A/N: Just wanted to reiterate two things: First, thanks once again to my guest reviewer! And second, the early draft of the pilot episode can be found through the Supernatural Wiki; just go to the article on the pilot episode, and you'll see the link under "Sides, Scripts, and Transcripts." I've also put a link to it on my profile for anyone who is interested :)
Dean jolts awake before the sun has really risen the next morning. Sam is tossing back and forth on the other bed. Dean sits up carefully to look at him in the half-light. He's asleep; his eyes are squeezed shut and flickering under the lids. Another bad dream, probably—he's been having them pretty regularly for the last couple of weeks. Dean doesn't blame him; they've certainly been swimming through enough nightmare fuel in the last forty-eight hours alone. He falls back onto his bed, listening to Sam's thrashing. The first time he heard Sam having a nightmare, he decided not to wake him or try to comfort him, afraid that Sam would interpret such a gesture as Dean thinking he can't handle it, and he's kept to that decision every night since then. Much as he tries to pretend he doesn't notice, though, he finds the sounds of his brother's distress impossible to ignore.
Sam gives a soft whimper, and Dean clenches his fists uselessly in the bedclothes. Then, restless now that he's awake, he gets up and makes his way to the bathroom. He doesn't bother to prevent the door from slamming behind him. If Sam wakes himself up at the noise, well, that's not Dean's fault, is it?
Sure enough, Sam's eyes are open and blinking dazedly when he comes back out into the room.
"You okay, Sammy?" Dean asks.
"It's Sam," he answers, his features already threatening full bitch-mode. "Why wouldn't I be?"
"Good," says Dean, keeping his voice light, "'cause we gotta hit the road. Up and at 'em, Sleeping Beauty."
Sam groans, but, to Dean's relief, he gets out of bed and starts re-packing his bag without making a fuss. Half an hour later, they're settled in the Impala, sipping large coffees and heading out of Utah. Dean expects Sam to complain about having to miss the funeral, but he stays quiet, studying the road map spread out across his knees.
It's a fourteen-hour drive to Sioux Falls, South Dakota, but their early start and Dean's strategic driving ("strategic" is Dean's word; Sam calls it "reckless") means it's only early evening when Dean pulls under a wrought-iron arch bearing the words, "Singer Auto Salvage."
Sam looks around curiously at the haphazard rows of wrecked cars lining the yard. "Your friend's a mechanic? I thought he was a hunter."
"The cars are just his day job," says Dean as the ramshackle farmhouse comes into view. He steers up to the front of the house and parks the car a short distance away. They both get out, and Dean pauses for a moment to stretch cramped muscles, relaxing for the first time since identifying Cheryl and Tommy's bodies. He'd been feeling pretty lost that whole day, despite the familiar location; normally, he would have followed John's lead in a situation like this. But John is gone, and Dean has to go his own direction now. He thinks he could have done much worse than coming here.
"You sure he's home?" Sam asks, staring at the dark porch. "There's no lights on."
"Oh, I'm sure," says Dean. "Come on." He leads the way up the front steps and raps on the door. "Bobby? It's me."
"We'll see about that," a gruff voice responds from inside. The porch light turns on suddenly, making both Sam and Dean blink and squint. Then the letter box creaks open, and something falls to the porch floor with a loud clang. "You know the drill," says the voice.
Dean scoops up the object from the floor. It's a small flask. "Humanity check," he explains to Sam, unable to suppress a grin at his brother's confusion. Sam may have a fancy degree from a fancy college, but he's still at kindergarten level when it comes to hunting. Dean opens the flask and splashes the liquid inside over his hand, making sure he's in full view of the door as he does so. "Holy water. And the flask is pure silver." He hands it over to Sam, who mimics his hand-splashing routine without comment and hands it back.
A second later, the deadbolt scrapes back, and the door opens to reveal a scruffy, beer-bellied man in a dirty baseball cap. "I'd been wondering when you were gonna show up," he says to Dean. "Come on in. You must be Sam," he adds, nodding as Sam follows Dean into the kitchen.
"Yessir," says Sam, obviously a little taken aback, but he sticks out his hand, and Bobby shakes it gravely.
"Heard a lot about ya, Sam," he says, with a glance at Dean. Sam glances at Dean too, looking puzzled.
"We were hoping you could help us with a case," Dean says hurriedly.
"I'll do what I can," says Bobby, opening the ancient fridge, pulling out three beers, and setting them on the kitchen table. There's a pause while Sam and Dean shrug out of their jackets, and they all sit down and open their drinks. Then he continues, "I heard about your daddy awhile back. I'm sorry."
Dean opens his mouth, knowing he should say something to thank Bobby for his concern, but his vocal cords seem to have suddenly gone on strike.
"Our aunt and uncle were just killed, too," Sam pipes up, to Dean's relief, before the silence becomes too drawn-out.
"Then I'm sorry about that, too. They hunters?"
"We didn't think so," says Dean darkly, taking a long pull from his beer.
Bobby raises his eyebrows. "But?"
"But we found sulphur at their house, and materials for hex bags."
"Damn." Bobby shakes his head. "Your family sure loves keepin' secrets from each other, don't they?"
"You didn't know them?" asks Dean, ignoring this. "Cheryl and Tommy?"
"I know a lotta hunters, but not them. Don't mean they weren't in the life, though." Bobby directs a sharp look at Dean. "You startin' to notice a pattern with your family members?"
"You mean aside from lying, keeping secrets, and running out on the rest of us?" mutters Dean.
"Getting killed?" says Sam softly from the chair beside him. Dean looks over at him, but he's staring down at the table, spinning his amulet on its cord.
"Getting killed by something supernatural," says Bobby, and Sam looks up.
"So you think there's a connection, too?"
"Almost definitely," Bobby confirms. "And I'll tell you what else I think. I think it was a hellhound killed your mother."
"A hellhound?" says Sam, frowning as he watches Bobby take a long drink from his beer bottle.
"Yep," says Bobby, setting down his bottle with a clunk. "A hellhound's about the only thing that coulda tore into her like that. Only part that don't make sense is that John saw it—they're usually invisible unless they're comin' after you."
"I saw it, too," says Sam quickly. "In the car, while they were driving away."
"Did you, now?" says Bobby, with a speculative glance at Sam.
"And anyway, there's nothing on hellhounds in Dad's journal," Sam continues.
Dean, though, has a sudden vision of the eyes doodled on every page of the journal. Solid black, glaring. Predatory. He shivers.
"Ain't surprised," grunts Bobby. "John wasn't very happy with me when I mentioned it to him."
"Why not?"
"He didn't like the implication."
"You mean, that she made a deal with a crossroads demon? Sold her soul?" asks Dean. It would explain why John had never mentioned hellhounds to him.
Sam, he notes, looks just as furious as John probably did at the suggestion.
"That's ridiculous," he sputters. "She didn't know about demons. She couldn't have made a deal with one."
Dean can't help rolling his eyes at this. For as quick is Sam is to believe the worst of John, beware the person who believes anything but the best of Mary. "Cheryl and Tommy knew about demons," Dean points out. "If they knew, why not Mom?"
"What would Mom have sold her soul for, Dean?" asks Sam, rolling his own eyes. "We had everything we wanted."
"Maybe we didn't, as far as she was concerned," says Dean, lacing his fingers tightly around his beer bottle. He wants to form them into a fist, and punch something. What had they been lacking, back then? They had a house, a yard, two cars. Each other.
Like Sam said, everything.
"Point is," Bobby interrupts loudly, "it had to be a hellhound. The eyes John saw, and the way it tore into her—nothin' else coulda done that. And there had to be a demon controlling that hellhound, whether she made a deal or not. And now a demon got your aunt and uncle. You ask me, that ain't no coincidence."
Sam subsides a little, turning back to Bobby, though his face is still pinched in that bitchy expression with which Dean is so familiar. "Well, Dad was apparently pretty far off the trail if he was looking for the killer, then," he says. "According to his journal he never tangled with more than one or two demons. Although," he adds sourly, now staring determinedly down at his beer, "the journal might not be the most reliable source."
"Which is why we came here in the first place," Dean tells Bobby, with another eye roll in Sam's direction. "Trouble is, we don't know too much about demons, so we're gonna need help if we're gonna be hunting 'em."
"I'll do what I can," Bobby says after only a split second's pause. He pushes back his chair and stands up, leaving his empty beer bottle on the table. "Come into my library."
"You have a library?" Sam asks, sounding impressed, as he and Dean rise to follow. Dean has to restrain himself from yet another eye roll.
"Sure do," says Bobby, a note of pride in his voice. "You tend to collect lore when you've been in the life as long as I have." He leads them into what clearly used to be a living room, before the old leather couch was shoved aside to make room for a desk and shelves. He waves a hand at the large bookcase behind the desk. "All of that's lore on demons. They're my specialty."
"Why demons?" asks Sam.
Bobby's face hardens briefly. "Let's just say I got a personal grudge against the bastards," he says. Sam doesn't pursue the topic.
"But not too many demons ever make it topside, do they?" Dean inquires.
"No, and that's lucky, 'cause they're nasty," says Bobby. He pulls a large, age-blackened book from its shelf and plunks it onto the desk. "If you boys are goin' after demons, you need to be able to protect yourselves, because once a demon gets into you, it ain't comin' out again easy."
"You mean possession?" asks Sam, sounding faintly disgusted.
"All they need's a second of you not paying attention," Bobby confirms with a nod, rifling through the pages of the book. "Fear, emotional weakness, whatever. They'll take advantage. They can't cross salt lines, but those work even less well with demons than they do with spirits. Hex bags are good, but they ain't infallible—as your aunt and uncle found out. Holy water burns 'em, but it won't do lasting damage. What you really need," he says emphatically, opening a page and flipping the book around to face Sam and Dean, "is a way to trap 'em."
They both lean forward to examine the page, upon which is displayed a pentagram enclosed in a circle, with squiqqly sigils etched into the spaces between the lines.
"Get a demon in one of these, and it'll be stuck as long as the lines remain unbroken. Then you can perform an exorcism." Bobby flips to another section of the book, and taps a passage in Latin. "Memorize that."
"What happens to the person the demon was possessing?" asks Sam, scanning the Latin verses.
"They live, or they die," says Bobby simply. He pauses, then says in a gruffer voice than usual, "Mostly they die."
Sam looks horrified, but Dean has other concerns.
"If these sons of bitches are inside people, how are we supposed to know when one is around before it attacks us? We can't really go around splashing everyone with holy water."
"Don't have to use holy water," says Bobby. "A possessed person will flinch at the name of God. Best to say it in Latin—Christo."
To Dean's annoyance, the conversation is interrupted at this point by the shrill ring of Sam's cell phone.
"It's Jess," Sam says, pulling the phone from his pocket and looking at the caller ID. "Sorry, I'd better take this." He stands up and walks back out to the kitchen, flipping the phone open. "Hey baby," Dean hears him say. "Sorry I haven't called…."
"That his girlfriend on the phone?" Bobby asks, foiling Dean's attempt to eavesdrop. "He ain't broke up with her yet?"
"Nope," says Dean shortly. There are few topics he wants to discuss less than Sam's love life.
"He'll have to, sooner or later, ya know."
"Or he'll go back to her."
"He can't do that. Not unless he wants whatever's after him comin' after her, too."
Dean fingers the torn-out page of John's journal he keeps folded in his pocket. He should have known Bobby would know about that. "So, this devil's trap, any special material it needs to be drawn in?" he asks, pulling the book with the diagram towards him.
Bobby refuses to let the matter drop. "You didn't tell him yet?" he says incredulously.
"The hardest part would be getting the demon into it, probably," says Dean, staring determinedly at the diagram. "I mean, they're not gonna just walk into it, are they?"
"What was I just sayin' about how your family loves keepin' secrets?" growls Bobby.
The urge to punch something is back. Dean slams the book shut, forgetting his change-the-subject tactic. "What am I supposed to tell him?" he demands in a whisper, casting a glance over his shoulder towards the kitchen in case Sam is coming back. "That the supernatural freak that killed our mom—and our dad—is coming after him, but I don't know why or what it is?"
"You know now, don't ya?" Bobby points out.
"Oh, great, yeah," snaps Dean. "I can tell him a demon is coming after him, but I don't know why or which demon it is. Oh, and while I'm at it, I can mention that the only reason I know it's after him is because Dad left me a note right before he died." Dean gives a humorless chuckle. "That's not vague or creepy at all. I'm sure he'll be perfectly trusting of that."
"Of course he'll trust you," says Bobby, as though any thought otherwise would be lunacy. "You're his brother, ain't you?"
Dean snorts. "Wasn't that long ago he thought I was cuckoo for cocoa puffs." He gets up from his chair at the desk and flops down instead on the couch. "Bobby, when I told him Dad was dead he thought I had killed him."
"Well, obviously he came 'round."
"Yeah, and it took a ghost attack and a chat with a serial killer." Dean sighs, rubbing a hand through his hair. "I can't risk telling him yet."
Bobby shakes his head. "But you'll risk that girlfriend of his, huh?"
Dean shifts a little, suddenly uncomfortable on the couch. Bobby's got an impressive bitchface—although it's nothing compared to Sam's. "I'll just have to—hey, Sam," he breaks off as Sam emerges from the kitchen.
"Hey," says Sam, his eyes flickering between Dean and Bobby. "What'd I miss?"
"Nothing," says Dean quickly, jumping to his feet. "I was just waiting for you to get done so we could get going."
"Already?" says Sam, sounding confused. "But I hardly got to look through any of these books."
"Thought you weren't on research duty anymore," Dean remarks, pulling his lips back into what he hopes is a grin. It must not work very well, because Sam frowns at him. "Come on, it's getting late," Dean insists, nudging Sam back out into the kitchen and handing him his jacket while pulling on his own. "We should go find a motel."
Sam looks around at Bobby, who is leaning against the library door, watching them, then back at Dean. "We should at least make copies of the books we did see," he says, his face set stubbornly. "If Bobby's okay with it."
"I'm sure Bobby can email us copies," Dean tells him, keeping his eyes fixed on Bobby's, and after a moment, Bobby gives a slight jerk of the head that he takes to mean consent.
"You boys go ahead and get going," Bobby says, flapping a hand at them. "I'll call if I hear about any demon activity."
Sam looks as though he wants to protest, but with a hasty "Thanks, Bobby, see you around!" Dean manages to drag him back out to the Impala.
"Dude, what's up with you?" Sam asks as Dean guns the engine and takes them roaring out of the salvage yard.
"Nothing," he repeats. Then, before Sam can ask any more questions, he flicks the radio on.