1x22 -- Devil's Trap

[salver]

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."

Comments

[salver]

By this time he doesn't get stares or comments any more when he buys that much salt in bulk -- wrong kind for preserving what you hunt, which is what that much salt tends to get used for out here. Doesn't mean Bobby won't store it in old rusting tins labeled GASOLINE -- plays into the deception of his place. All part of the disguise.

It's the wrong kind of salt for preserving what you hunt; it's the great kind of salt for preserving you from what you hunt.

"I salted the door and windows." There's always been something a little comforting about a heavy tin with a rust-spotted handle. Blunt object, if it has to be. "If there are any demons out there -- they ain't getting in."

[hopeitsworthit]

It's hard to keep from looking too jittery; gut-deep fear's got no place here, not right now.

Dean almost jumps out of his skin when Bobby talks, but covers it with a quick nod.

Okay, here goes nothin'.

"Where's our father, Meg?"

Like it's gonna be that easy.

He's almost expecting the slow, poisonously sweet smile. "You didn't ask very nice."

Yeah, that just nets her a quick, hard, smirk.

"Where's our father, bitch?"

Meg--whatever Meg is--widens her eyes, looking shocked. "Jeez, you kiss your mother with that mouth?"

Beat.

"Oh, wait. I forgot. You don't."

Okay. That's it. Fucking bitch.

"You think this is a freakin' game?"

He lunges toward her, arms on the chair, bracketing her in. A real girl would've been pissing her pants right now. He feels sick to his stomach.

"Where is he? What'd you do to him?"

She's all oily charm when she answers back. "He died screaming." Satisfaction oozes from her smile. "I killed him myself."

Dean pauses for half a second, face gone stiff and cold.

Then he backhands her across the face.

No one says shit about his Dad.

No one.

[gavemea_45]

Sam's been watching in silence this whole time, but at this he flinches.

Dean-- come on, man-- don't--

Meg's head rocks back with the force of the blow, but then she looks right back at Dean and smiles.

"That’s kind of a turn on – you hitting a girl."

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean's jaw tightens, and for a second he has to fight back the urge to duck his head in shame.

But--

"You're no girl."

He's sure of that, at the very least.

[salver]

That's enough.

From his vantage point, Bobby stands.

"Dean."

And moves into the other room. Meg's still in sight.

Not like she's going anywhere, though.

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean wants to snarl at Bobby to shut the fuck up, he's working here.

But he doesn't.

Instead, after one last cold-eyed look at Meg he turns, heading into the next room.

This better be good.

[gavemea_45]

He doesn't get far. Sam steps in front of him, lowering his voice and half-turning to hide his concern from Bobby.

"You okay?"

Sam's searching his brother's face, carefully.

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean's shrug is jerky and too-quick.

"She's lying. He's not dead."

He's not.

Dean would--

He's just not.

[salver]

"Dean, you got to be careful with her." Bobby's glance goes from Meg to Dean. "Don't hurt her."

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean looks at Bobby like the guy's crazy.

Because that's kinda how it sounds.

"Her? Why?"

[salver]

"Because she really is a girl, that's why."

He's starting to get a bad notion -- one that doesn't surprise him much, but a bad one all the same -- and that's that the Winchester boys don't know shit about demons besides how to get rid of them.

[gavemea_45]

That's not--

"What are you talking about?"

[salver]

"She's possessed."

At least they're not slackjawed. Could be worse. A little.

"That's a human possessed by a demon, can't you tell?"

[hopeitsworthit]

"Are you tryin' to tell me there's an innocent girl trapped somewhere in there?"

Dean can feel the bottom drop out of his stomach. For a second he feels like he's gonna be sick. But then--

He turns to look back at Meg again.

Huh.

[salver]

Yes. They're getting it.

And if they've stepped in the middle of something -- and Bobby's willing to bet a hell of a lot that they have -- then here's hoping they can learn quick.

He nods.

[gavemea_45]

Sam turns to look at Meg-- at Meg, not just some demonic bitch. He has to swallow, hard, to keep the bile from rising in his throat.

In Indiana, in Chicago-- what if some of it was really her, and not the demon? Oh God, does she know what's happening to her?

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean feels it, then, the startling rush of a really freakin' brilliant idea.

The nausea he can deal with later.

"You know, I'm kinda thinking that's actually good news."

[gavemea_45]

Good is relative.

A few seconds later, Sam's standing at Dean's side, journal in hand.

I really hope you're right about this.

He glances down at the page to double-check his place, then looks up and gives Dean a nod.

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean doesn't nod back, just turns and heads toward Meg.

She looks up at their approach, smile arsenic-sweet.

"Are you boys gonna read me a story?"

Dean doesn't smile back, just watches her with cold eyes.

"Something like that."

Now he does give her the barest hint of smirk, shifting to give his brother more room.

"Hit it, Sam."

Christ, this had better work.

[gavemea_45]

He nods again, then focuses all his attention on Meg and the thing inside her.

"Regna terrae, cantate Deo; psallite Domino."

Kingdoms of the earth, sing unto God; sing praises to the Lord.

There's conviction in his tone, itself speaking of an underlying belief in the power behind the ritual. As he speaks, Sam begins to walk clockwise, circling Meg.

"...qui fertis super caelum caeli ... "

... that carry above the sky of heaven...

Meg doesn't try to twist around to look at Sam, but stares at Dean in something approaching disbelief.

"An exorcism? Are you serious?"

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean smiles, smug and pissed and deadly.

"Oh, we're going for it, baby."

He pauses a second, lets that sink in.

"Head spinning, projectile vomiting--the whole nine yards."

Just as long as nobody does anything kinky with a crucifix.

Because just--

Hell no.

[gavemea_45]

...attribute the virtue to God.

"... tribuite virtutem Deo."

Something intangible changes in the feel of the room, and Meg lets out a small cry of pain.

Sam's gaze meets Dean's.

It's working.

[hopeitsworthit]

You bet your ass it's working, Sam.

Dean holds Sammy's look for a second, then shifts his attention back to Meg. Better get a grip while the getting's good, right?

Maybe he spoke too soon.

Meg looks up at him, smile still firmly in place. Dean'll give her this, she's a freakin' good actress.

"I'm going to kill you. I'm gonna rip the bones from your body."

Dean smiles at her, eyebrows raised.

"I'm touched. Really. But I'm pretty sure you're gonna burn in hell."

Beat.

"Unless you tell us where our Dad is."

He pauses again, waiting. Meg doesn't do anything except smile. Well--he never really figured this was gonna be easy.

"Guess you'll end up with a pretty nice tan, though."

You know, if she likes that kinda shit.

Sam gets another look, and the tiniest of nods.

Go on, Sammy. Make the bitch hurt.

[gavemea_45]

He hesitates, but only for a second.

Get out of her. Leave her be!

"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus,"

We exorcise you, every impure spirit,

"omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii,"

every satanic power, every incursion of the infernal adversary,

Sam's voice strengthens, becoming more commanding, and as the words continue to fall into the air Meg begins to twitch and tremble, struggling against her bonds.

every legion, every congregation and diabolical sect.

"omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica--"

He breaks off there as she lets out a wordless howl, gasping in pain, then glares at Dean.

"He begged for his life with tears in his eyes. He begged to see his sons one last time," she snarls.

"That’s when I slit his throat."

[hopeitsworthit]

Dean's jaw barely clenches this time.

He just leans closer to Meg, voice low and fierce and so very fucking serious.

"For your sake, I hope you're lying."

He's lying. It's not for her sake at all.

"Because if it is true? I swear to God I will march down into hell myself and kill every last one of you evil sons of bitches, so help me God."

It's a sheer effort of will that keeps him from throttling her, pointless as that would be.

A sheer effort of will, and the still-disarming fact that he'd also be throttling some chick that's never done him any harm.

Goddammit.