Fic: Thirteen at Dinner (9/15)
Masterpost
Chapter VII: Agnes Winn
Chapter VIII: Father Maynard
“Isabelle Beaudreau. I suppose it’s possible that she cut out those pages. But what I don’t understand is why she’d do this -”
“If your ghost buddy is telling the truth,” Dean interrupted.
Sam just managed not to grit his teeth. Dean had been weird about this case since Josh Mathieson had first called him about it. He’d barely known the guy a week, but trusted him as though he were an old friend. Sam’s temper was fraying.
“Yes,” he snapped. “If Frances is telling the truth, I don’t get it. Even assuming Amanda Velour and Isabelle Beaudreau are the same person, why bother with this? As far as anyone knows, whoever killed Ralph Ashby is long dead. She wasn’t in any danger because of it.”
“What if my dad told her he’d called you in?” Avery piped up. “If she knew hunters were going to look into the history of the town - she knew the ghost was Frances -”
“I thought you were claiming that the ghost wasn’t Frances,” Dean said, rolling his eyes.
“This latest ghost wasn’t Frances - she wouldn’t hurt a child. But in the beginning, just appearing and writing her name in fogged glass - she was trying to get attention. And it looks like she did get Isabelle’s attention.”
Dean glared at her. “Have you made up with your dad yet?”
“That’s not your business, is it?”
“No, and hunting isn’t your business. We don’t need any help from amateurs. So how about you shut up, and let us handle this?”
“Dean!” Sam protested, before turning to Avery. “I’m sorry about my brother.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you are,” Dean growled.
“Dean, this isn’t the time.” Sam looked at the photos spread out on the table. “According to the timestamps, Amanda was the first to handle the diary, which ties in with what she told us. Unless she faked the timestamps.” He shrugged. “That could be why she gave us physical copies. She might not have known how to delete metadata in a hurry.”
“What does it prove, if we can’t see the videos? She could be lying.” Dean made a frustrated noise. “That’s the problem with this whole damn case. Anyone could be lying. We’ve got absolutely no hard evidence.”
“It’s Isabelle!” Frances said angrily. “Why won’t you believe me? I don’t know if she killed Ralph - I never thought it was her, though I suppose if she’s a witch she might have had a reason to hurt him - but it doesn’t matter.”
“No, it does matter!” Dean snapped. “It’s clearly a ghost responsible for the hauntings. That’s not Isabelle. Maybe she’s a witch, but that’s not our problem. Someone else can come burn her altar. We came here to deal with a ghost.”
“Dean -”
“No!” Dean all but yelled. “This is not our problem, Sam. I’m done with this. We’re here to deal with a ghost - that’s all. You want to go around being a boy scout, fine. Do it. But you’re doing it on your own. I’m done playing detective. Someone killed Ralph Ashby. I don’t care. I’m going to figure out the haunting we have to worry about now, burn the bones tonight, and leave town in the morning. You can come with me or you can stay the hell here. And you know what? I’d rather you stayed here.”
Grabbing the sheets of paper that had the names and addresses of the people who’d seen the ghosts, Dean left, slamming the door violently behind him.
Sam stared after him. They had disagreements about cases sometimes, and they fought as much as any pair of siblings forced to live in each other’s pockets, but it wasn’t like Dean to walk out on a potential case.
“Sam?” Frances said hesitantly. “I’m sorry.”
Sam shook his head. “Not your fault. Don’t worry about Dean. He’ll be back when he cools off. For now…” He glanced at Frances. “I’m not promising anything. Dean’s right about one thing. It was all insanely long ago. There’s no physical evidence left. This isn’t going to be like Sherlock Holmes.”
“Maybe you can talk to Isabelle - she is Isabelle, Sam, I promise you.”
“You think she’ll be willing to talk to me?”
“About who killed Ralph? I think she might. Like you said, even if she did it herself, she can’t be tried for it now.”
“And if it turns out to be her, you’re going to be OK with that? I’m not going to kill her for a crime she may or may not have committed in the sixteen hundreds.”
“I don’t want vengeance, Sam. I only want vindication.”
“Right,” Sam said. “I’ll make an appointment.”
“Agent Newman,” Dean said, flashing his FBI badge at the startled librarian. “I need information about unusual deaths in the area, a while ago.”
“Can’t City Hall help you with this?” the librarian asked.
“I spoke to them, but they don’t have records from so long ago. They suggested I should come to you.”
“How long ago are we talking about, exactly?” The librarian’s voice was businesslike as she got to her feet.
“Sometime in the late sixteen hundreds or early seventeen hundreds. I don’t have a precise date.”
She frowned. “Why does the government care about someone who died that long ago?”
For a fleeting moment, Dean wished Sam were around to answer that question. Then he shook himself. Sam was being an annoying little bitch, and Dean was better off without him.
“That’s classified,” he told her. “Can you help me or not?”
“Let me see if I can find something. Why don’t you take a seat, Agent Newman?”
Dean sank into a chair as her fingers flew over her keyboard. The clacking of the keys was an annoying discordant sound in the otherwise silent library.
Dean sighed, fingering the sheets of paper with names and addresses. He’d spoken to all the witnesses, spoken to Gill and Vince again, even spoken to the junkie who claimed to be Bernard Elliott’s son. He had a description of the ghost and its clothes. It sounded like the late sixteen hundreds was right, but it was usually Sam’s job to work out the details.
“Thanks for agreeing to talk to us,” Sam said, taking the chair in front of Ms. Velour’s desk. Avery - Avery, not Frances - sat next to him.
“Well, with what you told me on the phone, I was intrigued. You said you were looking into the history of witch hunts in the area.” Her eyebrow went up. “I always knew you weren’t FBI agents, but I had your brother pegged for the one who’d be stupid enough to come try to kill me.”
“I’m not here to kill you. I just want to talk. I know you’re Isabelle Beaudreau.”
For a moment she looked like she was going to deny it. Then she shrugged, leaned forward, and said, “You’ve got me. So… Do you have a point?”
“Look… Whatever you did back then, I don’t care. I’m just trying to help Frances Ashby.”
“The mariticide.”
“She says she didn’t do it, and I believe her. But her spirit can’t find rest until she knows who did do it.”
“And you’re here to ask if it was me.”
“Frances is pretty sure it wasn’t you,” Avery said.
“Is she? And what about you, hunter? Do you think it was me?”
“I think…” Sam studied Ms. Velour - Isabelle. “I think you’re the type who would kill someone, with no regret, if there was a need. But I don’t know if there was any need for you to kill Ralph Ashby.”
“Oh, there was a need. He was trying to turn Philip against me. And I would have killed him.” Isabelle made a face. “But I never had the chance. Somebody beat me to it.”
“Who?”
“You think I know?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Sam Winchester. I have no idea. William Winn said in his diary that he thought it was that silly twit Agnes. The woman was too stupid to kill anyone.”
“Frances said the diary didn’t have any accusations.”
Isabelle rolled her eyes. “Frances lied. You think she was Saint Theresa or something?”
“Why would she lie? She wants the case solved.”
“But she doesn’t trust you to solve it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I did some research when Frances showed up. After all, the easiest way to keep hunters from coming would’ve been to get rid of the ghost myself. You lot are all so secretive everyone would’ve assumed someone else did it. Frances is tied here by the knowledge of betrayal. She doesn’t need the truth. She needs to hear that Walter Winn was guilty.”
“Why?”
“There were thirteen people at dinner that night, and most of them were her friends. She hated me, and she didn’t care for Philip, but Philip really did love Ralph. She knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t kill without cause. As far as she knew, Ralph had never given me a real one. His narrow-minded ranting was hardly a threat to me. Agnes didn’t have enough personality to swat a fly, leave alone poison Ralph Ashby. So, if it wasn’t Walter Winn, it was someone Frances loved and trusted: her best friend Kat, or Colum O’Donnell - Frances thought nobody knew what was between them, but it was there for everyone to see. She looked down on me. I’m not noble by any means, but I never encouraged a man to betray his wife.”
“Frances said she didn’t encourage Colum.”
“Frances wore Colum O’Donnell’s hair in a locket around her neck. Frances is a cheat and a shameless liar. I don’t think she killed Ralph - she isn’t a murderer. But she’s far from honest.” Isabelle’s eyes were blazing. “Who else was there? Her beloved Joyce? That hell-child she called her son? Her precious priest? Joyce’s betrothed? Any of them might have killed him and left dear Frances to bear the blame. She thought so, and that’s why she lingered. She needed to hear that nobody she loved had betrayed her. That’s what’ll make her go.”
“So… If I tell her it was Walter Winn, she’ll find peace?”
“Oh, no, Sam. You have to say it, and believe it.”
“Do you believe it was him?” Avery asked.
Isabelle scoffed. “Please. No, if you ask me, it was the priest. Maynard.”
“Why would he want to kill Ralph Ashby?”
“Because he was a horrible person. He beat his wife, he terrorized his children, and he was a menace to the community.” She shrugged. “If it was Maynard, he did the world a service.”
“So… this Father Maynard, he went around killing people he didn’t like?”
“In general, no. Father Maynard was… Oh, I suppose you would consider him a good man. He wasn’t superstitious about witches, or about anything in general. He was sensible. Ralph… Ralph was a monster. Philip knew it, even if he was too loyal to admit it. If I’d been Frances, I would have stabbed him in his sleep.”
“But you don’t think Frances killed him,” Sam said.
“I think she had the most reason, but I don’t think she would have done it like that. She would at least have attempted to cover her own tracks, not poisoned him in front of everyone she knew.”
“Philip thought it was Frances. She said he was the one who accused her.”
“Philip didn’t think it was Frances,” Isabelle said impatiently. “He thought it was me, and he wanted to deflect suspicion. Poor, stupid Philip.” She smiled. “You know, I really did love him. But he started having second thoughts about the things I did, tried to make me stop…”
Sam felt a sudden chill. “What are you saying?”
“Oh, Sam. Have you been thinking all this time that I was Glinda the Good?” She leaned forward. “I have news for you, little boy. I am absolutely, totally, one hundred percent evil. And you know far too much.”
Sam’s eyes widened.
“Run!” he told Avery.
Dean’s phone rang. Smiling at the librarian’s glare, he answered. “Yeah?”
“Dean?” Mathieson’s voice said. “Is everything OK with Sam?”
“Yeah, he’s fine. Why, what’s wrong?”
“Amanda called me. Apparently he’s at Connor and Connor creating a scene. Do you think you could… talk to him? I’ve got a great relationship with them. I don’t want to ruin it.”
Dean sighed. “Sure, I’m not too far anyway. I’ll go over there now.”
The door was locked. Avery rattled desperately at the handle, but there was no getting out.
“What do we do?” she gasped.
“Isabelle, you don’t have to do this.” Sam put himself between the two women. “Listen to me. Whatever you did to Philip Ashby, it doesn’t matter. He’s gone. They’re all gone. If you’re not hurting people now, we’ll let you go -”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Isabelle spat. “You might walk away, but you’ll never forget. You’ll track me, and you’ll be waiting for something to happen around me. I’m not going to spend my life looking over my shoulder for a hunter.”
“Isabelle.” Sam took out his gun. “Please. Let us go. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You think you can hurt me?” Isabelle gestured. The gun flew out of Sam’s hand and clattered against the wall. “You’re pathetic. You’re not the first hunters to come after me. I’ve dealt with far better hunters than you.”
“Isabelle -”
She gestured again. Sam doubled over, coughing, as a sharp pain assaulted his chest. Blood spattered on the pristine white carpet.
“You see?” Isabelle let him go. Sam collapsed to the floor, gasping. She stepped over him, retrieved his gun, and came back, seizing a handful of his hair to yank his head up. “This is how you kill a monster, isn’t it ironic?” She put the barrel to his jaw. “Goodbye, Sam.”
With all his strength, Sam rolled, arms coming up to shove her off him. She tried to twist to keep her grip. The wrestled for a moment on the ground until, with a sharp retort, the gun went off.
Sam gasped - but he couldn’t feel any pain. He scrambled up, away from Isabelle, who was lying in a pool of spreading blood on the floor.
“Oh my god,” Avery whispered, hands to her mouth. “Oh my god.”
“Calm down.”
“Calm down? Calm down? She’s dead!”
“She attacked us. The security footage will show that. It’ll be fine -”
There was loud rapping at the door.
“Hey!” a voice yelled. A blessedly familiar voice. “You OK?”
“Dean,” Sam said. “Oh, thank god. Let him in.”
Avery opened the door. Dean strode into the room, a couple of the building’s guards behind him. His eyes went wide when he saw the body on the floor.
“You killed her?”
“She attacked me!”
Dean’s gaze snapped to him, and Sam shrank back from the sudden coldness in his eyes. “Did she? Or was this just part of your mission to help your precious little Frances? She persuaded you Ms. Velour was a witch and you decided to get some vigilante justice of your own?”
“Dean -”
“What happened?” Dean barked, ignoring Sam and turning to Avery. “Did she attack first?”
“Hey!” Sam protested, outraged.
“Shut up, Sam. Well, Avery? What happened?”
Avery swallowed. “She - she didn’t attack him. She was just - just telling us about a book and Sam - jumped on her and shot her.”
“Did he?” Dean turned to the security guys and flashed his FBI badge. “You have somewhere you can hold him till the police get here?”
“Dean!”
“Shut up, Sam. You,” he nodded at one of the security guards. “Lock him up, and tell the cops about it when they come. Here’s my number.” He handed the guy a card. “I don’t think there’ll be a problem, since you have a witness, but if there is, call me.” He finally turned to Sam. “You know, I really thought you were better than this.”
Sam had never heard anything more horrible than the door clicking softly shut as Dean left.
Chapter IX: Philip Ashby
Chapter VII: Agnes Winn
Chapter VIII: Father Maynard
“Isabelle Beaudreau. I suppose it’s possible that she cut out those pages. But what I don’t understand is why she’d do this -”
“If your ghost buddy is telling the truth,” Dean interrupted.
Sam just managed not to grit his teeth. Dean had been weird about this case since Josh Mathieson had first called him about it. He’d barely known the guy a week, but trusted him as though he were an old friend. Sam’s temper was fraying.
“Yes,” he snapped. “If Frances is telling the truth, I don’t get it. Even assuming Amanda Velour and Isabelle Beaudreau are the same person, why bother with this? As far as anyone knows, whoever killed Ralph Ashby is long dead. She wasn’t in any danger because of it.”
“What if my dad told her he’d called you in?” Avery piped up. “If she knew hunters were going to look into the history of the town - she knew the ghost was Frances -”
“I thought you were claiming that the ghost wasn’t Frances,” Dean said, rolling his eyes.
“This latest ghost wasn’t Frances - she wouldn’t hurt a child. But in the beginning, just appearing and writing her name in fogged glass - she was trying to get attention. And it looks like she did get Isabelle’s attention.”
Dean glared at her. “Have you made up with your dad yet?”
“That’s not your business, is it?”
“No, and hunting isn’t your business. We don’t need any help from amateurs. So how about you shut up, and let us handle this?”
“Dean!” Sam protested, before turning to Avery. “I’m sorry about my brother.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet you are,” Dean growled.
“Dean, this isn’t the time.” Sam looked at the photos spread out on the table. “According to the timestamps, Amanda was the first to handle the diary, which ties in with what she told us. Unless she faked the timestamps.” He shrugged. “That could be why she gave us physical copies. She might not have known how to delete metadata in a hurry.”
“What does it prove, if we can’t see the videos? She could be lying.” Dean made a frustrated noise. “That’s the problem with this whole damn case. Anyone could be lying. We’ve got absolutely no hard evidence.”
“It’s Isabelle!” Frances said angrily. “Why won’t you believe me? I don’t know if she killed Ralph - I never thought it was her, though I suppose if she’s a witch she might have had a reason to hurt him - but it doesn’t matter.”
“No, it does matter!” Dean snapped. “It’s clearly a ghost responsible for the hauntings. That’s not Isabelle. Maybe she’s a witch, but that’s not our problem. Someone else can come burn her altar. We came here to deal with a ghost.”
“Dean -”
“No!” Dean all but yelled. “This is not our problem, Sam. I’m done with this. We’re here to deal with a ghost - that’s all. You want to go around being a boy scout, fine. Do it. But you’re doing it on your own. I’m done playing detective. Someone killed Ralph Ashby. I don’t care. I’m going to figure out the haunting we have to worry about now, burn the bones tonight, and leave town in the morning. You can come with me or you can stay the hell here. And you know what? I’d rather you stayed here.”
Grabbing the sheets of paper that had the names and addresses of the people who’d seen the ghosts, Dean left, slamming the door violently behind him.
Sam stared after him. They had disagreements about cases sometimes, and they fought as much as any pair of siblings forced to live in each other’s pockets, but it wasn’t like Dean to walk out on a potential case.
“Sam?” Frances said hesitantly. “I’m sorry.”
Sam shook his head. “Not your fault. Don’t worry about Dean. He’ll be back when he cools off. For now…” He glanced at Frances. “I’m not promising anything. Dean’s right about one thing. It was all insanely long ago. There’s no physical evidence left. This isn’t going to be like Sherlock Holmes.”
“Maybe you can talk to Isabelle - she is Isabelle, Sam, I promise you.”
“You think she’ll be willing to talk to me?”
“About who killed Ralph? I think she might. Like you said, even if she did it herself, she can’t be tried for it now.”
“And if it turns out to be her, you’re going to be OK with that? I’m not going to kill her for a crime she may or may not have committed in the sixteen hundreds.”
“I don’t want vengeance, Sam. I only want vindication.”
“Right,” Sam said. “I’ll make an appointment.”
“Agent Newman,” Dean said, flashing his FBI badge at the startled librarian. “I need information about unusual deaths in the area, a while ago.”
“Can’t City Hall help you with this?” the librarian asked.
“I spoke to them, but they don’t have records from so long ago. They suggested I should come to you.”
“How long ago are we talking about, exactly?” The librarian’s voice was businesslike as she got to her feet.
“Sometime in the late sixteen hundreds or early seventeen hundreds. I don’t have a precise date.”
She frowned. “Why does the government care about someone who died that long ago?”
For a fleeting moment, Dean wished Sam were around to answer that question. Then he shook himself. Sam was being an annoying little bitch, and Dean was better off without him.
“That’s classified,” he told her. “Can you help me or not?”
“Let me see if I can find something. Why don’t you take a seat, Agent Newman?”
Dean sank into a chair as her fingers flew over her keyboard. The clacking of the keys was an annoying discordant sound in the otherwise silent library.
Dean sighed, fingering the sheets of paper with names and addresses. He’d spoken to all the witnesses, spoken to Gill and Vince again, even spoken to the junkie who claimed to be Bernard Elliott’s son. He had a description of the ghost and its clothes. It sounded like the late sixteen hundreds was right, but it was usually Sam’s job to work out the details.
“Thanks for agreeing to talk to us,” Sam said, taking the chair in front of Ms. Velour’s desk. Avery - Avery, not Frances - sat next to him.
“Well, with what you told me on the phone, I was intrigued. You said you were looking into the history of witch hunts in the area.” Her eyebrow went up. “I always knew you weren’t FBI agents, but I had your brother pegged for the one who’d be stupid enough to come try to kill me.”
“I’m not here to kill you. I just want to talk. I know you’re Isabelle Beaudreau.”
For a moment she looked like she was going to deny it. Then she shrugged, leaned forward, and said, “You’ve got me. So… Do you have a point?”
“Look… Whatever you did back then, I don’t care. I’m just trying to help Frances Ashby.”
“The mariticide.”
“She says she didn’t do it, and I believe her. But her spirit can’t find rest until she knows who did do it.”
“And you’re here to ask if it was me.”
“Frances is pretty sure it wasn’t you,” Avery said.
“Is she? And what about you, hunter? Do you think it was me?”
“I think…” Sam studied Ms. Velour - Isabelle. “I think you’re the type who would kill someone, with no regret, if there was a need. But I don’t know if there was any need for you to kill Ralph Ashby.”
“Oh, there was a need. He was trying to turn Philip against me. And I would have killed him.” Isabelle made a face. “But I never had the chance. Somebody beat me to it.”
“Who?”
“You think I know?” She shook her head. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Sam Winchester. I have no idea. William Winn said in his diary that he thought it was that silly twit Agnes. The woman was too stupid to kill anyone.”
“Frances said the diary didn’t have any accusations.”
Isabelle rolled her eyes. “Frances lied. You think she was Saint Theresa or something?”
“Why would she lie? She wants the case solved.”
“But she doesn’t trust you to solve it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I did some research when Frances showed up. After all, the easiest way to keep hunters from coming would’ve been to get rid of the ghost myself. You lot are all so secretive everyone would’ve assumed someone else did it. Frances is tied here by the knowledge of betrayal. She doesn’t need the truth. She needs to hear that Walter Winn was guilty.”
“Why?”
“There were thirteen people at dinner that night, and most of them were her friends. She hated me, and she didn’t care for Philip, but Philip really did love Ralph. She knew me well enough to know I wouldn’t kill without cause. As far as she knew, Ralph had never given me a real one. His narrow-minded ranting was hardly a threat to me. Agnes didn’t have enough personality to swat a fly, leave alone poison Ralph Ashby. So, if it wasn’t Walter Winn, it was someone Frances loved and trusted: her best friend Kat, or Colum O’Donnell - Frances thought nobody knew what was between them, but it was there for everyone to see. She looked down on me. I’m not noble by any means, but I never encouraged a man to betray his wife.”
“Frances said she didn’t encourage Colum.”
“Frances wore Colum O’Donnell’s hair in a locket around her neck. Frances is a cheat and a shameless liar. I don’t think she killed Ralph - she isn’t a murderer. But she’s far from honest.” Isabelle’s eyes were blazing. “Who else was there? Her beloved Joyce? That hell-child she called her son? Her precious priest? Joyce’s betrothed? Any of them might have killed him and left dear Frances to bear the blame. She thought so, and that’s why she lingered. She needed to hear that nobody she loved had betrayed her. That’s what’ll make her go.”
“So… If I tell her it was Walter Winn, she’ll find peace?”
“Oh, no, Sam. You have to say it, and believe it.”
“Do you believe it was him?” Avery asked.
Isabelle scoffed. “Please. No, if you ask me, it was the priest. Maynard.”
“Why would he want to kill Ralph Ashby?”
“Because he was a horrible person. He beat his wife, he terrorized his children, and he was a menace to the community.” She shrugged. “If it was Maynard, he did the world a service.”
“So… this Father Maynard, he went around killing people he didn’t like?”
“In general, no. Father Maynard was… Oh, I suppose you would consider him a good man. He wasn’t superstitious about witches, or about anything in general. He was sensible. Ralph… Ralph was a monster. Philip knew it, even if he was too loyal to admit it. If I’d been Frances, I would have stabbed him in his sleep.”
“But you don’t think Frances killed him,” Sam said.
“I think she had the most reason, but I don’t think she would have done it like that. She would at least have attempted to cover her own tracks, not poisoned him in front of everyone she knew.”
“Philip thought it was Frances. She said he was the one who accused her.”
“Philip didn’t think it was Frances,” Isabelle said impatiently. “He thought it was me, and he wanted to deflect suspicion. Poor, stupid Philip.” She smiled. “You know, I really did love him. But he started having second thoughts about the things I did, tried to make me stop…”
Sam felt a sudden chill. “What are you saying?”
“Oh, Sam. Have you been thinking all this time that I was Glinda the Good?” She leaned forward. “I have news for you, little boy. I am absolutely, totally, one hundred percent evil. And you know far too much.”
Sam’s eyes widened.
“Run!” he told Avery.
Dean’s phone rang. Smiling at the librarian’s glare, he answered. “Yeah?”
“Dean?” Mathieson’s voice said. “Is everything OK with Sam?”
“Yeah, he’s fine. Why, what’s wrong?”
“Amanda called me. Apparently he’s at Connor and Connor creating a scene. Do you think you could… talk to him? I’ve got a great relationship with them. I don’t want to ruin it.”
Dean sighed. “Sure, I’m not too far anyway. I’ll go over there now.”
The door was locked. Avery rattled desperately at the handle, but there was no getting out.
“What do we do?” she gasped.
“Isabelle, you don’t have to do this.” Sam put himself between the two women. “Listen to me. Whatever you did to Philip Ashby, it doesn’t matter. He’s gone. They’re all gone. If you’re not hurting people now, we’ll let you go -”
“Do you think I’m stupid?” Isabelle spat. “You might walk away, but you’ll never forget. You’ll track me, and you’ll be waiting for something to happen around me. I’m not going to spend my life looking over my shoulder for a hunter.”
“Isabelle.” Sam took out his gun. “Please. Let us go. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You think you can hurt me?” Isabelle gestured. The gun flew out of Sam’s hand and clattered against the wall. “You’re pathetic. You’re not the first hunters to come after me. I’ve dealt with far better hunters than you.”
“Isabelle -”
She gestured again. Sam doubled over, coughing, as a sharp pain assaulted his chest. Blood spattered on the pristine white carpet.
“You see?” Isabelle let him go. Sam collapsed to the floor, gasping. She stepped over him, retrieved his gun, and came back, seizing a handful of his hair to yank his head up. “This is how you kill a monster, isn’t it ironic?” She put the barrel to his jaw. “Goodbye, Sam.”
With all his strength, Sam rolled, arms coming up to shove her off him. She tried to twist to keep her grip. The wrestled for a moment on the ground until, with a sharp retort, the gun went off.
Sam gasped - but he couldn’t feel any pain. He scrambled up, away from Isabelle, who was lying in a pool of spreading blood on the floor.
“Oh my god,” Avery whispered, hands to her mouth. “Oh my god.”
“Calm down.”
“Calm down? Calm down? She’s dead!”
“She attacked us. The security footage will show that. It’ll be fine -”
There was loud rapping at the door.
“Hey!” a voice yelled. A blessedly familiar voice. “You OK?”
“Dean,” Sam said. “Oh, thank god. Let him in.”
Avery opened the door. Dean strode into the room, a couple of the building’s guards behind him. His eyes went wide when he saw the body on the floor.
“You killed her?”
“She attacked me!”
Dean’s gaze snapped to him, and Sam shrank back from the sudden coldness in his eyes. “Did she? Or was this just part of your mission to help your precious little Frances? She persuaded you Ms. Velour was a witch and you decided to get some vigilante justice of your own?”
“Dean -”
“What happened?” Dean barked, ignoring Sam and turning to Avery. “Did she attack first?”
“Hey!” Sam protested, outraged.
“Shut up, Sam. Well, Avery? What happened?”
Avery swallowed. “She - she didn’t attack him. She was just - just telling us about a book and Sam - jumped on her and shot her.”
“Did he?” Dean turned to the security guys and flashed his FBI badge. “You have somewhere you can hold him till the police get here?”
“Dean!”
“Shut up, Sam. You,” he nodded at one of the security guards. “Lock him up, and tell the cops about it when they come. Here’s my number.” He handed the guy a card. “I don’t think there’ll be a problem, since you have a witness, but if there is, call me.” He finally turned to Sam. “You know, I really thought you were better than this.”
Sam had never heard anything more horrible than the door clicking softly shut as Dean left.
Chapter IX: Philip Ashby