happened. A lot's been happening. Kid's never been happy with the life I've tried to give him, Bobby, you know that. He's always wanted to leave."
Bobby shakes his head. "Now, John, this might be something of a biased opinion on my part, but I've got a theory that every little boy wants to be just like his daddy until the day he realizes he don't. Whatever that reason may be."
"Meaning?"
"Sam ain't the first boy to decide he doesn't want to tow the family line. He won't nearly be the last, either."
John sighs, nods slowly. "He was just a little boy, Bobby. What happened?"
"Your little boy because a man. And it turned out the world's a lot smaller than he thought it was."
"Smaller than he thought it was, or smaller than I let him think it was?"
"I don't think that's really for me to say."
John reacts with a sigh. "I've met hunters who've let the job come before everything. Always promised myself I wasn't going to become one of 'em."
"So what happened?"
John laughs. You got me. "Yeah. The line got blurry, and the job became about protecting my family. And that comes before everything." He sniffs, rubs a spot at the back of his neck. "And your little theory, Bobby? You mean to say…"
"That day's gonna come for Dean, too?" Bobby nods grimly. "Yeah. Most like. You wanna sit here and dwell on things not yet to come, or you wanna talk to me about whatever it you're huntin'?"
John almost smiles. "Yeah. Sure." He slaps his thighs and slides into the chair Dean's just vacated. "How do I kill a demon, Bobby?" Bluntly asked, too worn down to beat around the bush. There's no use being coy with Bobby, anyway, and he knows that better than anyone.
Doesn't mean the question doesn't throw him off for a moment. He squints, grip tightening around the mugs. He can slap on a blank expression but can't keep the pictures from playing across his mind. Karen. "Can't, so far as I know. Only harms the host."
"So exorcisms?"
"Sure. Worked every time I've tried it. All both of 'em."
"I need you to tell me everything you know."
"At your service," Bobby says gruffly, settling at the table. It's not uncommon for John to wonder about such things, but it is uncommon for his wonderings to take him the route of demons. They're a rare catch, which he figures must make him one of the lucky ones. He sure doesn't feel lucky. "What are you on about?"
John runs a rough hand over his face. He appears thoughtful, lost. Not quite in the moment. "It's been eighteen years, Bobby. Damn long ones. But I think I might finally be closing in on something."
Bobby turns, pouring the coffee. "You think you got a bead on the thing that…on what you're lookin' for?"
"Cam says demon."
Something is off his tone there, something a bit down. "Yeah, he told me as much, 'bout a week ago." Bobby snorts. "John, I trust that man about as far as I could chuck 'im."
John jumps immediately to the defensive. "He's always had good info for me. And what the hell's he doing tellin' you my business?"
Bobby shakes his head. A leopard doesn't change its spots, and a Winchester doesn't change his tune. "Well, seein' as how demons ain't really YOUR business, he figured your stubborn ass had already called me."
"I should have." John shifts in his seat. He'll take help from any son of a bitch who offers it, but he'll be damned before he ever asks for it. "He doesn't know demons like you do. No one does."
Bobby sits back, rethinks the coffee even as he slides a mug across the table to John. Of course he has the most knowledge in demon lore, in signs of possession and their patterns, but that's not to say he's comfortable on the subject. Not even close. Everyone learns from someone, and he learned from that damn idgit Rufus. First-hand experience has since been supplemented with years and years of research, but still, he's no expert. "So that's really why you're all the way out here, huh? Wanna pick my brain in all things demon? Cam's got you that sure of what you're huntin'?"
"There was an attack." John sighs. He accepts the coffee, but Bobby knows they'd both prefer the whiskey. "'Bout two weeks ago. I've been narrowing down the list, was already thinkin' demon of some kind for a while now."
Bobby sits back, frowning. He might not be comfortable with the subject matter, but that doesn't mean he's not going to do everything he can to help a friend. "Possession's a pretty rare thing these days."
John nods. "Makes 'em pretty easy to track, way I've been told." A dark look comes over his face, a curtain falling in the middle of the second act. "Got a call from Marcus Hicks," he continues, "had a lead on a possession in St. Louis, right after Dean and I passed through town. We headed back and, uh, the thing got to Dean. Right under my nose, too, Bobby."
Bobby shakes his head, sips his coffee. "Seems to be moving around okay enough."
John swallows, nods. "Was a trap, Bobby. A pretty girl in a bar. Set him up, and tagged him pretty good." He gestures generally to his midsection.
Bobby's eyes dart to the study, to the last place he saw Dean. "Damn, John."
"I'm close. Closer than I've ever been. They were trying to slow me down, Bobby. Trying to get my head out of the game, going after my boy."
"What about Sam?"
"I've swung by the school a couple of times. Been keepin' tabs. None of these so-called demonic signs anywhere near Palo Alto since he got to town."
"Thank God for that. And Dean doesn't know any of this?"
He didn't do well to disguise his disgust, to judge the look on John's face. "I'd like to keep it that way. Long as possible."
"So he buys that it was just coincidence and bad luck got him stuck by a demon?"
"He was pretty out of it. I don't think he remembers what happens. Hasn't brought it up, anyway." John's eyes dart all over, a sure sign he's lying about something. But with John, he's always lying about something. Bobby stopped taking that personally a long time ago. "But I don't know how much longer we can…" He rubs his chin, staring into his mug of black coffee. "They're trackin' me. Following me. Whoever THEY are. He can't stay with me much longer."
Bobby cocks his head. John might not be coming clean about everything, but this concern is one-hundred percent for real. "John, that boy would do anything for you. He won't leave your side."
"You think I don't know that, Bobby? You think they don't? This was a warning shot, a…sample of what's to come. I don't know what all demons are capable of. But you do."
Bobby squints, nods. "What're you sayin'? You're gonna ditch your boy? Let him off on his own?"
John's dark eyes are focused on something a mile away, before he drops them to drown in the dregs of his cooling coffee. "Maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing."
"Maybe," Bobby says, working to keep any emotional from his tone. "But I can't see this ending well."
"Well, that'll be my problem. And my decision. I gotta trust my gut, gotta do what I need to protect my children."
Bobby sighs. He loves John's boys like they're his own, can't let him talk like this any longer. He sets his mug aside and grabs up the article John brought along to the house, the murdered investment banker. He glances at the clock on the wall. "And this other hunt, with the boy?"
"It's real. Just convenient."
"Always nice when murder's convenient, ain't it?"
John sits back, as good as ignoring him. He also moves to note the late hour on his own watch. "Could be possession. Could be spirit. Not normal, whatever it is."
"Boy's five?"
"Yeah."
"Not normal," Bobby agrees solemnly. He shifts his weight in his chair, causing the wooden frame to creak.
John attempts to stifle a yawn, fails miserably. He rotates his arm as discretely as possible, shoulder obviously bugging him again.
Bobby clucks his tongue. "Go on upstairs, John. You've had a long drive and a longer day. I'll dig a little into this murder before I turn in. See if there's any more like it to be found in an area of, what, fifty miles?"
John nods and runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah, okay." He rises, pauses with his hands braced on the back of the chair. "It's really good to see you, Bobby."
Bobby squints. "You, too, John."
To be continued...