Plan B or C or Whatever... 4/6
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Chapter 3
Bobby was torn. He knew he needed to get some kind of counterspell to the boys before daybreak, but if he couldn’t get through to their cell phones, it might not do any good—especially if Sam was right and Dean was going to trap them on the island. He wanted to get the next flight to Boston so he could charge out there and drag Dean back to the mainland by his collar, but without the counterspell, it wouldn’t do any good.
So he did what he did best—he researched. And he read. And he cross-referenced.
He had just gotten up to stretch his back and start thinking about fixing himself a belated supper when the door to the hall closet suddenly rattled. Drawing his gun, he stepped over to it and flung it open. There was nothing out of the ordinary there—until a flash of flame burned a strange sigil into the inside of the door. A second later, the doorway flared with bright light... and a tall, thin, dark-haired man fell through it and knocked Bobby to the ground.
“Sorry!” the stranger exclaimed and scrambled off Bobby as quickly as he could. Then he stopped, looking at Bobby’s face as if he were searching for something. “Y-you’re not Johnny. You can’t be. Who are you?”
“Who are you?” Bobby countered.
“My name is Henry Winchester. I’m looking for my son John.”
“Winchester died six months ago.”
The stranger’s eyes went wide, and he lost what little color was in his cheeks. “No... no, no, it can’t be.... Please, who are you? You must be related to me somehow.”
“Singer. Bobby Singer.”
“Singer.” Winchester—if that was his real name—shook his head. “I don’t know the name. Do I have any grandchildren here, by any chance?”
He nodded. “Two boys. I’ve....” he broke off, catching himself about to blurt it right out, but then he decided what the hell. If he caused trouble, he could take care of the stranger. “I’ve adopted them since their daddy died.”
Winchester took a ragged breath and nodded. “I need to speak with them immediately.”
“They’re in Boston.”
Winchester frowned and put a hand to his head, allowing Bobby to see a fresh cut on his wrist. “This doesn’t make sense. The spell should have taken me directly to blood kin.”
Just then, Bobby spotted a wad of fabric in a back corner of the closet. On inspection, it turned out to be one of Sam’s shirts—with Dean’s blood on it.
“It ain’t your spell that’s gone wrong,” Bobby said, his heart sinking.
Winchester somehow turned a whiter shade of pale. “What do you mean?”
“The boys ain’t in Boston proper. They’re on Gloucester Island.”
Winchester’s face went even whiter. “Glou—”
He was cut off by another rumble from the closet.
“Oh, no,” he whispered, looking ready to faint.
Bobby slammed the door shut.
“That won’t—”
“Then lock it, ya idjit!”
“Lo....” Winchester shook his head and drew a sigil on the trembling door. “Use your blood, mine cast the first one, another’s must lock it!”
Bobby had his knife out and his palm sliced in two seconds. “What do I do?”
“Press your hand to the sigil. It will tingle and there’ll be a tug, it’s okay!”
Bobby slammed his hand against the sigil. He felt considerably more than a tingle and a tug—an electric shock ran up his arm, and the “tug” nearly pulled him off his feet—but he held his ground. The sigil flared and went dark. A faint bellow of rage was heard, then all went quiet.
“Dear Lord,” Winchester murmured and braced himself on the hall table. “Thank you, Mr. Singer. Could I trouble you... for directions... to your bathroom?”
“Down the hall... to the left.”
Winchester nodded, bolted down the hall to the bathroom, and threw up noisily.
Bobby poured him a glass of water directly from the holy water jug and met him at the bathroom door with it. Winchester drank it straight without even looking.
“I’m sorry,” he said when he’d apparently gotten his stomach wrestled back behind his belt. “It’s just that the adventures I prefer are of a more literary nature.”
“You talk like you swallowed a dictionary.”
Winchester huffed a laugh and leaned against the wall with his eyes closed. “What else do you expect from a Man of Letters?”
“Impossible.”
“What is?”
“The Men of Letters are all dead.” Bobby huffed. “If they ever existed at all.”
Winchester’s eyes popped open. “What?! No—no, surely somebody survived! And even if not, I should have... I should have raised John in the ways of the Letters, unless... unless I... I don’t make it back from this time.”
“You know about Gloucester.”
“Yes. My grandfather told me that his grandfather told him never to go out there. A Man of Letters was lost when the island disappeared.”
“He cast a spell to move the island and now they’re stuck. The island’s there now and they’ve got till dawn to find and break the spell. Do you know the spell?”
“No, but... this might help somehow.” Winchester pulled a brass box, the size of a pack of cigarettes, out of his coat pocket. It was covered in wards and an odd six-pointed star that matched the one on his tie tack.
“A puzzle box?” Bobby identified by sight, putting the lie to his rough appearance.
Winchester turned it over in his hand and shook his head. “I suppose so. I haven’t had time to look at it.”
Bobby took it and turned it over and over in his hands. “Ah,” he said, popping it open.
Winchester frowned in confusion as Bobby lifted off the front panel. “A key? I wonder what it opens.”
“There’s got to be more here than just a key. Look it over.”
“I’m... I’m sorry, I’m still pretty lightheaded. All I recognize at a glance is the Aquarian Star—it’s the symbol of the Men of Letters, a sign of great power and magic. They say it stood at the gates of Atlantis itself.”
Bobby snorted. “Get something to drink.” He took the box and began to study it all over.
As he took it to his desk, Winchester went into the kitchen and helped himself to a glass of orange juice. “I know we’re short of time,” he said as he came back into the study, “but... well, where are we, first of all? Not Boston, obviously.”
“Sioux Falls,” Bobby absently replied, absorbed in the search.
“Sioux Falls,” Henry echoed. “So we’re about nine hours from Normal—unless you happen to have a flying car?”
Bobby glared at him pointedly, then went back to his perusal.
Winchester chewed on his lip for a moment. “Mr. Singer... what’s the time zone difference between here and Boston?”
“We’re on Central Time, an’ it don’t matter. We ain’t got time to run off to Illinois.”
“Gloucester is on Atlantic time—two hours ahead of Central, since it was not there when the zones were established. That means.... it’s only an hour till dark.”
Bobby looked up again, annoyed. “What’s your point?”
“If they’re still there in an hour...”
“Dean said he’d call when they got back to the mainland. Nothin’ we can do about it from here. ’Sides,” Bobby added under his breath, “I’m worried enough for both of us.”
Winchester helped him study the key box. They worked in silence for an hour.
Then two.
Then three.
The phone never rang.
“Mr. Singer...” Winchester finally began.
“Don’t say it,” Bobby interrupted.
“But I think we —”
“Shut up,” Bobby snarled.
Winchester shut up for a moment, then whispered, “I’m sorry. Maybe you should just direct me to a hoodoo shop.”
“Why?”
“So I can go back to 1958 and stop whatever’s put my family on this course. I really ought to wait a week for my soul to recharge, but....”
“No. This ain’t on you.”
“How can it not be? Raising John in the ways of the Letters was my responsibility. If coming here caused me to fail in that—if nobody warned my grandsons that Gloucester Island was too dangerous even for hunters—”
“Things happened how they happened. John wouldn’t have been a good Letter man—he’s not natured for it.”
Winchester frowned in confusion. “John? My John? But... we’re legacies. Yes, John would rather play baseball and football than attend to his studies, at least when the weather was good, but... surely he’d have grown out of that at some point.”
“Nope. He was the type to hit first and think years later.”
“I don’t understand. Millie would have raised him better than that.”
“He never talked about either of you.”
Winchester sighed miserably. “He must have been so angry that I never came home. Doesn’t that prove my point, though? I’ve got to go back and fix all this!”
“Suppose you make things worse? Suppose whatever followed you kills you anyway?”
“But... then... what do I do?”
Bobby met his eyes. “Help me find that spell and save our family.”
Winchester swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay. But I don’t think the box itself holds the answer. It must be something to do with the key. Somebody must have survived Abaddon’s attack on the Letters in Normal, or... or if they didn’t, there must be some clue they left somewhere in the event of such an emergency.”
“I have a feeling if we solve this....” Bobby held up the key. “We’ll be given a head start on breaking the curse on Gloucester and rescuing our boys.”
“But we’ll never make it to Normal before dawn on Gloucester.” Winchester clutched his head. “If only there were some way to find the information we need from here....”
Bobby grinned. “Done.”
Winchester looked up, startled. “What?”
Bobby fired up his computer and sat down. “Normal—what state?”
“Illinois. It was August 12, 1958. Our chapter house was at 242 Gaines Street, and officially it was a nightclub.”
A few seconds later, Bobby said “And it was destroyed by fire.”
Winchester gasped.
Bobby slid to the side and let him see the clipping for himself.
“No survivors,” Winchester murmured as he read. “Those confirmed dead....” He paused, then slapped the table. “I knew it.” He pointed to one name in the list.
Bobby read it—and blinked. “Albert Magnus?! As in....”
“Albertus Magnus, yes. We used that as a standard alias when working undercover. So someone did survive.”
Bobby opened a new tab, pulled up Find a Grave, and said, “Give me the names.”
Winchester rattled off the list of names. Bobby typed each in and an image came up of the gravestones. Three of the four bore the Aquarian Star, but Larry Ganem’s was decorated with an elaborate cross sigil.
“Think I’ve seen that before,” Bobby murmured. “Looks like...”
“The Haitian symbol for speaking with the dead,” Winchester confirmed. “It’s a message—but we won’t know what it means until someone exhumes the grave.” He looked at Bobby, frowning. “And how do we get that to happen?”
Bobby drummed his fingers on the table as he thought through where all of his contacts were. “I think I know one person who could get there tonight. He’s a goober, but he should be able to dig up a grave without gettin’ himself killed.”
“Call him?”
“Right.” Bobby pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “Garth? You still in Peoria?”
“Gettin’ ready to leave tonight,” Garth answered. “Why?”
“Need you to check out a grave for me in Normal. It’s not a salt-n-burn—once you open the coffin, I need you to call me and tell me what you see.”
After a moment of silence, Garth said, “It will be a bit to get there, but I’m on it.”
“I need you there in an hour, boy. Got a problem we gotta solve before daybreak.”
“I’m on it,” he said again, hanging up.
Bobby sighed and looked at Winchester. “In the meantime, I could do with some food. How ’bout you?”
“I’ll try.”
Bobby nodded and headed to the kitchen. He’d had the foresight to brown and freeze a large batch of hamburger meat a rancher had brought him to pay for some salvaged truck parts, so he pulled one box of frozen meat out to turn into quick beef stroganoff.
Fifty minutes passed and the phone went off. The first words out of Garth’s mouth were, “No salt and burn, right?”
“Right,” Bobby replied. “Whatcha got?”
“An old skeleton. Older than the ’50s. Got dog tags round its neck—from the early 20th century. Like World War I early.”
“What’s the name on the dog tags?”
He rattled it off, and Bobby worked on the computer for a long moment.
“Son of a gun. There’s a man by that name living in Lebanon, Kansas.”
Garth asked, “So I can fill it in and let this guy go back to his rest? I got a wooden plank for a new coffin roof for him.”
“Yeah, close it up. Thanks, Garth.”
“Welcome, Bob.” He hung up.
“Lebanon,” Winchester murmured. “Geographic center of the US. Why would Larry be there?”
“One way to find out.” Bobby reached for his notepad.
“We’ll never make it by dawn Atlantic time—it’s six hours to Lebanon, at least....”
“May not have to.” Bobby finished writing down the phone number and pushed the notepad toward Winchester, then pointed to his phone bank. “Use the FBI line.”
Winchester ducked his head, much like Dean would when he was embarrassed. “Sorry. Guess supper didn’t clear my head nearly enough.”
“After the time you’ve just had? I’m not surprised. Make the call.”
Winchester nodded, picked up the phone, and stared at the touch-tone pad for a moment before dialing. “Meredith?” he said after a moment. “It’s Henry Winch—Meredith?! Stop—stop screaming, please—”
Bobby took the phone from his hand and barked into it, “Mrs. Ganem! That is quite enough!” He listened a moment, then said, “No, he is not a ghost. And this Abaddon has been taken care of. Put your husband on, please.” He handed it back to Henry and then shook his head and pressed a button. “There. Now we can both hear.”
Thank you, Winchester mouthed as they waited for Ganem to come to the phone.
“Winchester?” came a voice that Henry had heard only hours before, relative time.
Winchester visibly relaxed. “Hi, Larry.”
“The plan worked, then. You escaped unharmed?”
“Unharmed, yes, but pretty shaken by what I’ve found here in the future. My grandsons are investigating Gloucester Island.”
“Forget that, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but that box in your pocket. Do you still have it?”
Winchester and Bobby exchanged a frown, but Winchester answered, “Yes, it’s right here.”
“Good. If you can get it open, there is a set of co-ordinates in there. Take the box there, open it with the key inside, then throw the key in and walk away.”
“What?! Why?!”
“Abaddon must not get her hands on it, nor must her superiors. This is the only way to keep the things inside out of their hands. Do it, Winchester! Do it now!”
There was scuffling and shouting, but then Meredith came on. “I’m sorry, H-Henry.”
“So am I,” Winchester admitted, “and I’m horribly confused. What does the key open? And what’s wrong with Larry?”
“He claims it opens a treasure trove of knowledge. And... well, he’s not exactly... sane.”
Winchester sighed. “I suppose living under a dead man’s name for half a century will do that to you.”
“He was blinded in the attack, and all he can talk about is that Abaddon is returning when you do and she will kill everyone with that information and her superiors—yellow-eyed demons he calls Princes of Hell—will do the same.”
Bobby’s eyes narrowed. So the demon John had been hunting, the one that had killed Mary, was a Prince of Hell? That would have been useful information to have had twenty years ago.
Winchester, however, was focused on reassuring Mrs. Ganem. “We’ve stopped Abaddon. She’s locked away between dimensions—she can’t hurt anyone anymore.”
“BULL—” and the rest of the swear was just as loud. Clearly Larry was inconvincible.
Winchester sighed again and rubbed at his forehead—that was a Sam move that meant an oncoming headache, and Bobby hoped it didn’t herald one of the visions that had been plaguing Sam for the last year. “Look, I’d... I’d better let you guys go. Again, I’m sorry for calling so late.”
Meredith whispered, “Is she truly not a threat any more?”
“Truly,” Bobby and Winchester chorused.
“Then good luck. I’ll... handle Larry.” And she hung up.
Winchester blew the air out of his cheeks and slumped back in his chair. “No wonder he never went back to teach John.”
“Yeah, looks like that attack messed him up.” Bobby went to his library and pulled down a heavy book.
Winchester watched him, confused. “What are you looking for?”
“Information. Ah, here we are. Princes of Hell, the oldest of the demons bar Lilith. Four of them, each one corresponding to one of the ancient elements. Ramiel with water, Dagon air, Asmodeus the earth and....” He looked up, his eyes hard. “Azazel controlling fire.”
“What’s so significant about Azazel?”
“The demon that attacked your son and grandchildren and killed your daughter in law? He was a fire demon with jaundice-yellow eyes.”
Winchester hissed. “Larry was so worried about Abaddon that it blinded him to the real threat.”
“Which is Azazel. Although if we hadn’t neutralized her, Abaddon would have been a huge threat. Then we would have had two of them. Now we just have the one.”
“One is enough.” Winchester ran a hand over his nose and mouth. “So now what do we do?”
Bobby looked up at him with a feral grin. “Let’s get that box open.”
Next
Bobby was torn. He knew he needed to get some kind of counterspell to the boys before daybreak, but if he couldn’t get through to their cell phones, it might not do any good—especially if Sam was right and Dean was going to trap them on the island. He wanted to get the next flight to Boston so he could charge out there and drag Dean back to the mainland by his collar, but without the counterspell, it wouldn’t do any good.
So he did what he did best—he researched. And he read. And he cross-referenced.
He had just gotten up to stretch his back and start thinking about fixing himself a belated supper when the door to the hall closet suddenly rattled. Drawing his gun, he stepped over to it and flung it open. There was nothing out of the ordinary there—until a flash of flame burned a strange sigil into the inside of the door. A second later, the doorway flared with bright light... and a tall, thin, dark-haired man fell through it and knocked Bobby to the ground.
“Sorry!” the stranger exclaimed and scrambled off Bobby as quickly as he could. Then he stopped, looking at Bobby’s face as if he were searching for something. “Y-you’re not Johnny. You can’t be. Who are you?”
“Who are you?” Bobby countered.
“My name is Henry Winchester. I’m looking for my son John.”
“Winchester died six months ago.”
The stranger’s eyes went wide, and he lost what little color was in his cheeks. “No... no, no, it can’t be.... Please, who are you? You must be related to me somehow.”
“Singer. Bobby Singer.”
“Singer.” Winchester—if that was his real name—shook his head. “I don’t know the name. Do I have any grandchildren here, by any chance?”
He nodded. “Two boys. I’ve....” he broke off, catching himself about to blurt it right out, but then he decided what the hell. If he caused trouble, he could take care of the stranger. “I’ve adopted them since their daddy died.”
Winchester took a ragged breath and nodded. “I need to speak with them immediately.”
“They’re in Boston.”
Winchester frowned and put a hand to his head, allowing Bobby to see a fresh cut on his wrist. “This doesn’t make sense. The spell should have taken me directly to blood kin.”
Just then, Bobby spotted a wad of fabric in a back corner of the closet. On inspection, it turned out to be one of Sam’s shirts—with Dean’s blood on it.
“It ain’t your spell that’s gone wrong,” Bobby said, his heart sinking.
Winchester somehow turned a whiter shade of pale. “What do you mean?”
“The boys ain’t in Boston proper. They’re on Gloucester Island.”
Winchester’s face went even whiter. “Glou—”
He was cut off by another rumble from the closet.
“Oh, no,” he whispered, looking ready to faint.
Bobby slammed the door shut.
“That won’t—”
“Then lock it, ya idjit!”
“Lo....” Winchester shook his head and drew a sigil on the trembling door. “Use your blood, mine cast the first one, another’s must lock it!”
Bobby had his knife out and his palm sliced in two seconds. “What do I do?”
“Press your hand to the sigil. It will tingle and there’ll be a tug, it’s okay!”
Bobby slammed his hand against the sigil. He felt considerably more than a tingle and a tug—an electric shock ran up his arm, and the “tug” nearly pulled him off his feet—but he held his ground. The sigil flared and went dark. A faint bellow of rage was heard, then all went quiet.
“Dear Lord,” Winchester murmured and braced himself on the hall table. “Thank you, Mr. Singer. Could I trouble you... for directions... to your bathroom?”
“Down the hall... to the left.”
Winchester nodded, bolted down the hall to the bathroom, and threw up noisily.
Bobby poured him a glass of water directly from the holy water jug and met him at the bathroom door with it. Winchester drank it straight without even looking.
“I’m sorry,” he said when he’d apparently gotten his stomach wrestled back behind his belt. “It’s just that the adventures I prefer are of a more literary nature.”
“You talk like you swallowed a dictionary.”
Winchester huffed a laugh and leaned against the wall with his eyes closed. “What else do you expect from a Man of Letters?”
“Impossible.”
“What is?”
“The Men of Letters are all dead.” Bobby huffed. “If they ever existed at all.”
Winchester’s eyes popped open. “What?! No—no, surely somebody survived! And even if not, I should have... I should have raised John in the ways of the Letters, unless... unless I... I don’t make it back from this time.”
“You know about Gloucester.”
“Yes. My grandfather told me that his grandfather told him never to go out there. A Man of Letters was lost when the island disappeared.”
“He cast a spell to move the island and now they’re stuck. The island’s there now and they’ve got till dawn to find and break the spell. Do you know the spell?”
“No, but... this might help somehow.” Winchester pulled a brass box, the size of a pack of cigarettes, out of his coat pocket. It was covered in wards and an odd six-pointed star that matched the one on his tie tack.
“A puzzle box?” Bobby identified by sight, putting the lie to his rough appearance.
Winchester turned it over in his hand and shook his head. “I suppose so. I haven’t had time to look at it.”
Bobby took it and turned it over and over in his hands. “Ah,” he said, popping it open.
Winchester frowned in confusion as Bobby lifted off the front panel. “A key? I wonder what it opens.”
“There’s got to be more here than just a key. Look it over.”
“I’m... I’m sorry, I’m still pretty lightheaded. All I recognize at a glance is the Aquarian Star—it’s the symbol of the Men of Letters, a sign of great power and magic. They say it stood at the gates of Atlantis itself.”
Bobby snorted. “Get something to drink.” He took the box and began to study it all over.
As he took it to his desk, Winchester went into the kitchen and helped himself to a glass of orange juice. “I know we’re short of time,” he said as he came back into the study, “but... well, where are we, first of all? Not Boston, obviously.”
“Sioux Falls,” Bobby absently replied, absorbed in the search.
“Sioux Falls,” Henry echoed. “So we’re about nine hours from Normal—unless you happen to have a flying car?”
Bobby glared at him pointedly, then went back to his perusal.
Winchester chewed on his lip for a moment. “Mr. Singer... what’s the time zone difference between here and Boston?”
“We’re on Central Time, an’ it don’t matter. We ain’t got time to run off to Illinois.”
“Gloucester is on Atlantic time—two hours ahead of Central, since it was not there when the zones were established. That means.... it’s only an hour till dark.”
Bobby looked up again, annoyed. “What’s your point?”
“If they’re still there in an hour...”
“Dean said he’d call when they got back to the mainland. Nothin’ we can do about it from here. ’Sides,” Bobby added under his breath, “I’m worried enough for both of us.”
Winchester helped him study the key box. They worked in silence for an hour.
Then two.
Then three.
The phone never rang.
“Mr. Singer...” Winchester finally began.
“Don’t say it,” Bobby interrupted.
“But I think we —”
“Shut up,” Bobby snarled.
Winchester shut up for a moment, then whispered, “I’m sorry. Maybe you should just direct me to a hoodoo shop.”
“Why?”
“So I can go back to 1958 and stop whatever’s put my family on this course. I really ought to wait a week for my soul to recharge, but....”
“No. This ain’t on you.”
“How can it not be? Raising John in the ways of the Letters was my responsibility. If coming here caused me to fail in that—if nobody warned my grandsons that Gloucester Island was too dangerous even for hunters—”
“Things happened how they happened. John wouldn’t have been a good Letter man—he’s not natured for it.”
Winchester frowned in confusion. “John? My John? But... we’re legacies. Yes, John would rather play baseball and football than attend to his studies, at least when the weather was good, but... surely he’d have grown out of that at some point.”
“Nope. He was the type to hit first and think years later.”
“I don’t understand. Millie would have raised him better than that.”
“He never talked about either of you.”
Winchester sighed miserably. “He must have been so angry that I never came home. Doesn’t that prove my point, though? I’ve got to go back and fix all this!”
“Suppose you make things worse? Suppose whatever followed you kills you anyway?”
“But... then... what do I do?”
Bobby met his eyes. “Help me find that spell and save our family.”
Winchester swallowed hard and nodded. “Okay. But I don’t think the box itself holds the answer. It must be something to do with the key. Somebody must have survived Abaddon’s attack on the Letters in Normal, or... or if they didn’t, there must be some clue they left somewhere in the event of such an emergency.”
“I have a feeling if we solve this....” Bobby held up the key. “We’ll be given a head start on breaking the curse on Gloucester and rescuing our boys.”
“But we’ll never make it to Normal before dawn on Gloucester.” Winchester clutched his head. “If only there were some way to find the information we need from here....”
Bobby grinned. “Done.”
Winchester looked up, startled. “What?”
Bobby fired up his computer and sat down. “Normal—what state?”
“Illinois. It was August 12, 1958. Our chapter house was at 242 Gaines Street, and officially it was a nightclub.”
A few seconds later, Bobby said “And it was destroyed by fire.”
Winchester gasped.
Bobby slid to the side and let him see the clipping for himself.
“No survivors,” Winchester murmured as he read. “Those confirmed dead....” He paused, then slapped the table. “I knew it.” He pointed to one name in the list.
Bobby read it—and blinked. “Albert Magnus?! As in....”
“Albertus Magnus, yes. We used that as a standard alias when working undercover. So someone did survive.”
Bobby opened a new tab, pulled up Find a Grave, and said, “Give me the names.”
Winchester rattled off the list of names. Bobby typed each in and an image came up of the gravestones. Three of the four bore the Aquarian Star, but Larry Ganem’s was decorated with an elaborate cross sigil.
“Think I’ve seen that before,” Bobby murmured. “Looks like...”
“The Haitian symbol for speaking with the dead,” Winchester confirmed. “It’s a message—but we won’t know what it means until someone exhumes the grave.” He looked at Bobby, frowning. “And how do we get that to happen?”
Bobby drummed his fingers on the table as he thought through where all of his contacts were. “I think I know one person who could get there tonight. He’s a goober, but he should be able to dig up a grave without gettin’ himself killed.”
“Call him?”
“Right.” Bobby pulled out his cell phone and dialed. “Garth? You still in Peoria?”
“Gettin’ ready to leave tonight,” Garth answered. “Why?”
“Need you to check out a grave for me in Normal. It’s not a salt-n-burn—once you open the coffin, I need you to call me and tell me what you see.”
After a moment of silence, Garth said, “It will be a bit to get there, but I’m on it.”
“I need you there in an hour, boy. Got a problem we gotta solve before daybreak.”
“I’m on it,” he said again, hanging up.
Bobby sighed and looked at Winchester. “In the meantime, I could do with some food. How ’bout you?”
“I’ll try.”
Bobby nodded and headed to the kitchen. He’d had the foresight to brown and freeze a large batch of hamburger meat a rancher had brought him to pay for some salvaged truck parts, so he pulled one box of frozen meat out to turn into quick beef stroganoff.
Fifty minutes passed and the phone went off. The first words out of Garth’s mouth were, “No salt and burn, right?”
“Right,” Bobby replied. “Whatcha got?”
“An old skeleton. Older than the ’50s. Got dog tags round its neck—from the early 20th century. Like World War I early.”
“What’s the name on the dog tags?”
He rattled it off, and Bobby worked on the computer for a long moment.
“Son of a gun. There’s a man by that name living in Lebanon, Kansas.”
Garth asked, “So I can fill it in and let this guy go back to his rest? I got a wooden plank for a new coffin roof for him.”
“Yeah, close it up. Thanks, Garth.”
“Welcome, Bob.” He hung up.
“Lebanon,” Winchester murmured. “Geographic center of the US. Why would Larry be there?”
“One way to find out.” Bobby reached for his notepad.
“We’ll never make it by dawn Atlantic time—it’s six hours to Lebanon, at least....”
“May not have to.” Bobby finished writing down the phone number and pushed the notepad toward Winchester, then pointed to his phone bank. “Use the FBI line.”
Winchester ducked his head, much like Dean would when he was embarrassed. “Sorry. Guess supper didn’t clear my head nearly enough.”
“After the time you’ve just had? I’m not surprised. Make the call.”
Winchester nodded, picked up the phone, and stared at the touch-tone pad for a moment before dialing. “Meredith?” he said after a moment. “It’s Henry Winch—Meredith?! Stop—stop screaming, please—”
Bobby took the phone from his hand and barked into it, “Mrs. Ganem! That is quite enough!” He listened a moment, then said, “No, he is not a ghost. And this Abaddon has been taken care of. Put your husband on, please.” He handed it back to Henry and then shook his head and pressed a button. “There. Now we can both hear.”
Thank you, Winchester mouthed as they waited for Ganem to come to the phone.
“Winchester?” came a voice that Henry had heard only hours before, relative time.
Winchester visibly relaxed. “Hi, Larry.”
“The plan worked, then. You escaped unharmed?”
“Unharmed, yes, but pretty shaken by what I’ve found here in the future. My grandsons are investigating Gloucester Island.”
“Forget that, it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters but that box in your pocket. Do you still have it?”
Winchester and Bobby exchanged a frown, but Winchester answered, “Yes, it’s right here.”
“Good. If you can get it open, there is a set of co-ordinates in there. Take the box there, open it with the key inside, then throw the key in and walk away.”
“What?! Why?!”
“Abaddon must not get her hands on it, nor must her superiors. This is the only way to keep the things inside out of their hands. Do it, Winchester! Do it now!”
There was scuffling and shouting, but then Meredith came on. “I’m sorry, H-Henry.”
“So am I,” Winchester admitted, “and I’m horribly confused. What does the key open? And what’s wrong with Larry?”
“He claims it opens a treasure trove of knowledge. And... well, he’s not exactly... sane.”
Winchester sighed. “I suppose living under a dead man’s name for half a century will do that to you.”
“He was blinded in the attack, and all he can talk about is that Abaddon is returning when you do and she will kill everyone with that information and her superiors—yellow-eyed demons he calls Princes of Hell—will do the same.”
Bobby’s eyes narrowed. So the demon John had been hunting, the one that had killed Mary, was a Prince of Hell? That would have been useful information to have had twenty years ago.
Winchester, however, was focused on reassuring Mrs. Ganem. “We’ve stopped Abaddon. She’s locked away between dimensions—she can’t hurt anyone anymore.”
“BULL—” and the rest of the swear was just as loud. Clearly Larry was inconvincible.
Winchester sighed again and rubbed at his forehead—that was a Sam move that meant an oncoming headache, and Bobby hoped it didn’t herald one of the visions that had been plaguing Sam for the last year. “Look, I’d... I’d better let you guys go. Again, I’m sorry for calling so late.”
Meredith whispered, “Is she truly not a threat any more?”
“Truly,” Bobby and Winchester chorused.
“Then good luck. I’ll... handle Larry.” And she hung up.
Winchester blew the air out of his cheeks and slumped back in his chair. “No wonder he never went back to teach John.”
“Yeah, looks like that attack messed him up.” Bobby went to his library and pulled down a heavy book.
Winchester watched him, confused. “What are you looking for?”
“Information. Ah, here we are. Princes of Hell, the oldest of the demons bar Lilith. Four of them, each one corresponding to one of the ancient elements. Ramiel with water, Dagon air, Asmodeus the earth and....” He looked up, his eyes hard. “Azazel controlling fire.”
“What’s so significant about Azazel?”
“The demon that attacked your son and grandchildren and killed your daughter in law? He was a fire demon with jaundice-yellow eyes.”
Winchester hissed. “Larry was so worried about Abaddon that it blinded him to the real threat.”
“Which is Azazel. Although if we hadn’t neutralized her, Abaddon would have been a huge threat. Then we would have had two of them. Now we just have the one.”
“One is enough.” Winchester ran a hand over his nose and mouth. “So now what do we do?”
Bobby looked up at him with a feral grin. “Let’s get that box open.”
