FIC: The Wandering Kind (SPN, Sam/Dean) (4/7)
ONE/ TWO/ THREE/
PART FOUR: Down Deep Into the Earth
It was already early morning when Dean left the motel room, so he got in the Impala and drove around town for a while. Wouldn't want to be early for his appointment.
At a quarter till eight o'clock, Dean couldn't stand it anymore, and cautiously approached the house on Redwood. He had half expected some old gothic mansion, despite Sam's cramped little sketch, but it was rather disappointing: a tiny duplex built from a sad mess of brick and vinyl siding. Dean entered cautiously, gun in one hand and holy water in the other, and kept his body angled in the direction of the hidden closet that Sam had found. Dean might easily be overpowered by this demon chick, but he'd be damned if she was catching him from behind.
He soon figured out that he hadn't needed to worry; the angry cursing and strong smell of sulfur alerted Dean to the fact that one of the devil's traps had worked. He found the demon in the kitchen. The kitchen rug was kicked aside, revealing a complex pentagram inked in Sharpie on the hardwood floor, which Keller had apparently discovered too late to avoid getting snagged. She was pummeling her fists against the invisible barrier set by the outer circle, and when Dean walked in, she turned and hissed at him.
"Should've known," she said. "Should've known it was you, Winchester." She said the name like a curse word.
"Hey, Louise, no hard feelings." Dean shrugged. His heart was pounding too fast, but there was a thin vein of relief running through him, too; he was still furious at Sam, but was starting to realize that Sam had probably saved his ass. "Actually, your name's not Louise, is it? You've gotten that poor girl in a shit load of trouble, sweetheart. Seven counts of murder, and everyone in town knows she's the one that did it."
Keller flailed against the devil's trap again, letting out an angry growl. She was sounding less like a girl and more like a monster with every passing minute. "What are you going to do, turn me in?" She bared her teeth at Dean. "I don't think I'd last very long in custody. Can't cage me, can't domesticate me."
Dean narrowed his eyes at her. "Now, am I wrong in thinking you're crazier than the average demon? I mean, murder, mayhem, sure - but you've got a pretty complex system going on, here."
"What can I say." Keller grinned. "A girl likes to feel special. Pampered. All those flowers and chocolates."
"And the tests?" Something in the back of Dean's mind warned him that he should get started on exorcising the bitch, but he couldn't help it, he wanted to know. She wasn't going anywhere. Dean brought out the book of exorcisms, though, just in case.
Keller snarled at the sight of the book. "The tests? For fun. Twenty questions. I'm thinking of a breadbox. Trivial Pursuit. Charades. Pick your poison. One chose Monopoly - it took a whole day before we were finished. I took his toes with his properties."
"Jesus," Dean said wonderingly. "You're one sick bitch."
She pressed her face up against the air, right where the line of the devil's trap ended, and fluttered her eyelashes. "Me, Dean Winchester? Me? I might be sick, but you -- you have no idea what you've just done. Better than any of us could have hoped. Where's Sammy now, Dean?"
"Sam? He's on the midnight train to anywhere," Dean snarled. "I don't think I need to hear this. In fact -" He flipped open the book, and began. "Adjuro te, serpens antique, per judicem vivorum et mortuorum -"
Keller thrashed. The kitchen sink cracked right down the middle and Dean couldn't help his flinch. He kept going.
"I can tell you things," she said, her voice gone hoarse and inhuman. "I know things."
"Per factorem tuum," Dean enunciated, practically spitting each syllable. "Per factorem mundi, per eum -"
Keller flattened her hands against the air. "You stupid boy," she said. "You really think a hunter like John Winchester would die of a heart attack?"
Dean paused. Just a split second, but he paused.
"That's right," she grinned. "Think about it. I can tell you what really happened."
"Que habet potestatem mittende te in gehennam," Dean continued.
Keller's smile flickered; black veins stood out at her temples, but she kept going. "Not interested? How about this, then - I can tell you something even better," she snarled. "Don't you wanna hear what happened to your precious fucking brother?"
Hell with this. Dean tossed the book aside and took a step closer, skipping straight to the end: "Quia quanto tardius exis, tanto magis tibi supplicium crescit, quia non hominess contemnis, sed illum, qui dominator vivorum et mortuorum, qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos, et saeculum per ignem. And amen, you fucking bitch."
In Dean's experience, despite the inevitable taunting and threats, exorcisms were always rather anticlimactic. The demon in Louise Keller was no different; it streamed out in a mess of black smoke, spent a few mad moments dashing itself against the unseen bars of the devil's trap, and edged its way through a crack near the ceiling before evaporating into nothing. Back to Hell, Dean supposed. The real Louise - whose life was pretty much ruined, now, unless she could plead temporary insanity in court - slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Dean sat down cross-legged on the linoleum, and waited for the girl to wake up. Just to be on the safe side. Once she could exit the devil's trap under her own power, Dean would see about getting her some help.
Until then, though, he was just going to sit there and very busily not think about the events of the past four days.
*
Dean dropped Louise off at the hospital, leaving her with a few awkward words of encouragement. She had been pretty hysterical, and from what Dean managed to make out, it seemed that the demon had kept her awake through all of the murders. Dean couldn't even imagine what that must have been like, and he hoped he'd never have to know.
He drove slowly back to the motel. Dean didn't want to name the feeling in his gut as hope, but whatever it was, it disappeared when he entered the room and found Sam's stuff gone. The bed was made, but the sheets hadn't been changed and Dean could still smell the sex on them.
He sat down on the bed, breathed in the stink of sweat and come, and brought his gun to his head.
The metal was cool against his temple. Soothing. So easy.
So fucking easy.
But Dean couldn't do it. Goddamn him for a coward. He let his arm drop and wound up on the floor, leaning against the bedside table, gun hanging loosely in his hands. Couldn't do it. But if he wasn't going to die, he didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do.
He checked out of the motel the next morning. On one last check around the room, Dean spotted Sam's hoodie crumpled behind the chair, forgotten. For a second, he was tempted to shove it in his bag - it probably smelled like Sam, and god, Dean wanted to smell him, one last time - but he shoved the impulse down, and left it where it was.
*
Dean drove north. After the long first day without Sam, Dean turned the radio on low just to block out the silence.
On the third day, he put on some Zeppelin and cranked it high.
And on the fourth day, he plucked out a tape at random, and was greeted by the rough, rolling voice of Johnny Cash. Dean's hand twitched to shut it off, then he stopped.
He remembered his dad listening to this tape when Dean was just a kid, his calloused hands firm on the steering wheel, the warm leather smell of his coat. Dean remembered his dad saying on the night before he died, Dean, I just want you to know - I'm proud of you. I'm really proud of you, son.
He let it play.
When the tape finally ground to a halt, Dean said quietly into the silence: "Since when does a hunter like John Winchester die from a heart attack, huh?"
There was no answer, of course. Dean doubted there ever would be.
*
It was a couple weeks later -- the eighteenth of October -- when Dean realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good burger. A real burger, with lettuce, tomatoes, sticky American cheese, and so much grease that the bun disintegrated in his hands. Dean was suddenly ravenous; he pulled over at the next promising-looking diner he saw, and the waitress had barely asked "What can I get you?" before he barked out an order for a cheeseburger and a huge order of onion rings.
She scurried away, but came back with a heaping plate only a few minutes later, setting it down carefully in front of Dean. She smiled at him and said, "You look hungry."
Dean snorted. "I'm starving. Can't remember the last time I've had a good burger. This ain't that lean beef low-fat shit, is it?"
She laughed. "Naw, our burgers are made with good ol' fashioned meat and gristle. Straight from the cow to your table."
"Damn right," said Dean, and only jumped a little when his vision was suddenly obstructed by a truly spectacular display of cleavage.
"Oh, sorry," the waitress said coyly, and straightened up. She held up a ketchup bottle. "I'm just going to... refill this for you."
Dean blinked, and took a moment to actually look at the woman. She was stacked, with a short denim skirt and tiny white T-shirt under her diner-issued apron, and she had dyed-red hair that she'd braided into two pigtails. Her face was a little old for her body, which Dean chalked up either to plastic surgery or too much make-up, but aside from that, she was hot.
"Yeah, you do that," Dean grinned. He could feel the rightness of it; one genuine non-serial killer smile, coming right up. Huh. How about that. "I can always use a little more ketchup, uh…?"
"Tasha," the waitress supplied.
"Nice to meet you, Tasha," said Dean. "I'm Dean."
It was a damn good burger. Good enough that Dean decided to stick around until the end of Tasha's shift. She had a hot, collagen-puffed mouth and, as Dean discovered soon enough, a shaved pussy. Dean spread her out in the back of the Impala, undid her pigtails and buried his hands in her hair. She writhed when he fucked up into her, her cunt tight and wet around him.
"Oh, baby," Tasha moaned, "So good."
Dean fucked her harder. Tasha was a nice girl. Dean actually even liked her. She was soft, sweet and easy. She knew that Dean would be out of her life as soon as he got off, and she didn't have a problem with it.
These were only some of the things that proved Tasha was nothing like Sam. They weren't even a little bit alike. So - it really made no sense for Dean to be thinking about Sam while he was fucking her.
He bit his lip, pressed his face against Tasha's neck, and closed his eyes. Easier that way.
*
Dean was not a go-to guy when dealing with signs and portents. He knew there was a bad ton of evil out there, but he liked dealing with the sons of bitches he could actually see. Ghosts, spirits, black dogs, wendigos, you name it, Dean could kill it, and he sure didn't mind exorcising the occasional demon. But this big thing that was on the way - whatever it was - had Dean spooked.
He thought for a little while that the signs might ease up now that Sam had disappeared. They only got worse. People in small towns were always a little batty, but now they could be upgraded to bonkers. Zombies started crawling out of the ground in Cleveland, and New Orleans was full of desiccated ghosts. Dean drove through Kentucky and saw fields full of mutilated cattle and horses, the stench rising faster than the farm owners could burn the corpses. And sometimes when Dean was driving at night and blaring Metallica loud to stay awake, a swathe of static would cut through the radio, crackling and popping almost into the shapes of words.
A few weeks later, Dean caught another demon in Arkansas where it was possessing a teenage boy. Either it was a young demon or just stupid, but first it walked right into the trap Dean laid for it and then it just huddled up and started slinging insults.
"Winchester, you spineless motherfucker," it snarled. "You're going to hell, and I'll be waiting."
"Yeah? And maybe you'll actually be scary by then," Dean retorted.
It cocked its head. "Your daddy will be waiting, too."
Dean got liberal with the holy water, and the thing writhed in pain. "Shut up."
"Don't worry, we're keeping him nice and warm for you," the demon hissed. "He's been cast to the flames for what he did."
"And just what did he do?" Dean asked. He dripped some holy water near the demon's feet and waited, the silver flask poised over its face.
The demon shrugged, its grin flickering bright as a Bunsen burner in the teenager's stolen face. "Nothing we didn't want him to. That's why it's so much fun."
Dean tipped the flask and poured.
*
It wasn't like Dean hadn't tried to find Sam, after that first week. Yeah, sure, he'd tried as hard as he could to forget Sam, too, but that didn't last long. As soon as Dean had gotten over Sam's betrayal, maybe even understood it a little - and after Dean finally admitted to himself that he really wanted to know if Sam was okay, and maybe even buy the guy a drink if Sam would let him - he set about trying to track Sam down.
Dean figured the first place to check would be Sam's destination in California - unfortunately, there were a ton of colleges in California, and Sam had never bothered to mention exactly where he was headed. Dean called a few possible schools, but most had never heard of Sam Harvelle, or if they had, they weren't telling. He had better luck with Stanford University, which had the name in their records but said that Sam wasn't currently enrolled as a student.
As he hung up the phone, Dean had to face the possibility that everything Sam had told him had been a lie. The thought made his chest ache.
Finally, Dean gave up and went with Plan B. He called Bobby Singer, the man who'd owed his dad a favor. He wasn't sure Bobby would be that pleased to hear from him, but at the very least, Bobby might know the location of the roadhouse Sam had talked about.
Awkward pause. "I assume you aren't calling for my health," said Bobby. "Out with it, what do you need?"
"Uh. I was wondering if you knew anything about a roadhouse for hunters. Owned by Ellen Harvelle?"
"Sure thing," said Bobby. "Ellen's good people. Lot of folks travel through there, get a drink, some information. Why?"
Dean let out a breath. Sam hadn't lied. "Does she have a son?"
Bobby paused. "Yeah."
"Right," said Dean. "And his name?" Just to be sure.
"Sam Harvelle," Bobby said slowly, like he wasn't sure that Dean was all that bright. "Sam was her oldest. Got killed by a werewolf up in Utah, not a week before your dad passed."
/ FIVE/ SIX/ SEVEN
PART FOUR: Down Deep Into the Earth
It was already early morning when Dean left the motel room, so he got in the Impala and drove around town for a while. Wouldn't want to be early for his appointment.
At a quarter till eight o'clock, Dean couldn't stand it anymore, and cautiously approached the house on Redwood. He had half expected some old gothic mansion, despite Sam's cramped little sketch, but it was rather disappointing: a tiny duplex built from a sad mess of brick and vinyl siding. Dean entered cautiously, gun in one hand and holy water in the other, and kept his body angled in the direction of the hidden closet that Sam had found. Dean might easily be overpowered by this demon chick, but he'd be damned if she was catching him from behind.
He soon figured out that he hadn't needed to worry; the angry cursing and strong smell of sulfur alerted Dean to the fact that one of the devil's traps had worked. He found the demon in the kitchen. The kitchen rug was kicked aside, revealing a complex pentagram inked in Sharpie on the hardwood floor, which Keller had apparently discovered too late to avoid getting snagged. She was pummeling her fists against the invisible barrier set by the outer circle, and when Dean walked in, she turned and hissed at him.
"Should've known," she said. "Should've known it was you, Winchester." She said the name like a curse word.
"Hey, Louise, no hard feelings." Dean shrugged. His heart was pounding too fast, but there was a thin vein of relief running through him, too; he was still furious at Sam, but was starting to realize that Sam had probably saved his ass. "Actually, your name's not Louise, is it? You've gotten that poor girl in a shit load of trouble, sweetheart. Seven counts of murder, and everyone in town knows she's the one that did it."
Keller flailed against the devil's trap again, letting out an angry growl. She was sounding less like a girl and more like a monster with every passing minute. "What are you going to do, turn me in?" She bared her teeth at Dean. "I don't think I'd last very long in custody. Can't cage me, can't domesticate me."
Dean narrowed his eyes at her. "Now, am I wrong in thinking you're crazier than the average demon? I mean, murder, mayhem, sure - but you've got a pretty complex system going on, here."
"What can I say." Keller grinned. "A girl likes to feel special. Pampered. All those flowers and chocolates."
"And the tests?" Something in the back of Dean's mind warned him that he should get started on exorcising the bitch, but he couldn't help it, he wanted to know. She wasn't going anywhere. Dean brought out the book of exorcisms, though, just in case.
Keller snarled at the sight of the book. "The tests? For fun. Twenty questions. I'm thinking of a breadbox. Trivial Pursuit. Charades. Pick your poison. One chose Monopoly - it took a whole day before we were finished. I took his toes with his properties."
"Jesus," Dean said wonderingly. "You're one sick bitch."
She pressed her face up against the air, right where the line of the devil's trap ended, and fluttered her eyelashes. "Me, Dean Winchester? Me? I might be sick, but you -- you have no idea what you've just done. Better than any of us could have hoped. Where's Sammy now, Dean?"
"Sam? He's on the midnight train to anywhere," Dean snarled. "I don't think I need to hear this. In fact -" He flipped open the book, and began. "Adjuro te, serpens antique, per judicem vivorum et mortuorum -"
Keller thrashed. The kitchen sink cracked right down the middle and Dean couldn't help his flinch. He kept going.
"I can tell you things," she said, her voice gone hoarse and inhuman. "I know things."
"Per factorem tuum," Dean enunciated, practically spitting each syllable. "Per factorem mundi, per eum -"
Keller flattened her hands against the air. "You stupid boy," she said. "You really think a hunter like John Winchester would die of a heart attack?"
Dean paused. Just a split second, but he paused.
"That's right," she grinned. "Think about it. I can tell you what really happened."
"Que habet potestatem mittende te in gehennam," Dean continued.
Keller's smile flickered; black veins stood out at her temples, but she kept going. "Not interested? How about this, then - I can tell you something even better," she snarled. "Don't you wanna hear what happened to your precious fucking brother?"
Hell with this. Dean tossed the book aside and took a step closer, skipping straight to the end: "Quia quanto tardius exis, tanto magis tibi supplicium crescit, quia non hominess contemnis, sed illum, qui dominator vivorum et mortuorum, qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos, et saeculum per ignem. And amen, you fucking bitch."
In Dean's experience, despite the inevitable taunting and threats, exorcisms were always rather anticlimactic. The demon in Louise Keller was no different; it streamed out in a mess of black smoke, spent a few mad moments dashing itself against the unseen bars of the devil's trap, and edged its way through a crack near the ceiling before evaporating into nothing. Back to Hell, Dean supposed. The real Louise - whose life was pretty much ruined, now, unless she could plead temporary insanity in court - slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Dean sat down cross-legged on the linoleum, and waited for the girl to wake up. Just to be on the safe side. Once she could exit the devil's trap under her own power, Dean would see about getting her some help.
Until then, though, he was just going to sit there and very busily not think about the events of the past four days.
*
Dean dropped Louise off at the hospital, leaving her with a few awkward words of encouragement. She had been pretty hysterical, and from what Dean managed to make out, it seemed that the demon had kept her awake through all of the murders. Dean couldn't even imagine what that must have been like, and he hoped he'd never have to know.
He drove slowly back to the motel. Dean didn't want to name the feeling in his gut as hope, but whatever it was, it disappeared when he entered the room and found Sam's stuff gone. The bed was made, but the sheets hadn't been changed and Dean could still smell the sex on them.
He sat down on the bed, breathed in the stink of sweat and come, and brought his gun to his head.
The metal was cool against his temple. Soothing. So easy.
So fucking easy.
But Dean couldn't do it. Goddamn him for a coward. He let his arm drop and wound up on the floor, leaning against the bedside table, gun hanging loosely in his hands. Couldn't do it. But if he wasn't going to die, he didn't know what the hell he was supposed to do.
He checked out of the motel the next morning. On one last check around the room, Dean spotted Sam's hoodie crumpled behind the chair, forgotten. For a second, he was tempted to shove it in his bag - it probably smelled like Sam, and god, Dean wanted to smell him, one last time - but he shoved the impulse down, and left it where it was.
*
Dean drove north. After the long first day without Sam, Dean turned the radio on low just to block out the silence.
On the third day, he put on some Zeppelin and cranked it high.
And on the fourth day, he plucked out a tape at random, and was greeted by the rough, rolling voice of Johnny Cash. Dean's hand twitched to shut it off, then he stopped.
He remembered his dad listening to this tape when Dean was just a kid, his calloused hands firm on the steering wheel, the warm leather smell of his coat. Dean remembered his dad saying on the night before he died, Dean, I just want you to know - I'm proud of you. I'm really proud of you, son.
He let it play.
When the tape finally ground to a halt, Dean said quietly into the silence: "Since when does a hunter like John Winchester die from a heart attack, huh?"
There was no answer, of course. Dean doubted there ever would be.
*
It was a couple weeks later -- the eighteenth of October -- when Dean realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd had a good burger. A real burger, with lettuce, tomatoes, sticky American cheese, and so much grease that the bun disintegrated in his hands. Dean was suddenly ravenous; he pulled over at the next promising-looking diner he saw, and the waitress had barely asked "What can I get you?" before he barked out an order for a cheeseburger and a huge order of onion rings.
She scurried away, but came back with a heaping plate only a few minutes later, setting it down carefully in front of Dean. She smiled at him and said, "You look hungry."
Dean snorted. "I'm starving. Can't remember the last time I've had a good burger. This ain't that lean beef low-fat shit, is it?"
She laughed. "Naw, our burgers are made with good ol' fashioned meat and gristle. Straight from the cow to your table."
"Damn right," said Dean, and only jumped a little when his vision was suddenly obstructed by a truly spectacular display of cleavage.
"Oh, sorry," the waitress said coyly, and straightened up. She held up a ketchup bottle. "I'm just going to... refill this for you."
Dean blinked, and took a moment to actually look at the woman. She was stacked, with a short denim skirt and tiny white T-shirt under her diner-issued apron, and she had dyed-red hair that she'd braided into two pigtails. Her face was a little old for her body, which Dean chalked up either to plastic surgery or too much make-up, but aside from that, she was hot.
"Yeah, you do that," Dean grinned. He could feel the rightness of it; one genuine non-serial killer smile, coming right up. Huh. How about that. "I can always use a little more ketchup, uh…?"
"Tasha," the waitress supplied.
"Nice to meet you, Tasha," said Dean. "I'm Dean."
It was a damn good burger. Good enough that Dean decided to stick around until the end of Tasha's shift. She had a hot, collagen-puffed mouth and, as Dean discovered soon enough, a shaved pussy. Dean spread her out in the back of the Impala, undid her pigtails and buried his hands in her hair. She writhed when he fucked up into her, her cunt tight and wet around him.
"Oh, baby," Tasha moaned, "So good."
Dean fucked her harder. Tasha was a nice girl. Dean actually even liked her. She was soft, sweet and easy. She knew that Dean would be out of her life as soon as he got off, and she didn't have a problem with it.
These were only some of the things that proved Tasha was nothing like Sam. They weren't even a little bit alike. So - it really made no sense for Dean to be thinking about Sam while he was fucking her.
He bit his lip, pressed his face against Tasha's neck, and closed his eyes. Easier that way.
*
Dean was not a go-to guy when dealing with signs and portents. He knew there was a bad ton of evil out there, but he liked dealing with the sons of bitches he could actually see. Ghosts, spirits, black dogs, wendigos, you name it, Dean could kill it, and he sure didn't mind exorcising the occasional demon. But this big thing that was on the way - whatever it was - had Dean spooked.
He thought for a little while that the signs might ease up now that Sam had disappeared. They only got worse. People in small towns were always a little batty, but now they could be upgraded to bonkers. Zombies started crawling out of the ground in Cleveland, and New Orleans was full of desiccated ghosts. Dean drove through Kentucky and saw fields full of mutilated cattle and horses, the stench rising faster than the farm owners could burn the corpses. And sometimes when Dean was driving at night and blaring Metallica loud to stay awake, a swathe of static would cut through the radio, crackling and popping almost into the shapes of words.
A few weeks later, Dean caught another demon in Arkansas where it was possessing a teenage boy. Either it was a young demon or just stupid, but first it walked right into the trap Dean laid for it and then it just huddled up and started slinging insults.
"Winchester, you spineless motherfucker," it snarled. "You're going to hell, and I'll be waiting."
"Yeah? And maybe you'll actually be scary by then," Dean retorted.
It cocked its head. "Your daddy will be waiting, too."
Dean got liberal with the holy water, and the thing writhed in pain. "Shut up."
"Don't worry, we're keeping him nice and warm for you," the demon hissed. "He's been cast to the flames for what he did."
"And just what did he do?" Dean asked. He dripped some holy water near the demon's feet and waited, the silver flask poised over its face.
The demon shrugged, its grin flickering bright as a Bunsen burner in the teenager's stolen face. "Nothing we didn't want him to. That's why it's so much fun."
Dean tipped the flask and poured.
*
It wasn't like Dean hadn't tried to find Sam, after that first week. Yeah, sure, he'd tried as hard as he could to forget Sam, too, but that didn't last long. As soon as Dean had gotten over Sam's betrayal, maybe even understood it a little - and after Dean finally admitted to himself that he really wanted to know if Sam was okay, and maybe even buy the guy a drink if Sam would let him - he set about trying to track Sam down.
Dean figured the first place to check would be Sam's destination in California - unfortunately, there were a ton of colleges in California, and Sam had never bothered to mention exactly where he was headed. Dean called a few possible schools, but most had never heard of Sam Harvelle, or if they had, they weren't telling. He had better luck with Stanford University, which had the name in their records but said that Sam wasn't currently enrolled as a student.
As he hung up the phone, Dean had to face the possibility that everything Sam had told him had been a lie. The thought made his chest ache.
Finally, Dean gave up and went with Plan B. He called Bobby Singer, the man who'd owed his dad a favor. He wasn't sure Bobby would be that pleased to hear from him, but at the very least, Bobby might know the location of the roadhouse Sam had talked about.
Awkward pause. "I assume you aren't calling for my health," said Bobby. "Out with it, what do you need?"
"Uh. I was wondering if you knew anything about a roadhouse for hunters. Owned by Ellen Harvelle?"
"Sure thing," said Bobby. "Ellen's good people. Lot of folks travel through there, get a drink, some information. Why?"
Dean let out a breath. Sam hadn't lied. "Does she have a son?"
Bobby paused. "Yeah."
"Right," said Dean. "And his name?" Just to be sure.
"Sam Harvelle," Bobby said slowly, like he wasn't sure that Dean was all that bright. "Sam was her oldest. Got killed by a werewolf up in Utah, not a week before your dad passed."
/ FIVE/ SIX/ SEVEN