The man who came to kill Sam Winchester didn't spend much of his day away from Bobby's house.
The first thing he'd done had been to go to the nearest gas station. While he was there, he topped off his tank. He didn't need to. He knew exactly how much gas he had and how far it would take him after his job was over. Just the same he was glad he had; not only was it better to be safe than sorry, an idea struck him as he hung the pump back up.
He shelved it in the back of his mind walked to the store to pay for his gas. He gave his hood a tug up just before he stepped through the door. The store had large windows unobstructed besides a sign taped near the bottom (Hiring friendly cashiers! Inquire within!) and big glass doors, and even if he couldn't see so much of it without taking a step inside, the store was small. It was easy to work out where the camera would be, lodged up in the left-hand corner near the Employees Only room. He could avoid it without being conspicuous.
Slapped in the middle aisle was a coffee machine, next to a rack of slowly-cooking hot dogs. While poured himself a cup of coffee he looked them over. They were shining with grease and their browned leather skin said they were old, in no way worth the $1.39 the tag on the machine said they cost. He got one anyway.
He paid for it all in cash. He felt more fiscally responsible than most people were these days; he used a credit card only in emergency.
Of course, none of the cards he had were in his name, so maybe that didn't matter much.
He checked on his idea only once he parked his car back in the safe space a quarter mile from Bobby's house. By then his hot dog was gone, but he continued to nurse his cooling coffee.
He popped his trunk.
Inside there wasn't much. Even the inside of his car wasn't armed to the teeth: a pistol stashed beneath the driver's seat, a bottle of Aquafina filled with holy water next to a silver-bladed butterfly knife in the center console, and a crucifix dangling from his rearview mirror were all he needed to feel safe. On the floor in the back was a gray metal lock-box, the key for which hung from a gold chain around his neck. Though he went all over the country killing monsters and the people they inhabited, in this box were the only things he felt he'd be unable to explain to the police, and while they facilitated his kills they were not harmful. For it was filled with license plates from every contiguous state, bought off of a friend who exported cars to Lebanon. Only the South Dakota plates were missing.
The trunk, however, was exactly what newscasters recommended every year before winter storms. There was a box filled with emergency rations, a blanket, and the other 11 bottles from a case of Aquafina. There was a bag of road salt, rope, a toolkit, and a small handful of nondescript odds and ends that seemed to have ended up there only because he had no other place for them. While the only true weapon he had in his trunk was his .22, which he pulled out and slung over his body, the hammer that lay free from his case had a head of iron, and all the tools had received the blessing of a priest.
'Please, Father,' he had said, many, many years ago. 'I'm a carpenter. Last month I nearly died on the job, an accident, I fell and---' he'd shaken his head. 'I nearly died. Bless them for me?'
The Father had. Minutes later, he'd gone to the church down the road to confess to another priest about lying to the first. 'I told him I was a carpenter,' he'd said.
Most of it was true. He had had an accident on the job and nearly been killed. He'd been unexpectedly thrown thirty feet in the air, stopping only when he'd struck a tree. Unable to move, worrying he'd been paralyzed, been saved by the skin of his teeth by his partner. He'd been laid up for nearly a week. He'd gone so stir-crazy being unable to move he'd decided Sonny Bono's death was a conspiracy, that the skiing accident was covering up some monster-hunt gone wrong like his own.
It'd been a hard week.
All he pulled out of the trunk now was a piece of clear, thick plastic tubing. He set it over his shoulders.
Then he closed the trunk and began his hike back to Bobby's.
no subject
The man who came to kill Sam Winchester didn't spend much of his day away from Bobby's house.
The first thing he'd done had been to go to the nearest gas station. While he was there, he topped off his tank. He didn't need to. He knew exactly how much gas he had and how far it would take him after his job was over. Just the same he was glad he had; not only was it better to be safe than sorry, an idea struck him as he hung the pump back up.
He shelved it in the back of his mind walked to the store to pay for his gas. He gave his hood a tug up just before he stepped through the door. The store had large windows unobstructed besides a sign taped near the bottom (Hiring friendly cashiers! Inquire within!) and big glass doors, and even if he couldn't see so much of it without taking a step inside, the store was small. It was easy to work out where the camera would be, lodged up in the left-hand corner near the Employees Only room. He could avoid it without being conspicuous.
Slapped in the middle aisle was a coffee machine, next to a rack of slowly-cooking hot dogs. While poured himself a cup of coffee he looked them over. They were shining with grease and their browned leather skin said they were old, in no way worth the $1.39 the tag on the machine said they cost. He got one anyway.
He paid for it all in cash. He felt more fiscally responsible than most people were these days; he used a credit card only in emergency.
Of course, none of the cards he had were in his name, so maybe that didn't matter much.
He checked on his idea only once he parked his car back in the safe space a quarter mile from Bobby's house. By then his hot dog was gone, but he continued to nurse his cooling coffee.
He popped his trunk.
Inside there wasn't much. Even the inside of his car wasn't armed to the teeth: a pistol stashed beneath the driver's seat, a bottle of Aquafina filled with holy water next to a silver-bladed butterfly knife in the center console, and a crucifix dangling from his rearview mirror were all he needed to feel safe. On the floor in the back was a gray metal lock-box, the key for which hung from a gold chain around his neck. Though he went all over the country killing monsters and the people they inhabited, in this box were the only things he felt he'd be unable to explain to the police, and while they facilitated his kills they were not harmful. For it was filled with license plates from every contiguous state, bought off of a friend who exported cars to Lebanon. Only the South Dakota plates were missing.
The trunk, however, was exactly what newscasters recommended every year before winter storms. There was a box filled with emergency rations, a blanket, and the other 11 bottles from a case of Aquafina. There was a bag of road salt, rope, a toolkit, and a small handful of nondescript odds and ends that seemed to have ended up there only because he had no other place for them. While the only true weapon he had in his trunk was his .22, which he pulled out and slung over his body, the hammer that lay free from his case had a head of iron, and all the tools had received the blessing of a priest.
'Please, Father,' he had said, many, many years ago. 'I'm a carpenter. Last month I nearly died on the job, an accident, I fell and---' he'd shaken his head. 'I nearly died. Bless them for me?'
The Father had. Minutes later, he'd gone to the church down the road to confess to another priest about lying to the first. 'I told him I was a carpenter,' he'd said.
Most of it was true. He had had an accident on the job and nearly been killed. He'd been unexpectedly thrown thirty feet in the air, stopping only when he'd struck a tree. Unable to move, worrying he'd been paralyzed, been saved by the skin of his teeth by his partner. He'd been laid up for nearly a week. He'd gone so stir-crazy being unable to move he'd decided Sonny Bono's death was a conspiracy, that the skiing accident was covering up some monster-hunt gone wrong like his own.
It'd been a hard week.
All he pulled out of the trunk now was a piece of clear, thick plastic tubing. He set it over his shoulders.
Then he closed the trunk and began his hike back to Bobby's.