"Any Little Song That You Know" (3/4), Supernatural, PG-13, gen.
( part two | master post | part four)
Dean didn't know how he managed it, but not long after he climbed in the back of Sam's car, he passed out. His body had been so tense and sore, he thought he'd spend the over nine hours Bobby said it would take to get to Pontiac waiting to get killed, but he didn't wake until he felt the car slow. He hadn't even seen the sun rise, and now, it shone everywhere.
The best part? He didn't dream once.
“We there?” he asked, wiping drool off his chin.
“Just about,” Bobby said.
Sam had started the journey driving, but he was in the passenger's seat, yawning and stretching as if he'd been asleep too.
“So who's this?” Sam asked. “You said a psychic.”
Bobby parked the car. “A friend by the name of Pamela.”
"I've had bad dealings with friends before."
The tone in Sam's voice suggested what had happened to those friends. Dean suppressed a shiver.
“She's fine.”
"Should I stay with the car?" Dean asked.
Sam snorted as he climbed out of the car, as if it was the last thing he wanted.
"You're our best clue," Bobby said, opening his own door. "You're coming."
Dean sighed. "Great.”
Sam and Bobby made it halfway to the front door by the time Dean stepped out of the car. He stretched for a second and gave the house a once-over. He only walked forward when Bobby and Sam had made it to the door, and even then, he hovered at the bottom of the stairs.
“We won't bite,” Sam said, without looking at Dean.
Bobby rang the doorbell.
“I'm good here,” Dean said.
A brunette woman several years older than Dean opened the front door and grinned broadly at Bobby. "I thought it was you.”
She drew him into an enthusiastic hug, which he bore with a surprising amount of grace. When they broke, he was smiling.
”Sorry we couldn't call," Bobby said.
“Yeah, TV says phones are down everywhere,” Pamela said, her smile dimming. But she brightened as she caught sight of the others. “And who are these two?”
"Sam next to me, and Dean. Guys, this is Pamela."
"Nice to meet you," Dean said, climbing up the steps. He stepped forward and extended a hand.
She studied him. "Well, well. Bobby doesn't usually bring me such…attractive guests."
Dean smiled despite himself. She didn't spare Sam a glance, to his relief - boy was a little too young to get eaten alive - and took Dean's extended hand.
Immediately, her expression went blank. She extracted her hand from Dean's quickly and shook her head. Sam shot him a look as Pamela let out a shaky laugh and put a hand through her hair. "Wow. I must not have my shields up well enough. Come on in, make yourselves comfortable."
Bobby walked in without hesitation, and Sam followed after he finished inspecting Dean. Pamela stared at Dean as he waited, and leaned in as he started to step forward.
"Why didn't you tell me you're psychic?" she hissed.
"Excuse me?"
"You nearly fried my brain. I wanna know if someone's gonna do that."
Dean shook his head so hard he got a little dizzy. "I'm no psychic."
"Sure." She stepped away from the door enough for him to walk in, but stopped him with a hand to the chest. "I've got my eye on you."
Dean walked in just far enough for Pamela to close the door, and pinched the bridge of his nose. But she waited for him, and he let her lead him forward. He wondered what he was more tired of at this point: driving, or people threatening him. No, he definitely knew. Car rides were a lot less likely to get him killed.
Sam and Bobby stood in Pamela's living room as Dean entered. It didn't match the woman in the Ramones tank and leather jacket at all. Floral print and ruffles covered everything, and a musty smell Dean couldn't quite name hung in the air.
“Your grandma about?” Bobby asked.
Pamela shook her head. “She passed about a month ago.”
“Sorry for your loss.”
"Thanks. I still haven't given the place a do-over, but sit down, if you dare."
Dean lowered onto the couch and found out what Pamela meant. He sank into the cushions until he thought he'd be swallowed whole, and the musty smell grew even stronger.
"So," Pamela said, rubbing her hands together as she took a firm chair in the corner. "What brings you fine gentlemen to my door?"
Sam nodded in Dean's direction. "Him."
"Sorta," Bobby said. "You been paying close attention to the news?"
"It'd be hard not to." Pamela's gaze hit Dean again. "He got something to do with it?"
Bobby sat on the very edge of the couch and took his hat in his hands. "Demons have been itching to get their hands on him ever since Detroit."
"So?"
“So a demon told us they had a man in the Detroit fight, and they lost.”
Pamela leaned back and whistled as Dean went cold. He hadn't made a connection with the time frame.
“How do you know he was being straight?”
"They tell the truth when they can get away with it,” Sam said. “I think he was."
"What can I do to help?"
"We need information," Bobby said. "Anything, really. We need to know what beat the demons. Or who's in control."
"Geez, you aren't asking much."
Bobby sighed. "I know. But I figured it was worth a shot."
"I don't disagree there," Pamela said, "but there's gotta be better ways."
Bobby stood and walked over to the fireplace. "It's too dangerous, asking around."
"And you think a psychic's more subtle?" She barked a laugh. "You'll shine a spotlight on yourselves, I hope you know that."
Dean shifted, and not because the sofa was uncomfortable. He wasn't ready for demons to find him again.
"I've got a place to start," Sam said. He pulled something out of his jacket - Dean couldn't make it out - and handed it to Pamela. "It belongs to my dad. He went missing just before Detroit, and I think he was tracking the demon who died."
Pamela closed her hand over the object. "You know what that could mean."
Sam swallowed hard. "I know."
"Okay," Pamela said. She slid out of the chair and sat on the floor, crossing her legs and straightening her back. She closed her eyes. "What's your dad's name?"
"John."
Pamela breathed deeply, and put the palms of her hands together. "Show me John, owner of this amulet, father of Sam."
A breeze swept through the room; Dean felt it rustle his hair. The lights flickered.
"Show me John, father of Sam and…"
Pamela stiffened. Dean wanted to speak, but he didn't know if it would break her concentration.
Bobby didn't seem worried about it. "What is it?"
"Nothing," Pamela said. "Just…nothing."
Bobby took his turn staring at Dean, but Dean was over it. If Bobby was going to kill Dean, he probably wouldn't stare at him first.
"Show me the owner of this amulet, father-" Pamela cut off, and smiled a little to herself. "He's surrounded by woods. He's standing in the middle of them, like he's waiting…"
“For what?” Sam asked.
Pamela gasped and dropped the necklace. Her eyes didn't open. "He's-"
With a jerk, she flew backward through the air several feet. She hit the wall behind her and crumpled to the floor. Dean got to his feet and ran over, but Bobby made it first.
"Are you okay?" Bobby asked.
Pamela groaned. "Damn. That stung a little."
Sam stood just behind Dean, hands clenched. He was shoving the necklace back in his pocket. "What did you see?"
"Not much. He pushed me out, with a force I've never-"
She broke off mid-sentence as a howl rang through the air. Bobby rose to his feet, and so did Dean.
“What's that?” Dean asked.
Another howl joined the first.
“Hellhounds,” Sam said.
“Hellhounds?” Pamela asked, her eyebrows rising high enough to disappear into her hairline.
Bobby looked around in a rush. “You got any goofer dust?”
“I don't do hoodoo!”
“Then we gotta run for it,” Sam said, pulling Pamela to her feet. “There's some in the car.”
Dean was already halfway to the front door, with Bobby at his heels. Bobby grabbed him as the door started to rattle. Sam nearly ran into them from behind.
“There another way out?” Bobby said quietly, as they all backed off.
“The back,” Pamela said.
They made it halfway to the exit when the front door burst open and the snarling and barking grew louder. Dean ran like he'd never run before and reached the back door first. He opened it and held it for Sam and Pamela, and left it for Bobby to grab.
Just before Bobby crossed the threshold, he went down hard and dragged backward. He yelled.
“Bobby!” Sam said, turning around. Dean grabbed him and tried to shove him back, but Sam was bigger, so he only managed to hold him.
“Run!” Bobby said.
It was the last word he managed to get out. An unseen force flipped him over, and began tearing at his stomach. Blood sprayed across the exit room, and Bobby screamed.
Dean jerked at Sam's coat. “Come on!”
Pamela slammed the door closed.
“No!” Sam yelled.
“We gotta go!” Pamela said, tugging at Sam's sleeve. “Sam! We can't do anything!”
Dean couldn't listen to Bobby anymore. He jogged forward and inspected the yard. The way around Pamela's house seemed deserted, and Dean could only hear hellhounds snarling in the house.
Bobby's screams stopped.
“Come on!” he said, waving them forward.
With one last glance at the house, Sam blinked away tears and ran toward Dean. Pamela followed after a reluctant look of her own.
Dean turned around the corner, and almost immediately, he caught sight of a man in a black suit raising a gun. Before he could cry out, the man fired. Something sank into Dean's right shoulder, and he jerked back and fell to the ground. The man stepped forward, black-eyed and grinning.
Pamela, who'd been standing next to Dean before he'd fallen, backed away with her hands up.
“No,” Dean said, grabbing for the demon's pant leg as he walked by.
“Bye-bye,” the demon said, and pointed the gun at Pamela's head.
Chanting started behind Dean, and the demon moved his gun around to point it at Sam. But Pamela jumped forward, hands intertwined, and brought her arms down on the demon's wrist. He dropped the gun out of surprise, and grabbed his ears as the exorcism continued. Dean slid away from the demon as he fell to his knees, and got to his feet as the black smoke flew in the air.
Pamela yanked him forward, and Sam was already running for the car, which sat untouched in the street at the front.
-
Mary stirred.
For an instant, she wasn't sure why. Darkness filled the cell, to the point where her eyes didn't pick up anything in the area right away. Apparently, the security light was out. She tested her limbs, felt them groan, and squeezed her eyes as tight as they would go reflexively. She couldn't have been out for long.
Gun fire rattled in the hallway outside.
She wondered if she should call out. They hadn't bothered to cover her head when they'd dragged her to the prison - it wasn't far from the hanger - and she'd seen the military base crawling with demons. It had quashed any hope she'd had of escape, but now, she wasn't sure.
More gun fire went off, closer this time. Something clattered against the door, and Mary covered her head before she realized it didn't sound anything like bullets. More like someone holding a lot of metal hit the door.
"Hello?" she said, as loud as she could manage.
“Someone in there?”
“Yes!”
“Hold on, we'll get you out.”
Mary's eyes adjusted to the dark, and she made out a toilet and sink by the door. She crawled over.
“You see anyone else?” the voice asked, as Mary tried to convince herself to stand.
“What?”
“There other people in these cells?”
“I didn't see any.”
Mary grasped the edge of the toilet. She pulled herself to her knees and cried out.
“What's wrong?” the voice asked.
“I'm...I'm hurt,” Mary said, gasping.
“Is something hurting you?”
Nothing besides herself. “No.”
“You gonna be able to walk?”
The image of dragging Dean out of his hospital room flashed through her head. Had this started only yesterday?
“I should,” Mary said.
She moved a hand over to the sink, and the other, and pulled herself up the rest of the way. She blacked out halfway up, and awakened leaning on the sink.
“Talk to me. What's your name?”
“Mary. Campbell.”
A beat. “Do you know John Winchester?”
Mary grit her teeth. “I knew him.”
“He sent us here.”
“Us?”
“We're a team of hunters.”
Mary wondered how a team could get past the demons, with the knowledge of their possessed bodies and supplies. It couldn't have been casualty-free.
“What's taking so long?”
“We had to get up to security,” the voice said. Mary was pretty sure it belonged to a woman. “The locks on the doors need special releases.”
Gun fire went off, and Mary, so close to the door, could hear the return fire almost as if she was standing in the hall. She swayed.
An electronic buzz went off, and the door slid into the wall. Red emergency lighting flooded the room. The guns sounded even louder, and Mary sacrificed her hold on the sink to grab her ears. She managed to stay standing by leaning against the sink with her stomach.
The person - and she was a woman - stepped over a body and pressed against the wall next to Mary.
“I'm Ellen,” the woman said.
Mary nodded once at her. Ellen caught sight of her blouse and bit her lip.
“We can go if you can walk without my help.” Ellen shifted, and Mary eyed her rifle. An M4, if she wasn't mistaken. Probably took it off one of the possessed. “I need to keep my hands free.”
“I'll do my best,” Mary said.
“Don't worry,” Ellen said. “When we hit the rendezvous, you'll have a lot more help.”
She leaned outside the door and pointed her gun around the frame. Satisfied, she slipped out in the hall and waved Mary forward.
Mary took several steps forward. Every single one hurt like a mother, but she could move, if only slightly faster than a crawl. Stepping over the body took slightly longer, but she managed to keep her feet from getting caught.
“How far?” Mary asked.
“Front of the building. Think you can make it?”
No matter what she actually thought, she wasn't going to say no. “Yes.”
Ellen moved forward in a slow, even motion. Mary lurched forward and leaned against the wall opposite the door. She could feel blood trickle down her back, and spotted a thin trail of blood coming from the cell.
I'll bleed out before I get away, she thought, and realized she didn't care. It was better than dying alone in a cell.
“You didn't think it'd be that easy, did you?”
Mary snapped her head forward. Standing at the end of the hall, arms crossed, was Lilith.
Instead of answering, Ellen laid down a volley of bullets. Lilith disappeared.
Before Mary could try to find her, Ellen cried out and crumpled to the floor. Lilith stood next to her, Ellen's rifle in hand and a disdain on her face.
“Too bad I need you alive,” Lilith said, dropping the gun. “It was so much fun leveling the other buildings.”
“Ellen!” Mary said.
“Get back in the cell.”
“No.”
Lilith smirked. “I can make you.”
Mary wondered if any of Ellen's team would show up if it took too long to hear from her. She decided it was worth finding out.
“No,” she said again.
Lilith raised a hand, and Mary flew backward. She was flipped just before she hit the wall with the window, and so her back was only in pain because she'd been jarred. It was still enough to bring tears to her eyes, though.
“How long do you want to play, Mary?” Lilith asked, stepping to the door. “I'm very patient when I want to be.”
The pressure left, and Mary fell to the floor. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and glared. She could be just as patient as Lilith.
But before she was tested, the room began to shake. It took all Mary's balance not to lose her sitting position. Lilith was having a similar problem; she was upright still, but her dress shoes had bad traction, and her feet slid.
A light filled the room, so bright it stung Mary's eyes.
“Wonderful,” Lilith said, in a flat voice.
Williams's head jerked back, and Lilith came out in a stream of black, covering the ceiling. The smoke vanished in a vent, and the light darted away, almost as if a spotlight tracked the demon.
Mary stood as fast as she could manage and went back into the hall. Ellen was groaning and holding a hand to her head.
“Damn demons,” she said. She opened her eyes. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Mary said.
She offered a hand, but Ellen waved it away and sat up. “Don't want to tear your back up more.”
“Mary?”
The quiet sound had come from the cell. Mary could see Williams's head up and a trickle of blood dripping from her mouth.
“Yeah?” Mary said, shuffling back to the door. She leaned on it, grateful for the break.
“I'm sorry. I'm so...” Her voice cut off in a gurgle.
“It wasn't you.” Of course, Williams wasn't innocent if what Lilith said was true, but Mary's record wasn't exactly clean either.
“Take it.”
Mary frowned. “What?”
Williams raised a shaky hand. In it was a revolver with a long barrel. “Take it.”
Mary stepped forward and took the gun. She noted a pentacle in the handle and an inscription on the barrel. Non timebo mala, it read.
Her breath hitched. It couldn't be. The Colt wasn't real.
Williams's head fell on the ground. Mary thought she could see her chest rise and fall, but it was hard to call in the gloom.
“Mary?”
She jammed the gun down her pants in a rush, adjusting her blouse so it hung over it. “Yeah?”
“That girl okay?”
Mary turned back toward Ellen. “Hope so.”
Ellen was picking up her rifle off the ground. “We'd better get moving.”
“What about her?”
“I'll send someone back.”
When Ellen started forward, Mary double-checked to make sure the gun was secure. When she was satisfied, she followed.
-
By the time they made it to a motel and checked into a room, Dean's right arm was numb, and his left hand was covered in blood. But he sat down hard in a chair and let Pamela and Sam lock up and close the curtains. Pamela tore up bedsheets as Sam laid lines of black dust on the windowsills and across the door threshold.
Dean noticed blood on the carpet. He followed the trail until he saw it leading to Sam.
“Hey,” he asked. “You hurt?”
“I'm fine,” Sam said gruffly.
Pamela tossed scraps in Dean's lap and walked over to Sam. He flinched away from her touch, but she grabbed his jacket and pulled it back.
“How long has your shoulder been like that?”
“Doesn't matter.”
She pointed to an empty chair on the other side of Dean. “Sit.”
“But-”
“I said, sit.”
Sam scowled, but complied. Since Dean was close, he could now see the rings around Sam's eyes, and the pinched look to his mouth.
“I'm gonna use the bathroom, if you guys won't bleed to death,” Pamela said, running a hand through her hair. “Then one of you gets to volunteer to get cleaned up.”
“You ever taken out a bullet before?” Sam said.
“Guess you'll find out.” Pamela went into the bathroom and closed the door.
“She's gonna be a minute,” Sam said, wincing as he adjusted in the chair. He grabbed a piece of sheet out of Dean's lap and pressed it against his shoulder.
“How do you know?”
“Bobby got torn apart in front of our eyes. You wouldn't need some time if that happened to one of your friends?”
He had a point. “Are you holding up okay?”
“What do you care?”
“He was your friend.”
“No.” Sam's jaw quivered a little. “He was my family.”
There wasn't much Dean could say, but he tried anyway. “I'm sorry.”
“For what?”
Dean's head drooped. “I let him take the door. If I hadn't...”
“They wouldn't have killed you,” Sam said, scoffing. “Hell, I should have thrown you to them.”
“So why didn't you?”
“Because I didn't know what you'd do to me.”
Dean barked a laugh. “Yeah. Because I'm the threatening one here.”
Sam pulled back his jacket and bared the bloody shoulder of his plaid shirt. “This look familiar?”
“Should it?”
“It's the exact same as yours.”
“So?”
“And you got the same forehead cut.”
Dean touched the gauze on his head. He'd forgotten about it completely. “But it didn't need stitches.”
“Cut the crap.”
“You first,” Dean said. “You got attacked by hellhounds on Saturday, didn't you?”
Sam's mouth opened once, and closed. He looked away, and back at Dean. “How'd you know?”
”Because it was in my dream,” Dean said in a rush. Revealing himself was a relief, but he couldn't stop until Sam knew it all. “My stomach got ripped open, and a man fought off whatever did it.”
“You dreamed about Dad?”
“Yeah,” Dean said. “And I was you.”
Sam exhaled. “Dad said you were dangerous.”
“I'm not…this just happens.”
“Wait,” Sam said, holding up a hand. “You're saying you had a dream about me before we met?”
Dean nodded.
“You're not trying to hurt me?”
“God no."
By the way Sam frowned, Dean knew he had no idea what to do next. He decided to ask the question on his mind. "How are you alive?”
Sam winced and grabbed his shoulder. “I wish I knew.”
Pamela came out of the bathroom. As Sam had guessed, her eyes were puffy, but she went for the bag of supplies. “Who's first?”
“Sam,” Dean said, before Sam could get a word in. He closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to see Sam's expression.
-
On the way to the rendezvous, Ellen told Mary she'd entered Fort Leavenworth with a team of twenty-five. She'd made it to the prison with twenty. The group that burst out of the prison and made their way toward a parked Humvee numbered just seven, counting Mary and Williams, who had been rescued by a couple of the team.
As terrible as it was, Mary wasn't really surprised there had been so many casualties. Having anyone alive was practically a miracle.
A hunter named Gordon was supporting Mary's weight. He moved slowly enough for her to be relatively free of pain, but quickly enough to keep up with the rest. Still, it gave her time to see the bodies littering the lawn. Most of them wore uniforms. All of them had their eyes burned out, and recently enough that they smoked.
“Let's move!” Ellen said.
A couple of the hunters helped Williams in the back, and moved in with her. One climbed on the outside to operate a gun on the roof. He wore a hat and a thicker coat than everyone else, which was probably why he'd earned the job. Gordon helped Mary into the back seats, next to Ellen, and climbed in the driver's seat. Ammo was stacked in the passenger's seat. Mary had to carefully adjust the Colt to keep it from digging into her leg, and to sit without pressing the stinging wounds on her back.
As she buckled her seat belt, the Humvee started forward. Mary couldn't turn and check, but it sounded as if the two hunters behind were patching up Williams's wounds.
“Looks like it was the light,” Gordon said over his shoulder. “Ain't no one left alive.”
“At least that makes our way out easier,” Ellen said.
Mary peered out her window. Sure enough, even though bodies lay everywhere, there was no one standing. The silence left behind was unnerving.
“Here,” Ellen said, handing Mary an orange prescription bottle. “Painkillers. It'll hold you over until the Roadhouse, at least.”
“The Roadhouse?”
“My place. It's about a four hour drive.”
Mary inspected the bottle. She couldn't read too well without her reading glasses, but she figured out she was allowed two pills. She popped the cap. “Got any water?”
Ellen handed her a water bottle.
“Holy water?”
“I wouldn't give you booze for pain pills.”
Mary nodded, and drank the pills down. She handed the bottle back.
“John sent you?” she asked Ellen.
Ellen nodded. “We gathered yesterday morning, as soon as we figured Detroit was hunter business. Just before the phone lines went down, he called and said he'd spotted a lot of demonic activity in the area.”
“Really.”
“You don't believe me?”
“No, I do, but...” Mary sighed. “He wasn't returning Sam's calls. Sam was looking for him just before I got captured. I don't why he wouldn't get in contact.”
“Probably focused on the job.”
Mary laughed under her breath. The job. If only she'd known John would start hunting. “So why'd you move in?”
“John said they captured civilians. We found several dozen hanging from the rafters of a hanger, completely drained of blood.”
Mary raised a hand to scratch her head, and winced as her back twinged. But it wasn't as bad as earlier, so apparently the pills were starting to work.
“Here's what I don't get,” she said. “You guys were outnumbered, and you went in anyway?”
“We weren't gonna,” Ellen said, leaning back in her chair. “But there was a flash of light just as we got here to check things out, and a bunch of demons died. Created a lot of chaos.”
“Like the light outside the prison?”
“The very same.”
“And...” Mary trailed off.
“What?”
Mary wasn't sure how much to share. Ellen was a friend of John's, sure, but she wasn't exactly going to drop what she knew, or what she wondered, into casual conversation. Like the light in Detroit. Had the same light appeared on the military base? And what was it?
Her vision went a little fuzzy.
“I think the pills are kicking in,” she said.
Ellen nodded. “I'll let you be.”
Mary settled against the seat. She felt it press the cuts, but only a little.
-
Sam had it easy, comparatively; he only needed his shoulder to be stitched, sterilized, and covered. Dean, on the other hand, actually had a bullet in his shoulder, and they didn't have the right tools to pull it out. He had to give Pamela credit, though. She was even-handed and calm, even when he cursed in her face and nearly vomited on her shirt.
She only protested once. But to be fair, she was covered in both Sam and Dean's blood; she'd smeared a streak across her forehead that she didn't bother to clean off, and her hands were bright red, no matter how many times she washed and rewashed them.
"I'm a damn psychic," she said under her breath. "I don't have the know-how for this."
"And I'm a college student," Dean said.
Sam didn't have anything to add; he'd passed out five minutes before.
When she finished, and helped Dean back into his badly-stained polo, she disappeared into the bathroom and took the longest shower Dean had ever been around for. Sam was out cold, but Dean was wired and sore, neither of which ever led to restful sleep in his experience. Oddly enough, despite his three major wounds, he felt his energy grow as the minutes passed.
He turned on the TV. Nothing played on any channel besides static. He hoped it was because they were in a hole with crappy reception and not because the world really was ending, but it wasn't doing anything to help his shaking nerves.
When the TV clicked off, he caught sight of himself in the mirror above the dresser. He'd taken his coat off, and he could see he'd not only lost weight, but he'd gained a couple creases in his face. Maybe more; the gauze still hid his forehead. He noted the dried stain of blood on his side, and pulled at his polo to try to make it lie flat, but the blood had stiffened the fabric.
Dean raised the edge of the shirt to check on the wound. It was gone. But the shirt was bloody, so he'd been hurt. He remembered bleeding. But when he pressed the skin with his fingers, and found it wasn't even tender.
He pulled away the tape holding the gauze in place on his forehead. Sure enough, the gauze was stained, but his forehead was completely bare.
He started to pace. It didn't help, but he had nothing else to do. Pamela hogged the bathroom - and, although Dean was covered in sweat and blood, he figured she'd earned the right - and the goofer dust still covered the exterior doors and windows, so he couldn't leave. There was no way to blow off steam, or to think about what all this meant.
Unless.
His eyes fell on Sam's bag. A lot of it had been filled with weapons and supplies, but it couldn't be all. Dean hadn't seen any other bags in the car, but the kid treated the car like his house. He had to have something with him, right?
Pawing through a stranger's stuff? Dean thought. Low.
But Sam wasn't a stranger anymore. Sam was the guy he'd fought demons with for the last couple days, and the guy who was linked to his weirdo ESP thing. And somehow, his dad knew more about Dean than Dean himself. That was more than enough justification for snooping.
He moved the straps of Sam's bag away from the opening, but hesitated on rifling through. If Mom found out…
Mom's got her own problems.
He grimaced, and began to push the contents around.
Most of it was more of the same: water bottles marked "holy water" in permanent marker, a box of salt, extra clips for the guns. But on the bottom sat a book...no, a journal. Dean half-smiled to himself. It didn't get more perfect.
He grabbed it and slipped behind the twin Sam wasn't using. It faced the bathroom, which meant Pamela would see exactly what he was doing when she came out, but if Sam woke up, it would give him a second to hide it under the bed.
That is, if he decided he would pretend he didn't flip through. As he settled against the mattress, stretching his legs out on the floor, he wasn't sure he would. He needed the knowledge no one seemed ready to give him, and he wasn't ashamed to find it. What could Sam do to him, anyway?
Dean flipped through the first couple of pages. The entry date started in mid-1987, so it had to be Sam's dad's journal. Even better. All the letters were capitols, which was weird, but readable.
The content the words created was a little harder to casually read. The guy writing the journal raged over something he never specified, although he implied he was the victim of something. Made sense to Dean. Fighting demons wasn't sort of job someone got into without a damn good reason. He certainly wouldn't.
Sam's dad had started out nearly as clueless as Dean in terms of knowledge, although he referred to target practice he'd done "in the service", which Dean took to mean military. That explained the sharpness with which Sam moved, but it didn't paint a pretty picture of the kid's childhood in Dean's mind. A guy focused on revenge, with military discipline?
Sam'll hate me if I pity him, Dean thought. But he couldn't help it.
The water turned off in the bathroom, and Dean jerked out of his reverie. He was running out of time.
He flipped through the pages faster. It seemed John began fighting monsters when leads on demons dried up, and he'd scribbled creepy drawings in the corners. There was the occasional mention of where he'd leave Sam on some of these hunts - Bobby's name caught his eyes a couple times - but Dean wasn't reading close enough to see if Sam's mom was mentioned. Maybe she'd died.
What he was really skimming for was his own name. But no matter how fast or slow he searched, he never saw it. There was no mention of Mom either. Whatever connection they had wasn't important enough to write down.
Or maybe too important.
There were pages missing, words scratched out so entirely they were black boxes. Dean hadn't thought much of it when he'd flipped through the first time, but as he bounced back and forth between a couple pages, he wondered. John wrote openly about killing monsters and tracking down demons. What would he want to keep secret?
Pamela's footsteps in the bathroom grew heavier and more frequent. Dean started to flip the journal closed; there wasn't anything he could learn in the next few minutes.
His thumb got caught in a gap in the cover. The paper interior of the cover stuck to his thumbnail for a moment, so it jerked forward when he pulled. Behind it, Dean could see the corner of a picture; it showed half a window, golden with light and edged with snow.
Dean slid the picture out of the cover.
It featured four people: a tired woman in a hospital bed, a baby in her arms, a man standing next to her, and a little boy standing in front of his legs. It was the same man from Dean's dream, minus the sour expression and a couple decades. If Dean hadn't gotten a really good look at the man in the recent past, recognition would've been hard.
The boy had rumpled blond hair and a mischievous smile on his face. Dean stared, wondering where he'd seen it before, until he remembered the pictures Mom had of him as a toddler. His eyes snapped toward the blonde woman in the bed.
“Mom?” he whispered.
Dean flipped over the picture. The back read “Sammy's birthday, January 1987”.
The bathroom door opened, and Pamela, in her slightly bloody clothes with a towel wrapped around her head, emerged.
“Bathroom's free,” she said, without looking up at first. When Dean didn't answer, she walked over and looked down at him. “Dean?”
“Sam's my brother.”
Pamela didn't say anything, but she looked at the picture in his hand. He remembered what she'd done with the necklace Sam'd given her, and how she'd cut off.
“You knew.”
“John told me,” she whispered, shooting a glance at Sam. “But I wasn't sure.”
Dean tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. “They kept it from me. She kept it from me.”
“They tried to protect you from something.”
“No.” Dean shook. He wasn't entirely sure why. All he knew was he was feeling something so strongly, he couldn't stay still. “Don't.”
Pamela held up her hands. “Dean.”
Dean was up and on his feet before he realized. He didn't feel anything in his shoulder anymore. He didn't feel anything besides the need to move.
He grabbed the keys to the Impala from the table and went to the door.
“Dean!” Pamela yelled.
He could hear Sam start to move on the sheets, but Dean pulled the door forward and broke the line of goofer dust. There was no howling, so he stepped out into the chilly late-afternoon light and climbed in the car.
By the time Sam appeared in the door, Dean was turning the car out of the parking lot and into the street. He barely noticed the picture was still in his hand, half crumpled against the steering wheel.
-
Before the fight in Detroit, Harvelle's Roadhouse had been a bar. When Mary and Ellen and the other hunters pulled up in the Humvee, Harvelle's was the shabbier doppelganger to the demonized Fort Leavenworth, complete with barricades, patrolling hunters, and lots of guns.
A doctor met up with the Humvee upon its entrance, and Williams was passed off into her care right away. Ellen helped Mary out of the car, and let her lean as they walked directly inside the main building.
“You guys use a bar?” Mary asked.
“It's my family's bar,” Ellen replied. “Good a place as any.”
As they stepped inside, Mary couldn't see any of the walls around the dozens of hunters milling around. The air was filled with cigarette smoke and a thick layer of noise created by all the collective conversations, and Mary winced, overwhelmed. Ellen helped her on a bar stool, and turned to the crowd.
“Hey!” she yelled. The group hushed. “If you ain't eating or waiting for the doc, out! We got sick people!”
The hunter filed out the door with surprising speed and efficiency. Either she'd been out of the game too long, or Ellen was a force to be reckoned with. Maybe both.
Just as the last few edged out, the doctor reappeared and approached Mary. “I'm ready for you.”
She helped Mary to her feet. Walking was starting to hurt again, but she didn't pause. It'd be over faster if she didn't linger.
But she still paused when she saw a sign on the door of the room the doctor led her toward.
"'Dr. Badass is in'?" Mary read.
The doctor smiled wryly. "It was here when I got the room."
The room in question was covered with electronics. Spare computer parts stacked on tables all the way to the ceiling, but the center was clear except for an empty table. Mary undid her blouse and used it to wrap the Colt. The doctor beckoned for Mary to lie on her stomach and didn't appear to notice, even as Mary kept the blouse and gun in her hand.
“Where's Williams?”
“In a quieter room, getting some sleep,” the doctor said. “She'll be fine, but I couldn't really do anything for her.”
They both fell silent as the doctor examined and bandaged her back. The only time Mary felt the doctor's touch keenly was when her fingers brushed her left shoulder.
“They cut a full piece away here,” the doctor said. “You have to be careful with it.”
Mary was half-asleep. “Oh. Sure.”
When the doctor finished, she pushed more painkillers in Mary's hand.
"You're lucky," the doctor told her as she washed her hands in a basin. "Most of these cuts are shallow. But they're gonna hurt for a while."
Mary wasn't surprised. Lilith had wanted pain, not injury.
She thanked the doctor, who left to allow Mary to replace her shirt. She did so, making sure the Colt was tucked back in her pants and hidden, and walked back out into the bar. Gordon and the others from the base perched on bar stools, tearing into plates of food and gulping down liquid of various colors. Mary took an empty stool and leaned gratefully on the bar.
Behind the bar, a man with a mullet walked up to her. "Ain't you a pretty sight. What's your name?"
Mary shook her head, but she smiled. Only hunters would flirt during the apocalypse.
"Mary," she said. "You?"
"Ash. Hungry?"
"Absolutely."
He grinned and went toward a swinging door. Mary noticed a clock overhead as he passed through, which read four-thirty. Hard to believe, but unless she figured wrong, she'd been held by the demons less than twelve hours.
"Doc give you good news?"
Mary leaned forward. A couple bar stools down, Ellen was nursing a bottle of water.
"Better news than I expected," Mary said. "Don't worry. I'll eat, then I'll be on my way."
"You're leaving?"
"I've got demons to take care of."
Ellen laughed. “Not like that, you're not.”
“It'll be hard,” Mary said. “But my son might be in trouble.”
Gordon put down his fork and pushed his empty plate away. "What's his name?"
Mary didn't like the way he was staring at her. "Does it matter?"
"You don't wanna get cleaned up before you go?" Ellen said. "Get some rest?"
"I wish I could. But the way things are going..."
"You don't have a car."
"I'll walk."
"Are you always this bullheaded?”
Mary shrugged gingerly.
“Well,” Ellen said. “Will you let me do you a favor?”
Mary wanted to say yes right away - after all, the woman did save her from demons - but Gordon made her suspicious. "What?"
"Go out back to my trailer. It's the first one you'll come across. My husband'll can get you some fresh clothes."
Mary took in her outfit. She hadn't noticed before now, but dirt and blood stained a good portion of both her blouse and slacks. That's what she got for wearing light-colored clothes when the end of the world descended.
"Guess I could stand to blend in more," she said, sliding off the bar stool. "Tell Ash to hold my plate?"
“You want me to walk you out?”
“I'll be fine,” Mary said. The painkillers did wonders.
"Ash'll hold your plate." Ellen pointed to the hallway Mary had gone in to get to the doctor's room. "Exit's at the end, and there should be coats by the door."
Mary followed the hall to the exit. Sure enough, coats hung on hooks by the door, and she took one. She didn't want to pull her back too much, so she didn't put her arms in the sleeves, but she felt warm enough to go out in the night. Unfortunately, half-frozen mud surrounded the Roadhouse, and Mary's shoes weren't made for to hold out wet. She knew she'd lose feeling in her feet, but she went out anyway.
The area was ringed with tents, but only a few seemed used; she spotted a group of RVs in the near distance, which would be better against the cold. The trailer in question also had a couple of similar structures behind, all with lights blazing. It was early morning, but Mary figured most of these people hadn't slept.
She made it to the wooden steps of the trailer before she lost all feeling in her feet, and she stamped her way up to clear the mud from her shoes and help circulation. It also meant she didn't have to knock much once she reached the door.
"Coming!" a muffled voice said. Mary rubbed her hands together as she waited for someone to appear.
A blonde head and two eyes peered out of the window next to the front door. They disappeared, and the door opened a crack, revealing the full head of a teenage girl.
"You lost?" she asked.
"Uh, Ellen sent me," Mary said.
The girl opened the door and stepped back. "Come in."
Mary did, and felt immediately warmer. The girl stepped out of the living room area and into a small hallway.
"Dad!" she yelled. "Mom sent someone!"
"Joanna Beth, how many times do I have to tell you not to answer the door?" a male voice called back.
"It's okay, it's a woman!" Joanna glanced at Mary. "I could probably take her!"
The owner of the male voice appeared, leaning on a cane. His hair was lightly gray, but his face was dark and lined, like he'd spent a lot of time outside. "Don't underestimate."
"Hi," Mary said. "Ellen said you could get me some clothes?"
“Looks like you need some, for sure. Jo, will you go in my room and get...”
“Mary.”
“Mary some of your mom's clothes?”
“They're not gonna fit her,” Jo said.
“You'd rather share yours?”
Jo slipped around her dad and disappeared. He walked forward and extended his free hand. Mary took it, and shook.
“Ellen get you out of Leavenworth?”
“Yeah,” Mary said. She glanced at the couch behind her. “You mind?”
“Sorry. Please, sit.”
Mary lowered onto a cushion, but didn't lean back. The man sat on a couch opposite almost as carefully; his left leg wouldn't bend at the knee.
“Name's Bill,” he said.
“Nice to meet you.”
“And you.”
The front door opened, and Ellen walked in. She smiled at Bill and closed the door. “See you found your way here.”
“Yeah, thanks,” Mary said.
Ellen leaned against the door. “Jo getting clothes?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. That'll hold her for a little while.” Ellen crossed her arms. “I've got some questions.”
Mary stiffened. She'd hoped to be spared an interrogation. “What do you want to know?”
“What you know about John Winchester, for starters.”
“She knows John?” Bill asked, bushy eyebrows rising.
“Knew John. I haven't talked to him in...nearly twenty years now.”
Bill's eyes narrowed. “That's before John started hunting.”
“But you know about demons,” Ellen said.
“My parents hunted. I helped until they died.”
“When was that?”
“Back when I was eighteen.”
Jo slipped in, holding a stack of clothes. Mary got to her feet quickly, and winced as her back twinged.
“Thanks,” she said, taking the clothes. She met Ellen and Bill's flat looks with a softer version of the innocent expression than she'd used on Lilith. “Where's the bathroom?”
“Next to the bedroom,” Ellen said. “It's the only room without a window. I'll show you.”
Mary let Ellen lead her forward. It wasn't a big trailer, so the bathroom sat on the other side of the kitchen, which was attached to the living room. Ellen opened the door and let Mary step in the room before closing it.
The bathroom was small, but Mary had enough room to chuck off her soiled clothes and slip on Ellen's. And luckily, the painkillers kept her from feeling too much. Jo was right; the clothes were a couple sizes too big, and slightly short, but it was refreshing to wear something clean again.
She'd set the Colt on the sink as she changed, and now, she picked it up and popped the chamber out. Five bullets. It seemed so few, especially with the power they had. But she knew Lilith was gonna get one right between the eyes.
Hiding the Colt under the looser clothes thwarted her until she realized she could wear her old pants under the new, and she redressed. Her legs warmed, and the baggier clothes hid the bulge the gun made. Perfect.
“What should I do with the old clothes?” she called out.
“Leave 'em on the floor.” Ellen was right outside. Of course.
With a sigh, Mary opened the door and smiled sweetly at Ellen. “Thank you.”
“No problem.” Ellen leaned toward the living room. “Bedtime, Jo.”
“Mom!”
“Bedtime.”
Mary heard grumbling, but Ellen ignored them and stepped away from the door. She waited for Mary to step in the living room, and slipped around her to lean on the exit door again. The door on the other side of the front door slammed shut; Jo definitely wasn't happy about getting kicked out.
“I don't know what you want,” Mary said. “I can't tell you anything about John.”
Ellen sighed. “Sure you can. You're the reason he sent us in.”
“What about the dead civilians?”
“There was no way we coulda saved 'em. They'd been dead for hours.”
“Sounds like bad timing.”
“Maybe,” Ellen said. “But I know John Winchester, and he never mentioned you. Which tells me you're important to him.”
“Important to Sam, too,” Bill said.
Ellen nodded. “Why are you going after Sam?”
“What?”
“In the bar. You said you had a son to go after, and I thought...”
Mary was so shocked she fell into silence.
“It wasn't hard to figure,” Ellen said, crossing her arms. “That part, anyway.”
“Why are you guys curious about John, anyway?” Mary asked, to cover.
Ellen grimaced. “He's got things to answer for.”
“Ellen,” Bill said quietly.
“I know.”
Mary frowned. “Am I missing something?”
“She's had a bone to pick with John for years,” Bill said. “I busted my leg hunting with him.”
“He shot you,” Ellen said.
“It was an accident. Worse has happened to better hunters than me.”
Mary swallowed an apology. She was the reason John Winchester lived, after all. But she couldn't talk about Yellow Eyes. “I don't have any love for John myself, or he for me. I don't know why he'd try to save me twice.”
“Twice?”
“Demons attacked my place,” Mary said. “Sam came because John was supposed to be helping me. That's how I got captured.”
Ellen squinted at her. “Why'd the demons go after you?”
“We have a history.” Evasive, but utterly truthful. Still, Mary decided to give them a little more, since evasion never quelled suspicion. “They killed my parents.”
“Sorry,” Bill said.
“Worse has happened to better hunters,” Mary said, with a hint of a smile. She put a hand over her mouth to yawn.
Ellen looked vaguely sheepish, and stifled a yawn of her own. “We should get some rest. You in particular, the doctor told me you're not up for vigorous.”
“That'd be great,” Mary said, “but I don't have much of a choice in the matter.”
“Nobody does. But we get rest where we can, and you can now.”
Mary figured Ellen wasn't going to let Mary leave. To her surprise, Mary was half-relieved. Going back out in the world wouldn't be pleasant, especially as battered as she felt.
“I'll take this couch then?” she asked.
“And I'll take the other.”
“Guess that means I get the bed,” Bill said. He raised to his feet just as carefully as he sat. “Have a fun sleepover.”
“Get me some blankets?”
“Sure.”
Ellen sat on the opposite couch as Mary stretched out, trying to figure the best way to lie without hurting her back too much. She'd probably be watching Mary like a hawk all night.
Mary couldn't help but admire her.
( part two | master post | part four)