Today is
jennytork's birthday! And when I asked what kind of fic she wanted, she said, "Different Roads. Surprise me." :D So I pulled this unfinished piece out of the WIP file and finished it for her. :) There are slight spoilers for Season 7, but nothing major. (Incidentally, in case you missed it, check out her latest solo entry to the series,
Delighting in Your Company, in which Kali has a grand idea that backfires spectacularly.)
Summary: Ah, spring, when young Winchesters lightly turn to thoughts of babies-in-progress, and a promising young reporter gets the scoop of a lifetime from the FBI's deputy director. In the topsy-turvy world of Cazadore, will anything turn out to be normal?
Perspectives
By Enola Jones and San Antonio Rose
March 5, 2009
Dean tucked Daphne in for a late afternoon nap and headed down the stairs. He looked at the note above their wall phone and sighed, picking it up.
Even though she’d written it down, Daphne couldn’t remember for sure when her next doctor’s appointment was. Pregnancy was really doing a number on her brilliant mind.
So Dean picked up the phone and dialed the clinic.
After he’d told the receptionist which doctor he needed to talk to, he was put on hold, with the standard message that came before the muzak: “Your call is important to us. Someone will be with you momentarily. Thank you for your patience.”
He waited.
Several minutes filled with Kenny G passed before, “Your call is important to us. Someone will be with you momentarily. Thank you for your patience.”
Dean frowned. “You said that momentarily ago....”
A giggle erupted behind him.
“Hey, honey.”
Hi, she signed. Overheated. Need cold water.
Go ahead.
She patted his arm and padded into the kitchen.
“Hey, Daph? Remind me to ask Cooper to put ants in Kenny G’s sax, would you?”
She giggled again and shot him a thumbs up before opening the freezer door and sighing in relief as the cold air hit her face.
“Feel better?” he called.
“Mmmm,” she replied, still standing there with the door open and her eyes shut.
“Your call is important to us. Someone will be with you momentarily. Thank you for your patience.”
Dean’s hands said somethng unrepeatable before he growled, “Patience is not my strong suit, you bunch of-”
“Good afternoon, this is Dr. Keller,” interrupted a chirpy voice.
“’Bout time.”
“... I’m sorry? Who is this?”
“Sorry. It’s Dean Winchester.”
“Oh, hi, Dean! How can I help you?”
“Daphne needs an appointment. She keeps missing hers because she can’t remember.”
“Ooh. Let me see here...” Dean heard her typing for a moment. “Yeah, let’s try to get her in next week sometime. I’ll transfer you back to reception.”
“Thank you.”
A moment later: “Your call is important to us. Someone will be with you momentarily. Thank you for your patience.”
“Aw, COME ON!” Then the muzak started again, and Dean banged his head softly against the cabinet.
Don’t hurt my cabinets, Daphne signed, her eyes still closed as she relished the freezing air still billowing out of the open freezer door.
“What,” Dean shot back, “you’re not worried about me?”
Cabinet pine. Your head mesquite-hard.
“Silly goose,” he teased affectionately. “Arctic goose right no-hello, there. Appointment for Daphne Winchester, please.”
“Yes, sir. Do you have a preference as to which doctor?”
“Keller.”
Typing. “We have an appointment next Wednesday at 3:30, Thursday at 9:00, or Friday at 1.”
“Wednesday at 3:30 is perfect.”
“And what’s the reason for the appointment?”
“Prenatal checkup.”
More typing. “All right, Mr. Winchester, we’ll see Daphne at 3:30 on Wednesday.”
“Thank you.”
Dean hung up and looked over at Daphne again. She was still standing in front of the open freezer.
“Okay, Snow Queen, time to give it a rest.”
Daphne made a disappointed noise and opened her eyes, rummaged for something before retrieving a popsicle, and shut the freezer door.
“Evil woman,” Dean teased.
“Hot-blooded,” she teased back and started eating her popsicle.
He kissed her and led her back to the bathroom. “Cool bath, coming up.”
“You’re still my favorite teacher.”
Thank you.
“Thank you.”
He kissed her again and then curved a hand over her stomach. They felt a hiccup, then kicks-squarely against Dean’s hand.
Dean laughs. “Our little ninja girl...”
Daphne chuckled. “Takes after her warrior daddy.”
They felt another ‘pip’ that might have been a “HA!”
Her mother fighter too.
Daphne chuckled again and kissed Dean.
It had been something of a rough winter in Cazadore. One bug after another had made the rounds since shortly before Christmas. Daphne and Tricia had been spared thus far-a fact for which Dean suspected they had the Coopers to thank-but everyone else in the family had had at least a cold, and Samuel was just now recovering from a nasty bout of pneumonia that had landed him in the hospital in January. Now a stomach virus was making the rounds at the library, so Daphne’s boss had ordered her to take the week off. Dean was just glad Spring Break was coming up, so he could be home to take care of her.
Her complaints about being hot had him worried, but John wasn’t.
Why no worry worry? Dean asked, signing.
John chuckled. “Son, you should have seen your mama when she was pregnant with you. Caught her going outside in the snow without a coat on more than once!”
He frowned. Fever no?
“Nope. She just got overheated with her own built-in furnace.” John winked.
Me. Sammy.
“Oh, with Sammy, it was even worse, especially once the weather started to warm up. Remember how you used to laugh when she’d ask for ice cream when it was ten below?”
Dean shook his head.
John chuckled again. “You know how much body heat he puts out now. Imagine what it was like for Mary having him that close 24/7!”
Dean laughed heartily.
And John’s confidence was proven correct at Daphne’s checkup. Dr. Keller pronounced mother and child both in excellent health.
The next room down held the other pregnant Winchester. Tricia hummed to her child and kicked her heels on the table like a little girl.
Sam was doing his best not to hover, but it wasn’t going well.
“Sam-come sit by me.”
He sat down next to her and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. She leaned into his strength.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked for the fifteenth time that day.
“I’m pregnant, not sick,” she answered for the tenth.
He sighed and pulled her closer. “I’m sorry, honey, I’m just... nervous for some reason. I don’t know why.”
She looked up at him. “One of your psychic feelings?”
He shook his head. “I’m not sure.”
Tricia frowned and her hand went to her belly. “Huh. Could’a sworn she moved.”
Sam covered her hand with his own. He felt the flutter against his palm.
He frowned a little. “Is... is that normal?”
“Seems early.”
He chewed on his lip anxiously until Keller came in and chased him out.
“Hey!” he protested.
“Sam,” Keller said firmly, “there are some things you don’t want to watch me do to your wife. You can wait in the hall and come back in when I’m done.”
“Okay.” Sam kissed her and nodded. “Call me if you need me.”
“I will, sweetness. Go on.”
He went out into the hall to find Dean and Daphne waiting for him.
How she? he signed.
All good, Dean replied. Then he looked at Sam more closely. What wrong?
Thrown out.
Daphne patted his arm. Is okay. You not want to see. Not bad, she added quickly, just... awkward.
His cheeks pinked.
“I’m feeling her move,” Tricia told Keller. “I mean, I think it’s too early, but I keep feeling her move.”
Keller shrugged. “Babies develop at different rates. Maybe your girl’s a budding athlete.”
She smiled. “Or she’ll be her daddy’s size.”
“Or both.” Keller smiled back and began her examination.
And Tricia winced as the baby kicked at Keller’s examining hands. “Think she wants to be left alone...”
Keller chuckled. “I’ll make it fast, little girl, I promise.”
She went quiet and seemed to behave.
And true to her word, Keller was quick.
It was time for an ultrasound. When it was set up, the image of a baby a little older than expected appeared on the screen.
As if protesting the sound waves, she curled onto her side with her back to the machine and would. NOT. Move.
Tricia couldn’t help chuckling ruefully. “I’m sorry, Mary....”
On the screen, the child’s head rose slightly at her name.
The ultrasound technician did a double-take. “She’s already responding to her name?”
“What?” Keller gasped.
“Mary, Mary, quite contrary,” Tricia recited, “how does your garden grow?”
The tech’s jaw slammed open as the tiny shoulders shook with laughter.
Keller stammered for a second. “I’ve... never seen anything like this!”
Tricia looked concerned. “... is something wrong?”
“No, no, she’s fine; it’s just... I swear she laughed just now!”
Keller nodded.
Tricia blinked. “What... I mean....”
“She laughed!”
“Well... um... I guess that’s better than crying....”
On the screen, Mary reached up and tickled her mother. Tricia giggled and put her hand over her stomach.
“That’s incredible,” Keller breathed.
The tech shook her head. “Her IQ must be off the charts....”
Tricia rubbed the spot Mary had tickled. “She’s got a smart daddy.”
The tech looked at Keller. Keller opened and closed her mouth a couple of times before shrugging helplessly.
Tricia sat up. “So...we’re done?”
The tech breathed, “I’m going to have to revise her due date.”
Keller nodded. “Yeah. Um, but she’s healthy, Tricia. Everything’s fine.”
She nodded.
Keller sighed, then chuckled. “Guess I should let you go before Sam has a nervous breakdown.”
Tricia smiled and left.
Sam was pacing when Tricia came out. Her new due date, she reported, was a week later than Daphne’s.
The other Winchesters exchanged a startled look at that.
First one apparently wrong. Clearly further than thought.
“Huh,” they all said at the same time.
Tricia shrugged.
All okay, though? Sam asked, the worried puppy face on in full force.
She nodded.
He pulled her into a relieved hug.
The following Monday, up-and-coming investigative reporter Jacob Sullivan walked into the office of FBI Deputy Director Steven Groves, feeling both nervous and excited. Groves had apparently asked for Jacob by name, and Jacob hoped that the story Groves was offering would be the break he’d been looking for. At the same time, though... the man was the FBI’s deputy director. Jacob wasn’t used to interviewing people that powerful.
“Sullivan,” said Groves as he shook Jacob’s hand. “Great-grandson of Frances Sullivan, alias Cowboy Jack Kelly, right?”
Jacob nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“And here you are getting into the same business from the other side.”
Jacob chuckled. Grandpa Jack had been one of the leaders of the 1899 New York newsboys strike. “Yes, sir. May I ask how you know that?”
“Well, I like to check up on reporters before I decide to trust them. And in this case, I need someone I can trust completely.”
Jacob frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“This is a tricky case, Sullivan, because officially, we have nothing to go on. But the agent assigned to the case feels there’s something unusual going on, and I’m inclined to agree. We think that a reporter like yourself could potentially get past the roadblocks that would impede an official investigation.”
“What... roadblocks?”
Groves handed him a thick file. “Since 1996, there have been a number of deaths in Cazadore, Texas, that have been... under-investigated, shall we say. There might be signs of foul play, but the official investigation turns up a relatively harmless explanation-self-defense, suicide by cop, that sort of thing-and the bodies are cremated and no one goes to jail. The explanations are plausible enough to withstand the usual level of scrutiny... but not plausible enough that Agent Henricksen can believe there’s not an official cover-up going on.”
“I still don’t understand.”
“Does the name John Winchester mean anything to you?”
“No, sir.”
“Winchester’s been on our radar a long time. Arson, grave desecration, suspicion of murder, in every state but Hawaii. Our profilers differ in their exact diagnosis, but he seems to have some kind of psychotic fixation on the paranormal-ghosts, demons, that sort of thing. A little over three years ago, he suddenly turned himself in and made a plea bargain for ten years of house arrest... in Cazadore.”
“Where all those deaths are...”
“And those deaths started shortly after Winchester’s older son was declared an emancipated minor, took custody of the younger son, and moved to Cazadore. Now, there’s no official evidence tying any of the Winchesters to any of these deaths, but... it’s a hell of a coincidence.”
“... you’re not suggesting the oldest son is the killer?”
“He has cast-iron alibis for several of the deaths-he teaches Sign at the local high school, and there are witnesses from outside the community who can place him in the classroom when a death occurred across town. No, if Dean is involved in these deaths, he’s not the only one.”
Jacob frowned deeply.
“There have been other oddities, like the Gordon Walker case. You’ll find the full description in the file. There’s no question that he attacked the officer, who killed him in self-defense, but just why that officer was holding a machete when he went out to check the barn where Walker met him has never been fully explained.”
“Sir, it’s out in the country. Perhaps he was afraid of snakes or something.”
“It’s possible,” Groves conceded, “but he was wearing his service revolver, and Cazadore’s officers carry a shotgun in the trunks of their patrol cars.”
“That does seem a little odd.”
“There’s more. A lot more. We’ve kept adding information to the file, but none of it has led anywhere. But now the family of one of the deceased, Jacob Adler, has started pressing for more answers. I need to give them those answers. And I need you to help Henricksen get them.”
“All right. What do I have to do?”
“Read through that file. When you’re done, call Henricksen. He’ll fill you in on where to go from there.” Groves handed Jacob a business card with Victor Henricksen’s contact information.
Jacob left the office shaking.
As soon as the door closed behind him, Groves smirked coldly... and his eyes turned oily black.
Henricksen suggested starting with the outliers, people who’d left Cazadore or people who were known to have been seen with the Winchesters at some point-not their friends, necessarily, but acquaintances. It was a brilliant tactic... but it didn’t go the way Jacob expected. His first contact, Amber Petersen, slammed the door in his face as soon as he mentioned Cazadore. His Spanish wasn’t good enough to keep up with the tirade Magdalena Cortez launched into. And Fergus McLeod... well, Fergus talked to him, but....
“What about your roommate?” Jacob asked. “A... Megan Masters, is it? May we speak with her?”
“No.”
“Surely she must have some more light to shed on-”
“Listen, chum. I’m not just her flatmate. I’m her solicitor. She is not. Talking. To the press. End of story. And if you don’t mind a bit of friendly advice? Stay the hell away from Cazadore. I don’t know who’s put you up to this, but I guarantee it’s not worth your trouble.”
“And just why do you say that?”
“Let me put it to you this way. There are individuals-masterminds-whose life of crime was ruined by Cazadore. They will do anything to break that town... to kill Dean Winchester. You do not have the slightest clue of the forces you’re dealing with here.”
“And why did you tell me that?”
Fergus looked at him steadily for a moment. “They tried to use me. I failed. And I had a hell of a lot more at my command than you do, lad. Cazadore’s not the problem from a layman’s point of view. But it will break you faster than you can break it. You’re a nice, innocent pup. Keep it that way. You want to make a name for yourself, go digging around Capitol Hill. But leave Cazadore be.”
“My assignment is Cazadore,” he blurted out.
“You’re an American, you clod. You can quit.”
“You don’t know what it’s like. You’re a lawyer!”
“I’ve a very close friend who used to be a literary agent. I understand better than you think.”
Jacob sighed.
Fergus studied him for a moment longer and sighed himself. “Right, well, if you’re determined to lose your sanity... here. Off the record.” He took off his suit coat and unbuttoned one black cuff, then rolled back the shirt sleeve to reveal what Jacob thought would be a tattoo, given that Ms. Masters was a tattoo artist, but turned out to be a scar.
No, not a scar-a brand.
“You do a Google search for this image,” said Fergus. “And bear in mind that I’ve got this mark for a reason. Then ask yourself if you really want to know any more.”
He held out his phone, primed to take a picture. “May I?”
Fergus shrugged.
Jacob took the picture. “I’ll do that.”
“And if by chance you are enough of a bloody moron to go down there, tell Sam and Dean we send kisses, Meg and me.”
“I will. Thank you.”
Fergus made a little shooing motion toward the door as he rolled down his sleeve again.
Jacob took the hint and left. Back at the hotel, he began searching for an image that might match the kind of mark that was on Fergus’ arm, but he couldn’t narrow down the right keywords. So finally, around 3 in the morning, he stopped looking at the Web and looked at his list of contacts instead-the next tier, people known to be frequent visitors to Cazadore.
He pulled into the parking lot of Harvelle’s Roadhouse two days later.
A blond guy with a mullet and sleepy eyes was sitting behind the bar when Jacob walked into the rough-hewn joint. “Howdy,” the blond drawled with a nod. “What’ll it be?”
“Surprise me.”
The blond raised an eyebrow and began reaching for bottles. “You new in town?”
“Just got in.”
“Lookin’ to stay long?”
“That depends.”
“On what?” Slender hands poured liquids into a shaker so fast, Jacob couldn’t see any of the labels.
“On what people here tell me.”
“About?”
“Cazadore.”
The blond didn’t react to that, just capped the shaker and spun it around his finger like it was a six-gun before pouring the contents into a pre-salted margarita glass. “There y’are.”
“Thank you.” He took a drink and spit it out, coughing like his lungs had been set on fire. “What the HELL...”
When he looked up, the blond had a shotgun on him. “That, my friend, is exactly what I was fixin’ to ask you.”
Jacob raised his hands. “... the hell?”
“’S what I mean. Who sent you?”
“My... please put that down.”
“No can do. Talk first.”
“My editor sent me.”
“Editor?”
Jacob just stared at the shotgun.
“I believe my son asked you a question,” stated a rough female voice.
“I answered it... my editor sent me. I’m doing a story on Cazadore-”
A click, and Jacob looked up to see the owner of the female voice pointing another shotgun at him. “Why the hell would anyone want a story on Cazadore?” she growled.
He gulped. “Please... please don’t kill me... I’m just doing my job....”
A look passed between the woman and her son, who reached for a cordless phone and spoke into it in rapid-fire Spanish. No sooner had he hung up than the door opened and someone strolled up behind Jacob.
“Well, well,” said a too-cheeful male voice. “What have we here? Don’t tell me Alastair’s stooped to enlisting the fourth estate.”
“Wh-Who?” he gasped.
A hand landed on Jacob’s shoulder and held it for a tense moment. “It’s okay,” the unseen man behind him finally pronounced. “He really doesn’t know.”
The blond put the shotgun up.
The woman lowered her gun but didn’t put it down. “Why did you come here?”
“To... to get information.”
“What kind of information?”
He turned to see who was behind him.
The man, who had tawny hair and tawny eyes and an impish air, moved his hand off Jacob’s shoulder. “Tell her. You might actually get the answer-not that it’s what you’ll want to hear.”
Jacob found himself answering. And telling her the truth.
The blond took his phone to get a better look at the picture of Fergus’ arm; then he frowned. “Why the hell you been talkin’ to Crowley?”
“I don’t know any Crowley. What symbol is that?”
“Yeah, you do, you just don’t know it. That there is a binding link. It locks a demon in its host.”
“He’s a... but they’re not....”
“Real?” supplied the other man with a chuckle. “Kid, you’ve got a lot to learn if you want to understand Cazadore.”
“Is there a demon there?”
He frowned as the three burst into laughter at the same time.
“Listen, muttonhead, Fergus tried to warn you off for the same reason I’m about to. If you don’t want your worldview rocked, stop asking questions now. There’s no un-knowing this stuff once you know it. But if you absolutely must know the answer to that question, I’ll tell you.”
“I can’t not know. I have to.”
“The last demon who set foot in Cazadore died within two minutes of showing himself.”
“It’s... a blessed place, then?”
“You could say that.”
“Then why are all the deaths happening?”
He could almost feel the suspicion rising again. “Which deaths?” asked the second man.
Jacob laid it out.
The second man sighed. “Look, kid, two things. Just because a place is blessed doesn’t mean bad things can’t happen there. And just because demons can’t get in doesn’t mean no other supernatural beings can. I’m talking werewolves, vampires, djinn, shapeshifters, fallen angels. You have to expect some casualties in war.”
“It also don’t mean Hell cain’t choose normal human bein’s to do its dirty work,” the blond added-rather pointedly, Jacob thought.
“But... Hell didn’t send me...”
“You sure about that, compadre?”
“Who ARE you people??”
“We’re hunters,” said the woman flatly.
“You’re a bar,” he said, shaking.
The second man chuckled. “They run the bar. I teach high school history. And Eliot Ness worked for the FBI. Your day job isn’t your identity, Jacob.”
That looked like something he hadn’t realised before.
“Speaking of Ness, do a little digging on him before you head south, would you? Might give you a little peek behind the curtain.” The second man nodded to Jacob, winked at the people behind the bar, and strolled out whistling.
“Who was THAT?” Jacob gasped.
The blond shot an amused look at the woman, who smiled slightly. “Bill Cooper,” she said. “He lives in Cazadore.”
“And you are?”
“Give me your name, horsemaster,” the blond quipped in a tolerable impression of John Rhys-Davies, “and I shall give you mine.”
“Jacob Sullivan.”
“I’m Ellen Harvelle,” the woman replied. “This is my son Ash.”
He nodded at them and frowned as he got a better look at Ash. “That’s why you never stood up.”
“Yup.” Ash came around the bar to give Jacob a good look at his wheelchair. “Ghost threw me into a gravestone, broke m’back.”
“... ghost?”
“Mm-hm. Most times, unless the spirit’s tied to somethin’ else, only way to get rid of it is to salt ’n’ burn the bones of the person the ghost used to be.”
Jacob sat down hard.
Ellen chuckled and poured him a shot of whiskey. “Here. This’ll help more than that Trickster Special.”
He swallowed it down and she noticed he was shaking.
“Listen, Jacob... I know it’s a lot. I know we sound crazy. But if you’re determined to learn the truth about Cazadore, you need to face the fact that monsters are real.”
He just nodded.
She looked at him for a moment. “You eaten yet?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Hang on a minute, then.” She disappeared into the back and returned with a plate full of food.
He picked at it.
“Dude,” said Ash, “you gonna eat that or psychoanalyze it?”
Jacob laughed and ate. “I’m meeting a contact here,” he said.
“Oh? Who?”
“His name is Henderson - I think.”
“Henderson,” Ellen said thoughtfully, studying Jacob carefully. “What’s his interest?”
“Victor Henderson. FBI.” Not for the first time since walking in, he wondered if there was truth serum in the air.
“Henricksen,” Ash corrected before looking at Ellen. “’S been on Papa Bear’s tail since before the wedding.”
Ellen cursed.
Ash made some kind of sign to her, and she nodded. Then he excused himself out loud and rolled into the back.
Jacob frowned, watching this.
“Ash’s birth parents were deaf,” Ellen explained. “Sometimes we still sign to each other. Keeps us in practice.”
He nodded.
“So why are you talking with this agent?”
“I was assigned to work with him and find out about the m-murders.” He fought it, but there was that truth-serum effect again.
“Well, like Bill said, not every mysterious death in Cazadore is a murder.”
“Still.”
“You’re the kind of person who believes only what he sees, aren’t you?”
“I’m a reporter.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
He frowned. “I’m not understanding.”
“Ash told you a ghost broke his back. Do you believe him?”
“Yes.”
“So you believe in ghosts?”
“I believe he thinks one did.”
“You think he’s crazy.”
He didn’t answer.
“Oh, come on. We hear worse all the time.”
“I’m not sure what I think right now.”
“Well, watch your back, ’cause if you keep going down this rabbit hole, you’ll either make up your mind in a hurry... or it’ll be made up for you.” And she left him to his food.
Which suddenly tasted like sawdust.
He was still staring at his plate, alone, when Henricksen walked in. “Sullivan? You feeling all right?”
“Not sure, Victor.”
“What happened?”
Jacob told him about the entire conversation.
Henricksen looked more and more concerned the longer he went on. Finally, he sighed and slapped a $20 down on the bar. “Come on.”
“Where?” He stood up.
“We’re gonna return that rental car of yours, and then we’re taking the next flight to Houston.”
Frowning, Jacob followed him. “Why?”
“People keep telling you not to do something but won’t give you a straight answer why, or a reason that doesn’t involve ghosts and goblins? Only thing to do is... do it anyway.”
He smiled.
Garnet was having a relatively normal Saturday morning until a strange car pulled into the parking lot at Maggie’s, parked facing the street. She watched curiously as the driver began to get out and then had to stifle a horrified gasp. That-that COULDN’T be Gordon Walker!
Then he turned enough that she could see his face, and she almost collapsed in relief. It wasn’t Gordon after all. Belatedly, she remembered the warnings that had been circulating since the day before, passed on to her directly by both Bill Cooper and Dean Winchester, about the FBI agent and the reporter-who was now getting out of the passenger side-who were likely to show up sooner than later. Taking a deep breath, she pulled herself together and had her game face on by the time they got to the door.
“-straight to the hotel,” he was saying, and the reporter shook his head.
“Food first!”
“Food we can give you,” she said with a laugh. “Mornin’, gentlemen. Booth or table?”
“Booth,” the reporter said at the same time the FBI man said “Table.”
Garnet raised an eyebrow at that but said to the reporter, “Well, if he ain’t hungry, we might as well let him pick where to sit.”
“Table it is,” he smiled.
Garnet smiled back and picked up two menus. “This way.”
She led them back to a table that, from one seat, had a clear view of the whole restaurant and was not at all surprised that the FBI man took that seat. But she didn’t comment, just asked what they wanted to drink.
Both ordered coffee.
She nodded. “Okay. I’ll have that right out to you.”
In the kitchen, the cook hissed, “Damn, I thought that was Walker reborn!”
Garnet rubbed at her still-pounding heart. “No kidding.”
She dialed Dean’s number and let the phone ring once before hanging up-the signal they’d arranged the day before-and pulled herself together again while pouring up the coffee. By the time she got back to the table, she was all smiles again.
The meal got off to a good start and was going without a hitch. Garnet was still nervous, though, until the cavalry arrived in the form of the Cooper brothers. Bill signed their order with a mischievous grin, and Garnet nodded, grinned back, and wrote it down... then waited just long enough to see Bill, after making sure the FBI man was focused on his plate, walk up behind the reporter and slap him on the shoulder. The reporter just about jumped out of his skin.
He spun in his chair. “You!”
Bill looked at Cas. “Well, at least he didn’t ask me what I’m doing here.”
Cas chuckled and nodded.
Then Bill looked back at the reporter. “You do your homework, Sprout?”
“What homework?” the FBI agent asked.
“I’ll take that as a no, and I also take it you’re Agent Henricksen. Bill Cooper, my brothers Cas and Mike.”
Henricksen nodded. “Coopers.”
“I asked Jake here”-here he playfully tweaked the reporter’s ear, which made him squirm and Garnet stifle a giggle-“to do a little research on Eliot Ness before he came down here.”
“Eliot Ness?” Henricksen frowned.
“You know the name,” Mike stated. “You may not know what he did when he wasn’t working for the FBI.”
“Should we care?”
“If you wish to understand this town, yes.”
“Stop talking in riddles,” Jacob groaned.
“Why?” Bill asked cheekily. Mike nudged him hard.
Cas, however, took the request seriously. “Eliot Ness was a hunter, as are many people here.”
“A hunter,” Henricksen said.
“Yes. A hunter of monsters.”
“Again with the monster talk!”
“Look,” said Bill, “do some digging on a case Ness worked in Cleveland in 1931-disappearances, bodies turning up drained of blood. Specifically look at the coroner’s reports on the beheadings and see if you can find some other explanation for the extra teeth.”
And with that, the Coopers turned and went to their usual booth.
Garnet hurried into the back to place the order, only to find it already waiting. The cook had started on it as soon as he’d seen Bill walk in.
He met her eyes and winked.
She grinned and carried the tray out to the Coopers.
“Extra teeth?” Henricksen asked.
“Vampires,” Mike supplied.
He snorted.
“Check it out,” Bill repeated. “Come to think of it, you might see some anomalies similar to the coroner’s report on Gordon Walker.”
“Walker,” Jacob said, looking at Henricksen. “Didn’t we hear-”
“Hear what?” Bill asked, winking at Garnet.
Henricksen glared at him, shaking his head.
“I mean, we were sent here b-” Jacob glared as Henricksen kicked him under the table.
Jacob fell silent, staring at his food and wondering what Walker had to do in this whole mess.
Bill just chuckled quietly and thanked Garnet.
Garnet looked absolutely confused.
Demon somewhere in FBI, Bill signed. We confuse or convert these two, maybe find out who demon is.
Just tell how we help and we there.
Bill nodded. I know. Whole town there. Will let you know.
Garnet nodded and went back to the kitchen.
Victor and Jacob held their peace until they got back in the car, but then Victor exploded. “What the hell were you thinking in there?”
Jacob winced. “I was thinking Walker was why the director sent us on here!”
“One reason, sure, but you don’t say that in front of potential suspects!”
“SUSPECTS? They’re not the Winchesters!”
“Didn’t you pay any attention to that damn briefing? The Winchesters aren’t the only ones involved here-they can’t be. Hell, Walker was killed by a police officer immediately after making veiled threats against Sam.”
“So he saved Winchester!”
“By cutting Walker’s head off with a machete! You heard those wackos in there; they think Walker was a vampire. And the loudmouth was there that night; his voice is on the video, and the dispatch logs show he went on patrol with Robichaux half an hour before Walker showed up there-when Robichaux was off duty and Cooper hadn’t gotten prior approval to ride along. Yet the police chief didn’t bat an eye. Does any of that NOT scream conspiracy to you?”
“Never thought we’d have to get you fitted for a tin hat.”
“Says the man who had two shotguns pointed at him for even naming this town to the wrong person.”
“Just get us to the motel.”
Victor scowled but started the engine.
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