tentative.”
“What does that mean?” Sam asked.
“Yes,” Bobby said, “with conditions.”
“What conditions?” Dean asked.
“Wouldn’t say,” Bobby replied with a shrug. “Better’n his first answer.”
“Which was?”
“‘Go to hell, Singer.’”
Dean nodded. “So the ice is thawing.”
“Cracked, more like.”
The last leg of the trip consumed two hours. Roy Dempsey lived in a log cabin home in Lynnewood, a small rural town north of the larger, bustling Laurel Hill. Dempsey’s house was set back from the road, accessed by a long gravel driveway. Hulking trees a few rows deep shielded the backyard from view, and the nearest house on either side was a couple of hundred feet distant. The house itself was all dark wood with a gable roof and, at night, would probably blend into the tall trees behind it.
Bobby drove down the long driveway ahead of the Winchesters in the Monte Carlo. The loose gravel crunching under their tires functioned as a proximity alarm. Dean half expected the maybe-hunter curmudgeon to come out on the covered porch waving a shotgun and giving them until thecount of three to get off his property.
Bobby parked behind a dark green El Camino about as old as the Monte Carlo, but in better shape. About a decade past its model year, a silver Dodge Ram was parked beside the older car. Rather than block both vehicles, Dean steered the Monte Carlo behind Bobby’s Chevelle. He and Sam stepped out of their car and approached Bobby
“I’ll do the talking,” Bobby said. “Least until I take his temperature.”
Dean made an “after you” gesture and they followed Bobby to the porch, but waited at the bottom of the three steps. Bobby rapped his knuckles against the door and waited. No answer.
“Get off your ass, Roy! It’s Bobby Singer.”
Dean looked at Sam. “Tough love?”
The door swung open to reveal a tall man wearing a green T-shirt under a black leather vest, faded jeans and scuffed boots. He had a grizzled jaw and long, graying hair bound in a ponytail. It took Dean a stunned moment to process that the man had lost half his left arm, the stump ending above where his elbow would have been.
Frowning, Roy said, “Not deaf, you old bastard.”
“Old?” Bobby said. “Ever hear about pots and kettles?”
“Told you I was out of the life, Singer. Not looking to jump back in.”
“Not asking, Roy. We need a roof. That’s all. Won’t cramp your style.”
Continuing to frown, Roy scratched his jaw. “Don’t know about this.”
“Thought we had this squared.”
“Nothing etched in stone, Singer.”
“Couple days. All we’re asking.”
“And these two,” Roy said. “Winchesters, huh?”
“Sam and Dean,” Bobby said, nodding at them in turn.
“All over the news a while back, those two.”
“Impostors,” Bobby said. “Told you three times on the phone.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Roy said, conceding the point. “You’ll leave me out of it?”
“Word of honor.”
“Don’t want no trouble.”
“Would say we ain’t looking for any, but you know that ain’t true.”
Sam, who had been watching the terse exchange with increasing concern, took a step forward. “Bobby, we’ll find something else …”
Imagining a drafty shack with rats underfoot and no indoor plumbing, Dean shot his brother a look: Are you kidding me?
Roy sighed. “Couple days,” he agreed. “But whatever you’re hunting, don’t bring it here. And don’t ask for my help. In fact, I don’t even want to hear about it.” He waved his stump in the air for emphasis. “This here is my retirement card. No fight left in me. I’m out. Understood?”
“Crystal,” Bobby said.
Roy stepped back and held the door open for them. While Dean retrieved a cooler stocked with beer and hardliquor from the Monte Carlo’s trunk, Sam glanced around the interior of Dempsey’s house, hoping his snooping wasn’t too obvious. Roy’s unexplained pain sat beneath the surface, under a thin
“What does that mean?” Sam asked.
“Yes,” Bobby said, “with conditions.”
“What conditions?” Dean asked.
“Wouldn’t say,” Bobby replied with a shrug. “Better’n his first answer.”
“Which was?”
“‘Go to hell, Singer.’”
Dean nodded. “So the ice is thawing.”
“Cracked, more like.”
The last leg of the trip consumed two hours. Roy Dempsey lived in a log cabin home in Lynnewood, a small rural town north of the larger, bustling Laurel Hill. Dempsey’s house was set back from the road, accessed by a long gravel driveway. Hulking trees a few rows deep shielded the backyard from view, and the nearest house on either side was a couple of hundred feet distant. The house itself was all dark wood with a gable roof and, at night, would probably blend into the tall trees behind it.
Bobby drove down the long driveway ahead of the Winchesters in the Monte Carlo. The loose gravel crunching under their tires functioned as a proximity alarm. Dean half expected the maybe-hunter curmudgeon to come out on the covered porch waving a shotgun and giving them until thecount of three to get off his property.
Bobby parked behind a dark green El Camino about as old as the Monte Carlo, but in better shape. About a decade past its model year, a silver Dodge Ram was parked beside the older car. Rather than block both vehicles, Dean steered the Monte Carlo behind Bobby’s Chevelle. He and Sam stepped out of their car and approached Bobby
“I’ll do the talking,” Bobby said. “Least until I take his temperature.”
Dean made an “after you” gesture and they followed Bobby to the porch, but waited at the bottom of the three steps. Bobby rapped his knuckles against the door and waited. No answer.
“Get off your ass, Roy! It’s Bobby Singer.”
Dean looked at Sam. “Tough love?”
The door swung open to reveal a tall man wearing a green T-shirt under a black leather vest, faded jeans and scuffed boots. He had a grizzled jaw and long, graying hair bound in a ponytail. It took Dean a stunned moment to process that the man had lost half his left arm, the stump ending above where his elbow would have been.
Frowning, Roy said, “Not deaf, you old bastard.”
“Old?” Bobby said. “Ever hear about pots and kettles?”
“Told you I was out of the life, Singer. Not looking to jump back in.”
“Not asking, Roy. We need a roof. That’s all. Won’t cramp your style.”
Continuing to frown, Roy scratched his jaw. “Don’t know about this.”
“Thought we had this squared.”
“Nothing etched in stone, Singer.”
“Couple days. All we’re asking.”
“And these two,” Roy said. “Winchesters, huh?”
“Sam and Dean,” Bobby said, nodding at them in turn.
“All over the news a while back, those two.”
“Impostors,” Bobby said. “Told you three times on the phone.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Roy said, conceding the point. “You’ll leave me out of it?”
“Word of honor.”
“Don’t want no trouble.”
“Would say we ain’t looking for any, but you know that ain’t true.”
Sam, who had been watching the terse exchange with increasing concern, took a step forward. “Bobby, we’ll find something else …”
Imagining a drafty shack with rats underfoot and no indoor plumbing, Dean shot his brother a look: Are you kidding me?
Roy sighed. “Couple days,” he agreed. “But whatever you’re hunting, don’t bring it here. And don’t ask for my help. In fact, I don’t even want to hear about it.” He waved his stump in the air for emphasis. “This here is my retirement card. No fight left in me. I’m out. Understood?”
“Crystal,” Bobby said.
Roy stepped back and held the door open for them. While Dean retrieved a cooler stocked with beer and hardliquor from the Monte Carlo’s trunk, Sam glanced around the interior of Dempsey’s house, hoping his snooping wasn’t too obvious. Roy’s unexplained pain sat beneath the surface, under a thin
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