"That bitch!" Dean exclaims. Sam would find his affronted expression amusing if this weren't such a serious matter. "She must have lifted it when we were walking into the living room!"
"And you didn't notice it was gone until now?" asks Sam incredulously. "Wow. So how hot was this chick? Must have been something to distract you from that."
"I was a little busy trying to figure out how to steal the damn bullets," snaps Dean. Then he looks thoughtful. "She was pretty hot, though." Sam rolls his eyes. Dean rattles the bullets around on his palm, suddenly smug again. "Bet she thought she was gonna retire after this, selling the Colt and the bullets."
Sam sits up a little straighter at these words. "You think she knows the bullets were made for a specific gun?"
"She thinks it's just a legend, but yeah, seemed like she knew."
"But how did she know your gun was the one? And how did she even know you had it on you?"
Dean pauses to think this over. "Well, I don't think she's a demon," he says slowly. "I used Christo as my alias."
"You think she might be working for them, then?" asks Sam. "For—for Azazel?" A slight shiver runs through him at the thought. Is there anywhere he can go where the demons won't find him? Will Azazel always be there, waiting?
"Let's go ask," says Dean, his voice taking on a low, dangerous note as he shoves the bullets back into his pocket and steps back out of the car. Sam follows in time to see him walk around to open the trunk of the Impala and grudgingly select a spare revolver, which he straps to his side in a shoulder holster.
"I miss the Colt," he complains, wriggling uncomfortably as they set off on foot once again. "I feel so naked."
This time, Sam doesn't entirely manage to stifle his laughter.
*S*P*N*
They find Bela waiting in her apartment, twirling the Colt in her hand. Sam thinks her expression of smugness might actually surpass Dean's.
"Thanks for coming back, lads. You forgot to pay for those bullets."
Dean flashes her a falsely bright smile. From his position just behind Dean, Sam can see his hand drifting towards the handle of the spare revolver at his side, and he tightens his grip on his own gun in his pocket. It's loaded with salt rounds, although he can see immediately that Dean was right—she's definitely human. Still, the salt rounds will do plenty of damage even if she isn't a demon.
"Oh, that Colt you took from me should more than cover it," says Dean.
Bela's expression suddenly shifts to deadly seriousness. She stops twirling the Colt, and points it directly at Dean. Instantly, and in perfect unison, both Sam and Dean bring their own guns up to point at her.
"Unfortunately," says Bela, "the bullets weren't for sale."
"Really?" says Dean, with a look of exaggerated surprise. "Then you shouldn't have put an ad in the newspaper saying that they were. That's just confusing."
"Look," says Bela, in the placating tone one might use to reason with an upset toddler. "Clearly we both know one is useless without the other. How about you hand over those bullets, and I'll split the profits with you? Shall we say...80-20?"
"So you know about the gun, what it can do?" asks Sam, his earlier suspicions confirmed.
Bela smiles at him, her eyes glinting. "Sweetie. Why else would I be interested in it? It's not worth much as just an antique."
"So you know that the supernatural really exists, and this is what you do with it?" says Dean incredulously. "You steal things and fence them off?"
"I procure unique items for a select clientele," says Bela, staring back at him unabashedly.
"And the ad for the bullets was you 'procuring' the Colt?" asks Sam. It's a clever ruse, he has to admit. He supposes he ought to be impressed, but Bela's air of superiority almost makes him wish she were a demon, so that he would be justified in firing salt rounds at her.
She turns her cold smile on him again. "Aren't you a sharp tack."
Sam draws in a breath to respond, but before he can form the words, he's distracted by a flicker of movement behind Bela, on the other side of the kitchen island where he can't quite see what's causing it. His fingers tighten on the handle of his gun as he stares, trying to catch the movement again. Bela might be human, but she could have some sort of demonic crony with her in the apartment.
"Sweetheart, you have no idea what you're messing with, here," Dean is saying flatly, shaking his head at Bela.
"Actually, I have an even better idea than you do," she retorts.
Sam doesn't bother listening to Dean scoffing at this; he's more worried about the dark shape now edging around the kitchen island. He steps forward so that he's shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean, who apparently still hasn't seen the potential danger, and nudges him firmly. Dean breaks off what he's saying to look over at him blankly.
"What?"
Sam nods towards the kitchen. Dean looks at the spot he indicates, and then back again.
"What is it?"
Sam takes his eyes off the dark shape long enough to frown at Dean. True, whatever is lurking behind the kitchen island is hiding itself well, but not well enough to escape a hunter's notice. Even Bela can see it; she glances over her shoulder, gives a little gasp, and spins around to point the Colt at the thing in the kitchen instead. Sam feels a small flutter of comfort at that; at least it's not something she brought here to ambush them with. But why can't Dean seem to see it?
A low growl emanates from behind the island, and Sam abruptly realizes that the shape sticking out from behind it is a claw. A wicked, curved claw of a kind that Sam saw only days before, belonging to….
"A hellhound," he mutters to Dean. "Stalking her."
Dean blinks at him for a second, then looks to where Bela is now standing with her back to him, facing the kitchen. "Wow. Just when I thought my opinion of you couldn't get any lower."
"What are you talking about?" Bela snaps, not taking her eyes from the creature now emerging fully from behind the kitchen island.
The hellhound chooses that moment to pounce.
Sam fires instantly, suddenly very glad after all that he has salt rounds instead of regular bullets. This hellhound is just as horrifying a sight as the last one, but he's also very glad that he can see it as his shot tears into its shoulder, and it snaps and snarls for a moment before lunging forward again. Bela stumbles backward, also firing; she hits the thing too, but the Colt is loaded with regular bullets, and they don't seem to have much effect.
"Bela! Give Sam the Colt!" Dean shouts, firing his own gun blindly. All of his shots go wide, but Sam makes up for it by hitting the creature in its twitching, snuffling nose three times in quick succession.
"No, give me the bullets!" screams Bela. "It's coming for me because I didn't get them!"
"Give Sam the Colt and he can kill the damn thing!" roars Dean.
The hellhound is writhing on the floor, making a horrible, ear-splitting noise that Sam supposes indicates pain and swiping at its own nose with its overgrown claws. Sam wishes he could look away, but he keeps his eyes fixed on the creature as he holds out his hand, and Dean slaps the four numbered bullets into his palm. Sam tosses his empty pistol to the floor with a clatter, and holds out his other hand, waiting.
"Bela," says Dean warningly. "Would you prefer we let that hellhound rip you to shreds? Cause believe me, that's what I'd prefer."
There's another split second of waiting, but then the smooth handle of the Colt plunks into Sam's grasp and he smiles grimly. He loads the bullets quickly and deftly, thankful now for the way Dean bullied and bossed him into learning all the weapons in the Impala's trunk when he first left Stanford. The cylinder loaded, he pulls back the hammer and takes aim directly between the hellhound's eyes.
The Colt gives a louder crack than usual when it fires, as if in celebration of being paired with its proper ammunition again. The bullet strikes solidly, knocking the hellhound back to the floor. For a second, nothing happens. Then the hellhound's body spasms as jolts of white light crackle like electricity from the entry point, flickering all over its body. The three of them watch, shading their eyes against the brightness, as it gives a last howl and collapses.
"So," says Dean, turning to Bela as soon as Sam gives him a nod to confirm that the hellhound is dead. "You made a little deal, huh? Not sure how much a soul like yours could buy, but I hope it was worth it."
Bela has lost the smooth, confident grace she displayed when they first entered her apartment; she's pale, trembling, her eyes wide.
"You wouldn't understand," she tells Dean, trying to glare, but the waver in her voice somewhat ruins the effect.
"You're right about that," says Dean contemptuously. His eyes meet Sam's over her head, and Sam knows what he's thinking, because he's thinking it too. Their mother's choice to sell her soul might have been selfish, but at least she was motivated by love. Even Hudson made his deal for his family. But somehow, Sam doesn't think that Bela's deal was founded on such noble considerations.
"So you're hell's bitch," says Dean, looking back at Bela with narrowed eyes. "You ever hear of a demon called Azazel?"
Bela looks away.
"You're working for him, aren't you?" says Dean. "This whole thing was a setup!"
"Azazel knew you had the gun," whispers Bela. "One of his operatives saw you with it in Indiana."
"Meg," Dean mutters to Sam, and Sam nods back.
"Azazel was afraid you might discover a way to make more bullets for it," Bela continues. "So he ordered me to get it back from you before he tried to move in on Sam."
At these words, an ice cube seems to slip down Sam's spine from nape to tailbone. Dean shifts his weight onto his toes, leaning ever so slightly towards Sam, as though preparing to spring in front of him.
"What the hell do they want him for?" demands Dean.
Bela shakes her head. "I don't know."
Dean doesn't look very satisfied with that answer, but before he can say anything else, the faint sound of a police siren filters into the apartment from the street outside. Belatedly, Sam realizes how much noise they must have made fighting the hellhound. He wishes he hadn't had to fire his gun quite so many times.
"Son of a bitch. We better scram," says Dean.
Sam couldn't agree more. He makes to tuck the Colt, still loaded with its three remaining bullets, into his waistband.
"I don't think so," says Bela.
Sam and Dean both look up at her in surprise. She's still pale, but her gimlet-eyed confidence is firmly back in place, and she's holding a small silver pistol trained squarely on them.
"I knew we should have let the hellhound take you," says Dean.
She grins at him. "So I owe you one, yeah? Tell you what. Hand over the Colt—and the bullets—and I'll distract the cops until you're away."
Sam surprises even himself with the laugh that comes out of his mouth. It's short and harsh, not at all like his usual laugh. When he speaks, his voice, too, is different, low and gruff, more like Dean's than his own. "Sure, we'll leave," he says. "Have fun escaping from the next hellhound Azazel sends after you."
"Maybe not such a sharp tack after all," says Bela sardonically. "You didn't think I was actually going to deliver the Colt to Azazel, did you?"
"So you'll use the Colt on that hellhound. What about the one after that, and the one after that? There's only three bullets left," Sam points out.
"I'll find a way to make more."
"If there is one. And you'd have to find it quick."
Bela stares at Sam, the barrel of her pistol drifting towards the floor as her hands start to tremble again. Sam decides to take pity on her.
"Let us take the Colt," he tells her, "and we'll show you how to hide from the hellhounds. And the demons."
Next to him, Dean gives a sudden twitch, but when Sam raises his eyebrows at him he just shrugs, nods, and lifts one corner of his mouth in a wry smile. Sam can't help giving a small smile in return. He doesn't think Bela is very deserving of their protection either, but he'd rather have her around than Azazel. They need those bullets.
"I could keep them at bay indefinitely?" asks Bela, watching Sam carefully.
"Longer than the Colt would buy you, anyway," says Sam. "If you keep off the radar."
Bela considers him a moment. The sirens grow louder.
"Done," she says.
*S*P*N*
It's a good thing Bela agreed to the deal, Sam thinks later, because they would never have gotten past the cops surrounding the building without her smooth charm. (In fact, Sam thinks it likely that Dean, if left to his own devices, would have gotten them arrested.) They bring her over to the Impala, and Sam stuffs a duffel full of hex bags, devil's shoestrings, salt, and goofer dust, explaining the use of each item as he goes, and hands it over to her.
"Cheers," says Bela, shouldering the bag. "Goodbye, lads."
"Good riddance," mutters Dean, watching her walk away.
"At least we got what we came for," says Sam, pulling the Colt from his waistband and handing it to Dean.
"True." Dean holds the gun level with his eyes and speaks directly to it. "Don't ever leave me again." Then he throws the spare revolver unceremoniously back into the trunk and replaces it with the Colt.
Sam closes the trunk and walks over to the passenger side door, waiting for Dean to get in and unlock it. He doesn't pay much attention until a curse from the other side of the car makes him look up.
"That bitch!"
"What?"
"She stole my wallet!"
A/N: Hope you guys enjoyed this little caper! Bela is one of my favorite minor characters, so I had a lot of fun writing these two chapters. Next week will bring our final flashback!