Sam is woken by the ringing of a cell phone. He flails a bit, disoriented, and then remembers he's twisted and cramped in the backseat of the Impala, which has been stopped at the side of the road long enough for the sun to disappear again. From the front seat, he hears Dean answering the phone, his voice rough with sleep.
"Hey, Bobby."
It's quiet enough on this little country road that Sam can hear Bobby's reply even without the phone on speaker.
"Just wanted to make sure you boys were doin' okay with that crossroads demon."
Dean gives a hollow laugh. "Oh yeah, yeah we're doin' fine. Took it out already, actually."
"Didja get anything out of it?" asks Bobby, his curiosity evident even in the faint, tinny echo that Sam can hear from the back.
"Not much," says Dean, his tone making it quite clear that further inquiries are not invited, for which Sam is grateful; he doesn't think he could stand hearing the story of Mary's deal narrated right now.
Bobby pauses, but takes the hint. "Well, if I hear of any more demon cases, I'll let you know. You're bound to uncover a lead eventually."
"Yeah. Thanks, Bobby."
Dean hangs up, and Sam pushes himself slowly upright. They did, of course, uncover a lead in Rosedale, but he could never have imagined feeling less inclined to follow it. He's too tired, for one thing; even though he must have slept for several hours, he feels just as worn-out as he did when he first laid down in the backseat. For another thing, just thinking about the name "Azazel" sends goosebumps spreading up and down his arms. The idea of just staying parked on this little country lane forever, far from anything, is suddenly quite appealing.
He fully expects Dean to be thinking along similar lines, so he's rendered momentarily speechless when he asks where they're heading next and Dean replies, "Queens, New York."
There's a rustling sound, and then Dean is throwing a crumpled piece of paper over the seat into Sam's lap. He smooths it out and uses the light on his cell phone to peer at it in the dark.
"Found it at Hudson's," says Dean.
It's an advertisement torn neatly from a three-week-old issue of The New York Times. "For sale: silver bullets numbered 10 to 13, engraved with occult runes. Handcrafted by Samuel Colt in 1835."
"So?" says Sam. "Hudson was an antiques dealer."
"Shame he didn't notice this baby, then, ain't it?" says Dean, and Sam sees the outline of his Colt twirling in his hand. He can't make out Dean's expression in the darkness, but he knows Dean is watching him intently, waiting for him to put two and two together.
"I knew that gun was old," Sam says finally, "but I did not think it was that old. Where the hell did you get it?"
"Dad gave it to me just before he died," says Dean. "He said it could kill anything if it had the right ammo. And remember what Meg said about this gun being a collector's piece without the bullets?"
"So you think these are the bullets."
"Yep," says Dean, smacking his lips on the p. "And if they are, we would have a solid weapon against this Azazel. We could actually kill the bastard, instead of just sending him back to hell for a while."
"Are we still doing that?" Sam can't help asking. "Going after Mom's killer?"
"Course," says Dean, without hesitation. "I mean, it ain't just about revenge anymore, right? We gotta keep you safe, too."
His hand reaches up to brush the amulet that now hangs around his neck, and Sam's objections melt away despite himself. Besides, he knows Dean is right. He needs to hunt down Mary's killer, for himself if not for her. He turns back to the advertisement.
"'All inquiries to be made in person. Cash payment only. Ask for Bela Talbot,'" he reads aloud. "Doesn't that sound a little shady?"
"Is there anything we do that isn't shady?" counters Dean. "We'll go in pretending to be buyers, and then we'll steal the goods, easy. This chick won't even know we're playing her till it's too late."
Sam has a feeling that it won't go quite that smoothly, but he's too tired to argue.
*S*P*N*
The address given in the newspaper advertisement turns out to be exactly the kind of swanky urban apartment building Dean expected. He parks the Impala several blocks away—out of necessity rather than caution, because the Impala is a bitch to parallel park—and he and Sam set off to case the joint on foot.
It makes Dean somewhat nervous, being in the middle of New York City. He hates cities anyway, but it's especially tense knowing that any of the hundreds of people passing them by on the sidewalks could be a demon closing in on Sam. Sam, too, seems wary; he's walking with something less than his usual loose-jointed lope, his eyes flickering from side to side, and he keeps one hand firmly in his jacket pocket, where Dean knows he's carrying a small pistol loaded with salt rounds, in addition to the silver handgun he keeps in his waistband. He looks powerful, dangerous, like someone who expects a fight and, furthermore, expects to win.
He looks like a hunter.
Sam, noticing Dean's eyes on him, raises his eyebrows. Dean looks away hastily, his cheeks heating, but not before he sees Sam grin.
"Hey Dean," says Sam. His tone is lighter than Dean has heard it in days. "Aren't you gonna take that amulet off?"
Dean glances down to where the little bronze charm is shining proudly on his chest.
"We're not on a hunt."
"But we're working. That counts. So are you gonna take it off?"
Dean brushes his hand over the warm metal. It's astonishing how quickly he's gotten used to having it hanging there. Taking it off seems as impossible to him as removing a hand or a foot. "Nope," he says, "I don't think I am, Sammy."
"Hypocrite," says Sam, but he's still smiling.
Their next few steps take them to the front of Bela Talbot's building, which is modern-looking and fairly small. Bela's apartment is likely to be at the top, on the fourth floor. Sam and Dean walk the entire perimeter of the building, hiding in the shadows of the large trees that surround it.
"Well, getting in shouldn't be a problem," says Sam. "She buzzes you in, the doorman doesn't look at you twice. But getting out—"
"Good thing I'm not afraid of heights," says Dean, looking up into the branches of the trees rising above them.
*S*P*N*
A suit isn't the first clothing choice Dean would pick for a stealthy escape out of a fourth-floor window, but he supposes he could hardly wear anything else if he's going to pose as a wealthy collector interested in Bela's antique bullets. As it is, he immediately becomes conscious of the ill-fitting, department-store quality of his blazer when Bela buzzes him into the building and appears at her door wearing a designer dress, diamond jewelry, and expensive perfume. At least the blazer conceals his Colt, which is tucked as usual into his waistband.
"You're the buyer, yeah?" she asks him in a clipped English accent.
"Uh, yeah," says Dean, uncomfortable under her piercing gaze. She seems a lot more savvy than he was expecting—not to mention more attractive. "John Christo."
Bela raises her eyebrows slightly, but is otherwise unaffected by the name. Not a demon, then—at least Dean was right in that assumption.
"After you, Mr. Christo," she says. "The items are in the sitting room."
Dean steps forward, glancing around the apartment. It's modern and luxurious, but curiously stark and devoid of personal items, as though it's a model for show and not actually someone's home. Bela walks behind Dean as they pass through the kitchen and into the sitting room. She bumps into him slightly as he slows to take stock of the room. Its large windows will be fairly easy to climb out of, he thinks, and they're luckily situated only a few feet away from the nearest tree branch, which means he should be able to make it to the ground without too much trouble. But most of his attention is taken up by the coffee table in the middle of the room, upon which is a wooden tray containing four gleaming silver bullets.
"Feel free to examine them," says Bela, sitting down on a couch on one side of the table and indicating a seat on the opposite side to Dean. "I can assure you they're quite authentic."
Dean is inclined to agree; he can see the runes carved into them from where he's sitting, and the numerals ten to thirteen are etched in the same old-fashioned, curly script that adorns the handle of his Colt. He longs to load them into the gun's cylinder, just to see how they fit, but he has a feeling it would be unwise to reveal the gun to Bela. He can try them out when he has them safely out of this apartment; for now, he must keep up appearances until Sam can create a diversion that will allow him to escape.
Dean clears his throat. "Why are there only four bullets here?" he asks, trying to imitate Bela's haughty, dispassionate demeanor. "They're numbered up to thirteen. Where are the rest?"
"Gone, probably," says Bela, shrugging. "Already used. You of course know the legend associated with these bullets."
Dean lowers his eyes, trying not to give away his surprise. John told him that the gun had special properties, but he never mentioned that it was legendary. He considers asking Bela to explain further, but something about her cold, piercing gaze stops him. Besides, it might look suspicious.
Realizing he's been quiet too long, Dean immediately opens his mouth to speak, though he has no idea what to say. Thankfully, at that moment there's a loud knock on the door. Bela looks up sharply, frowning. There's another knock, more insistent this time.
"Excuse me for a moment," says Bela, with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes. She gathers up the wooden tray and gets to her feet. Noting Dean's confused look, she says, "Surely you won't mind if I take some simple security precautions, Mr. Christo."
"Oh—um—not at all," says Dean, silently cursing. He didn't consider the possibility that Bela might lock up the goods while she went to deal with the diversion, but now it seems like a stupid oversight.
Bela gives him another cold smile, then turns and carries the wooden tray out of the room. Dean can't see where she goes, but he hears the distinct sound of a wall safe opening and closing, and then Bela's high-heeled footsteps ring out across the kitchen floor and she opens the front door in the middle of another flurry of frenzied knocking.
"What?" she snaps at the person on the other side.
From the sound of it, it's one of the building's maintenance workers. Dean carefully rises from his seat and walks quietly to the sitting room door, listening intently to the man's demands to be let in to examine the plumbing.
"There's absolutely nothing wrong with my plumbing!" snarls Bela.
"Well, I'm sorry, ma'am, but we've had a report that the toilet in this unit is overflowing and flooding the bathroom. Are you the one who tried to flush the dead gerbil?"
From his spot at the door of the sitting room, Dean can see Bela standing at the front door, rigid with shock and fury, and has to press a hand over his mouth to keep from snickering aloud. He'll have to congratulate Sam on a spectacular diversion once he gets out of here—which he can't do until he retrieves the bullets. That particular task is not, at the moment, going entirely to plan. At least, Dean thinks, this turn of events means he might not have to escape out the window after all. He might be able to bluff his way past Bela instead.
There's a door to the left of the sitting room, which Dean supposes leads into the bedroom. He slips inside and closes the door behind him just as Bela starts berating the maintenance man.
It is a bedroom, just as devoid of personal effects as the rest of the apartment, though there are a few expensive-looking decorative artifacts displayed around the room. Dean finds the wall safe behind the third picture he moves aside, and immediately sets to spinning the combination lock, listening intently over the continued sounds of Bela's argument with the maintenance man for the telltale clicks of the tumblers falling into place.
The door of the safe pops open. It's crammed full of boxes and trays, no doubt all containing some sort of valuable antique. Dean yanks boxes out at random, searching frantically for the bullets, hears them rattling and clinking inside one, and has them out of the box and in his pocket in seconds.
"...and I'll thank you not to bother me about pranks like this again," says Bela from the front door, and Dean knows his time is up. He hastily shuts the door of the safe and replaces the picture over it, and slips out of the bedroom and back into the sitting room just as the front door slams. He resumes his seat, trying to slow his breathing, listening to Bela's heels clacking back across the kitchen floor.
"Mr. Christo?" says Bela as she reenters the sitting room. "I do apologize for that interruption. Let me just fetch the items for you—"
"No need," says Dean hastily, standing. "I've seen enough."
"Then shall we discuss the matter of payment?" asks Bela, her cold eyes sparkling for the first time that Dean has seen.
"Ah," says Dean, suddenly wishing he were negotiating his way down a tree rather than negotiating this conversation. "I actually think I'd better be going."
To his surprise, Bela doesn't press him. Perhaps she can tell that even if he hustled pool at every bar in New York City he could never come up with enough money to make a decent offer for the bullets.
Good thing he doesn't have to pay for them, then, he thinks, unable to suppress a satisfied smile as she shows him out of her apartment, the bullets heavy in his pocket.
He takes care to stroll away from the building with every appearance of nonchalance, but he quickens his pace as soon as he's out of sight of it, almost running down the sidewalk towards the Impala. Sam is waiting in the passenger seat, and Dean punches the air triumphantly as he pulls open the driver's side door and slides in.
"Dude," he gasps, grinning wider than he has in what feels like months, "that was an awesome diversion."
"You got the bullets, then?" says Sam.
Dean reaches into his pocket and pulls them out. "Told you, it was easy," he says smugly. "Didn't even have to climb out the window."
Sam picks up one of the bullets, holding it close to his eyes to examine the runes etched upon it. "They definitely look like the real thing," he says. "But I guess the real test is whether they work in the Colt."
"Let's load 'em up," says Dean, groping for the gun's familiar handle sticking out of his waistband.
It doesn't meet his fingers.
Dean frowns, twisting, trying to see where the gun could have got to.
He already knows it's useless, though. The Colt is gone.