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1x22 -- Devil's Trap
Bobby Singer looks out the window, past the hubcaps nailed to the black boards on the outside of the house like encroaching barnacles, and raises his eyebrows the proverbial six feet.
Anybody approaching the salvage yard that fast has business with him -- and not the kind where he's supposed to be a legitimate businessman, either. Bobby's got himself a nice-looking elephant graveyard: this is where cars go to die, and rust, and -- sometimes -- lie in wait to be dismantled for other purposes. Any way you want to look at it, there's a fair amount of metal lying around. Lots of places to hide. Lots of cover.
(And Rumsfeld the rottweiler to set up a ruckus.)
Bobby knows cars (among other things), and there's only one hunter he knows of driving a car like that. Hunters, now. Plural. It's still Team Winchester in the black Impala, but the lineup's changed. Not John and Dean, not any more: Dean and Sam. The college boy.
Ten minutes later he's got the Winchester boys inside and set up in his living room -- Sam at Bobby's desk, with a stack of books to hand and one open in front of him (and that short stack didn't even make a dent in his collection, piles twenty deep in some places spread over every flat surface and some surfaces that aren't so flat), Dean at the walls, feasting his eyes on the collection of pinned-up symbols and maps (the hunter's wallpaper, Bobby sometimes thinks to himself, without much humor) to see if there's anything familiar-looking -- while he goes looking for fortifying materials. Ammunition.
They come in two silver flasks, the first of which he passes off to Dean. "Here you go."
Anybody approaching the salvage yard that fast has business with him -- and not the kind where he's supposed to be a legitimate businessman, either. Bobby's got himself a nice-looking elephant graveyard: this is where cars go to die, and rust, and -- sometimes -- lie in wait to be dismantled for other purposes. Any way you want to look at it, there's a fair amount of metal lying around. Lots of places to hide. Lots of cover.
(And Rumsfeld the rottweiler to set up a ruckus.)
Bobby knows cars (among other things), and there's only one hunter he knows of driving a car like that. Hunters, now. Plural. It's still Team Winchester in the black Impala, but the lineup's changed. Not John and Dean, not any more: Dean and Sam. The college boy.
Ten minutes later he's got the Winchester boys inside and set up in his living room -- Sam at Bobby's desk, with a stack of books to hand and one open in front of him (and that short stack didn't even make a dent in his collection, piles twenty deep in some places spread over every flat surface and some surfaces that aren't so flat), Dean at the walls, feasting his eyes on the collection of pinned-up symbols and maps (the hunter's wallpaper, Bobby sometimes thinks to himself, without much humor) to see if there's anything familiar-looking -- while he goes looking for fortifying materials. Ammunition.
They come in two silver flasks, the first of which he passes off to Dean. "Here you go."
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It had been different when the demon was riding her.
This-- seeing her like this--
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"We need to know."
They do. And if Dean were her--he'd rather do somethin' instead of just laying there dying.
Some things are--
Some things just need doing, that's all.
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"Yes. But it wants... wants you to know--"
She struggles for air, fighting to get the words out through the pain.
"--they want you to come for him."
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"If Dad's still alive, none of that matters."
And it doesn't. Not for him.
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Because Dean can pretty well see that's how it's gonna go down.
But at least she'll die as herself. That's--when you're dealing with demons and shit, that's a lot.
Fuck.
He tilts her head up real careful, and holds the cup to her mouth so she can drink.
Might even wash a little of that blood-taste out of her mouth.
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"Where is the demon we’re looking for?"
She shakes her head, a tiny movement, and meets Sam's eyes.
"Not there. Other ones."
A beat. "Awful ones."
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Really.
But there's still one thing, one really goddamn important thing they need to find out.
"Where are they keeping our Dad?"
If they know that, they can get him out.
Meg coughs again, voice fading real quick.
"By--by the river."
Beat.
Beat.
"Sunrise."
By the--sunrise? What the hell--?
"Sunrise? What the hell does that mean? What does that mean?"
Dean could talk himself hoarse on the subject right about now, ask questions until just this side of forever, and it ain't gonna matter shit.
Meg's dead.
"Goddammit."
He hits the floor with his fist, hard, then stands up.
God fucking dammit.
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Only two of them don't have time for that.
Bobby reaches for a nearby book that fell open on a table -- bad for the binding, he'll have to get that one looked at sooner rather than later -- and closes it, and walks back through toward the front door.
"You better hurry up and beat it. Before the paramedics get here."
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"What're you gonna tell 'em?"
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"You think you guys invented lying to the cops?" Something a little acerbic to that. "I'll figure something out." Bobby turns the book in his hands, and holds it out to Sam. "Here. Take this."
"You might need it."
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Clavicula Solomonis.
"Thanks."
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It's not enough, and Dean knows that, but--
Right now he doesn't have much else.
"Be careful, all right?"
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The book's in Sam's hands. Let it do some good.
" -- bring him around, would you?" Beat. "I won't even try to shoot him this time."
The last part is a gesture, and -- Bobby's pretty sure, as he watches them migrate out the door -- it's appreciated.
Just let that book do some good.