"So it sounds as if Shelley Stevens is our vengeful spirit."
Dean glanced over at his brother. Sam was still soaked from his unscheduled dip in the pool, wet locks of hair trailing over his coat collar. Good thing they weren't riding in the Impala.
"Yeah, I can see her wanting to off Jason and the rival girlfriend," he agreed, "but how does the janitor tie in?"
"No idea," Sam admitted. "Why don't you go interview the widow? I'll try to find out more about Shelley."
Dean pulled into the parking lot of the Deseret Motel. A pair of cheerful cartoon bees adorned the sign along with the slogan 'Buzz On In!'
"Can I come with you?" Emma asked her dad as she clambered out of the station wagon. He frowned briefly, considering.
"No. Sorry. You're not believable as an insurance agent. Stay here and help Sam-"
"But I wouldn't be an insurance agent," she argued in a rush as she followed the brothers into the motel room, where the bee theme continued with a wallpaper border and chunky ceramic lamp bases shaped like beehives.
"Yeah? So what's your cover story?" Dean folded his arms, clearly prepared to be unimpressed by whatever the teenager came up with. In the bathroom doorway, Sam turned, a towel in his hands, and listened in, curious.
"Well, I, um…" Emma stopped herself. It was a perfectly reasonable question. She couldn't allow it to fluster her. "I'll be a- A reporter for the school newspaper. Jason Hargitay's death got a lot of attention," she hurried on. "It's only fair that the school pay tribute to the janitor, too." Her confident delivery faltered a bit at the end. "Um, don't you think so?"
"Huh. The widow might actually buy it…" Dean exchanged a look with Sam, who shrugged.
"So I can come along?"
"Not so fast. What's my cover story?"
This question didn't require any deliberation at all.
"That's easy," Emma scoffed. "You're my dad."
Sam chuckled, but Dean's look quelled any joke he might have made.
"Okay, you can come with," he said gruffly. Ignoring Emma's glee, he turned back to his brother. "Where do we find the old broad?"
"There's a case file on my laptop." Still chuckling, Sam shut the bathroom door.
"It's nice that you want to do an article about my Ray. He always liked working at the school."
They were seated in the living room of what Emma thought of as a 'normal' home, somewhere mid-way between the pristine, tastefully decorated house her mother, Lydia, had rented and the run-down, tacky motels the Winchesters habitually stayed in. Cookies were arranged on a platter in the middle of the coffee table. Nervous, but trying not to show it, Emma perched on the edge of a sofa cushion while her father sat beside her, completely at ease as he helped himself to a cookie.
He had guided them through introductions and small talk with the practiced charm she remembered from his brief visit to her mother's house when she was a toddler. Now Emma conducted her interview, wondering all the while if she was being convincing in her role of aspiring journalist. She cleared her throat and asked her next question.
"How long did your husband work at Ben Lomond High, Mrs. Thorkelson?"
"Since 2009. Money was tight after Ray retired. His pension didn't cover my medical bills," the elderly woman indicated the walker parked next to her chair, "so it was a blessing when he was hired as the night janitor."
"So did he interact much with the students, if he worked nights?" Emma veered off her prepared script, searching for some link to Jason Hargitay.
"Oh, yes, he knew a lot of the youngsters," Mrs. Thorkelson reminisced. "He was responsible for locking up after practices and rehearsals and such. Another cookie?" she urged. Father and daughter both complied, Dean eagerly, Emma somewhat less so, distracted by the notes she was scribbling on a pad of paper.
"Was your husband, um, locking up the swimming pool when he, uh, pass- passed away?" Emma stammered.
"I suppose so." Mrs. Thorkelson pulled a tissue from her sweater sleeve and dabbed at her eyes. "I still can't believe he's gone. And then young Jason. That boy was spoiled rotten," she said, her voice quavering, "but he didn't deserve to die."
"What about Shelley Stevens, Mrs. Thorkelson?" Dean's voice was sharp. Emma looked over at her father, eyebrows arching. The question was unexpected.
"The girl who drowned out at Pineview Reservoir? What does she have to do with my husband?"
"I was hoping you could tell us."
"I don't know what you're talking about. I thought you were here to write a memorial for the school newspaper." The widow's tears had dried. Emma noted bright spots of color on the powdery skin of her cheeks. The question had clearly upset her.
"Yes, ma'am," Emma agreed hastily, trying to bring the interview back on track. "Did Mr. Thorkelson have any, uh, hobbies?"
"Like swimming?" Dean inquired around a mouthful of cookie.
"Dad!" Emma was appalled by his lack of tact.
"I won't listen to another word of this!" Mrs. Thorkelson chimed in. "Please leave at once."
"I'm so sorry-" Emma began, but her father cut her off.
"Look, lady, Kirsten Steadman almost drowned this morning. Jason Hargitay. Shelley Stevens. Your husband! How many more are going to die?
"Kirsten? Another one?" Now the woman's face was pale, the powdery texture of her skin reminding Emma of chalk.
"Almost," Dean clarified. He gestured to the teen sitting wide-eyed next to him. "My daughter saved her life."
Emma felt her own face flush. Her father was giving her the credit for fending off the spirit. She didn't protest, knowing he was simplifying things for the sake of the elderly woman. But those two simple words, 'my daughter', made her breath catch in her throat. Dean Winchester had just claimed her as part of his family. It was a statement of fact, no more, Emma reminded herself sternly. He'd never once avoided calling her his daughter. His mistake, his responsibility. But this time, in front of a civilian, it sounded like praise. Validation. She ducked her head over her notes, hiding her blush behind a fall of hair.
"What's the connection, Mrs. Thorkelson? What did your husband have to do with all this?" Dean's voice was still full of gravel, but quiet now, almost gentle as he questioned the old woman.
"It wasn't his fault! It was Landon Hargitay! He bullied my Ray into helping him," she wailed, holding her crumpled tissue to her mouth.
"Shelley Stevens didn't drown in the reservoir, did she?" Dean prompted.
Mrs. Thorkelson shook her head silently. She clutched her tissue as if it could serve as a barrier to hold back the truth, but Emma's father was already piecing it together.
"The Hargitay kid was seeing her on the sly. What, did she meet him at the pool after hours?"
Another mute nod, and then a torrent of words.
"Landon Hargitay spoiled that boy. Everyone in town did. He had the run of the school! Ray was sure he had his own key. He was always catching Jason sneaking his friends in. Girls, too, sometimes. And even alcohol," Mrs. Thorkelson pronounced with deep disapproval.
"What are you saying? That Jason drowned Shelley in the pool?" Emma blurted out, forgetting herself in the horror of this new possibility. Ghosts and demons were one thing, she thought. The prospect of one average, human, clean-cut high school kid killing another one in cold blood was somehow much worse. Mrs. Thorkelson hitched in a startled breath that sounded like a whimper.
"My guess would be it was an accident," Dean soothed, shooting Emma a quelling look.
"They'd been drinking. Ray said the boy was hysterical when he found them." The widow squared her shoulders. "My husband would never have agreed to what he did if he thought Jason Hargitay was guilty of murder."
"He just helped the kid's dad cover up Shelley Stevens' death, am I right?" There was iron in her father's quiet inquiry. Mrs. Thorkelson gave another reluctant nod.
"They got Jason calmed down. They-" she made another whimpering noise, then collected herself and went on, still clutching the damp and crumpled Kleenex. "They bundled the girl into the trunk of Landon's car. Ray drove Jason home. Then the men went out to Pineview Reservoir and… Disposed of the body. I'm sorry you had to hear this," the elderly woman said, turning to Emma. "My husband was ashamed of what he did. He carried that guilt to his grave."
"But Landon took care of those unpaid medical bills," Dean said shrewdly. The widow shifted uneasily in her chair.
"He did. And he convinced Ray that he was doing the right thing."
"I found out where Michelle Stevens is buried," Sam announced when they returned to the motel.
"You know what comes next," Dean prompted Emma, who nodded solemnly.
"Wait until dark, dig up the coffin, salt and burn the bones," she recited the lore. This might be routine for her father and his brother, but Emma couldn't help but feel a thrill of excitement at the prospect of finishing her first hunt.
Dean was in high spirits too as he bustled around the kitchenette, pulling out bowls and spoons and setting the folding card table that served as the suite's dining area.
"Dinner is served," he announced, plunking a cereal box and a quart of whole milk down on the table.
"Cereal? For dinner?" Emma was skeptical.
"Not just any cereal," her father said with the air of a mentor passing down a time-honored secret, dumping a heaping portion into a chipped ceramic bowl. "This is Cocoa Puffs. Trust me, Candy Crush, you're going to go coo-coo for it."
Cocoa meant chocolate. That was good enough for Emma. She sat down opposite her father and poured herself a bowl.
"...Oh, wow."
Dean paused in shoveling down cereal just long enough to grin at her reaction.
"Awesome, huh?"
Emma grunted an affirmative, too engrossed in this new taste sensation to speak until she'd finished most of her first bowl and noticed the milk changing color.
"It turns the milk chocolate," she breathed, reverent. "This is amazing!"
"Told you." Dean was pouring his second bowl. Emma snatched the box as soon as he set it down and dumped more cereal into her own bowl.
"How come we've never had cereal for dinner before?" she asked around a mouthful of the chocolatey orbs, the accusation in her tone clear even though the words themselves were muffled.
"Hey, It's not like hunters have a dental plan. Cocoa Puffs are a sometimes food," Dean warned. "Sammy?" The younger Winchester brother was watching the father-daughter feeding frenzy with a mixture of amusement and disgust.
"I'll pass."
Dean shrugged.
"More for us."
Gravedigging might be routine, but it was also backbreaking work. It was clear that the Winchester brothers welcomed the addition of a third person. Especially one with superhuman strength. Emma did her share with gusto, giving her father an incredulous look when he passed the shovel to Sam.
"Dad. It's my turn," she reminded him.
Dean took her hands in his, examining them critically in the garish, blue-white light of the propane lantern. The skin of her palms was soft in contrast to the rough layers of calluses her father's hands bore, and red where she'd gripped the handle of the shovel.
"That's enough. You're going to wind up with blisters. We're almost there, anyway."
"I feel sorry for Shelley," Emma said softly after Dean had pried off the lid of the coffin and she and Sam had doused the corpse liberally with both rock salt and gasoline.
"Kid got a raw deal," her father agreed. He lit a scrap of paper with his lighter, let it fall into the open grave. "Focus on the ones you saved," he advised Emma over the crackle of the flames.
She took his advice, replaying Kirsten Steadman's rescue from the swimming pool in her mind while she got ready for bed. The motel bathroom stubbornly carried on the bee theme with a shower curtain printed with bumblebees. Emma dressed in pajamas and brushed her teeth. Her dad and Sam were seated in a pair of sagging armchairs, she saw when she came out of the bathroom, talking quietly in the light from a single low-watt bulb. The usual concerns, Emma figured. Dick Roman and the rest of the Leviathans. The angel, Castiel. His demon caretaker, Meg.
Things she couldn't do anything about, Emma thought philosophically. She sat crosslegged on one of the beds, idly tracing the honeycomb pattern of the worn chenille bedspread. Dean and Sam's conversation was a low, comforting rumble in the background. Her shoulders ached from the unaccustomed exertion of digging, but it was a pleasant sensation, a souvenir of the work she'd shared with the rest of her family. It had been a good hunt, she reminded herself, a good day's work. A long day's work, too. It was well past midnight. Emma was drowsy, warm, and content, but she resisted sleep, savoring the events of the day.
"Oh!" The sensation hit like a jolt of electricity, so sudden and unexpected that she cried out without thinking. There was a flash of light, bright in the dimness of the room, leaving an imprint of the Amazon sigil on the inside of her eyelids when she blinked. Emma clamped her hand over her wrist reflexively, but the glow leaked out between her fingers.
Her dad crossed the room in a few quick strides, his brother crowding close behind him.
"Emma! You okay? What the hell was that?" he barked.
"I don't know." Cautiously, she exposed the mark on her wrist. The Amazon-inflicted brand had healed weeks ago, leaving scar tissue that she usually kept covered with a watch her father had given her. The light that had flared from the scar was already fading, leaving the area around it reddened. The faint tracery of veins stood out starkly against the red skin.
"It's like her eyes," Sam said, and she nodded agreement. Emma had never seen her own eyes flare in the heat of battle or strong emotion, but she'd seen her sister initiates. The effect on her wrist was similar, and like her eyes' inhuman response, it was short-lived.
"So that's normal?" Dean's harsh growl revealed his concern.
"I don't know," she repeated. "No one ever said anything about the brand doing anything. I thought it was just another part of the initiations. You know, making us endure pain."
"Does it hurt now?" Sam asked.
"She's not Harry Potter," Dean scoffed at his brother's suggestion. He turned back to Emma. "Does it hurt now?"
"No. It just startled me," Emma insisted, growing embarrassed by their scrutiny. "I'm fine. Look, it's over." She held up her wrist, back to its usual coloration, to demonstrate.
"It's never happened before, right? Why now? You sure nobody ever mentioned it? Maybe you dozed off during Amazon 101," her father accused.
"No. I don't know. No!" Emma protested the rapid-fire interrogation. "It's probably nothing." But Sam was already sliding his laptop into its carrying case.
"We're leaving? But why? You think the tribe might be coming for me?" Emma's heart raced, but she couldn't tell if it was from fear or excitement. My mom, she thought, and her stomach gave a lurch.
"I don't know. And until I do know what's going on, we're hitting the road. Pack up."
"But I thought you wanted to hunt them all down, back in Seattle." She'd always taken pride in the speed and efficiency with which she could pack her belongings whenever her father declared it was time to move on, but now Emma sat in the middle of the bed, motionless as Dean and Sam stuffed clothing and books into duffel bags.
"I thought we hunted monsters! Why are we running away from them?"
Dean turned to reply, exasperation clear in his expression, but Sam spoke up first.
"Emma, whatever else the Amazons might be, they're the ones who raised you. If it came to a fight, it might be your sisters. Maybe even your birth mother. Do you really want to go there if there's any other choice?"
She stared at him. The syllables were plain English, not some Latin incantation. They strung together into words that ought to have made sense, but it took a long moment for their impact to sink in. When it did, her stomach felt as if it was trying to climb into her throat, the maybe-fear, maybe-anticipation feeling resolving into pure nausea. Her own mother, coming for her. Not for a reunion, but to kill her. To try and kill her father.
He put a hand on her shoulder, driving away the mental image of Lydia breaking down the motel room door with an Amazon blade in her hands poised to strike. He gave her a nudge toward the closet where she'd left her suitcase.
"Let's go."