Chapter 6 - Sam’s First Hunt

  24th of August 1971, London

  John Winchester is many things. Patient is not one of them. Dean apologizes, tries to explain they had needed a bit more time in Diagon Alley than first presumed, but John didn’t even look at him. Dean pops open the trunk and throws all of Sam’s new things hastily inside. Sam can’t help but cringe, and hopes none of it breaks. He’s stuffed his wand inside the front pocket on his hoodie, and he’s rubbing his thumb across the handle, letting the texture calm him down. He deliberately waits for Dean to pick a seat first, and when he opens the passenger doors handle and gets in, Sam does the same, with the seat behind their father’s.

  Sam places the owl cage next to him, and he swears the disapproving look his father gives him in the mirror was enough to kill, had Sam not immediately looked away. He bites his cheek, and tries not to cry. John says nothing, but the air is thick with apprehension. He pulls out of the station, heading back to the motel.

  The whole ride back, John still says nothing. Not a single word. And the boys are too frightened to mutter even a single word as well. Not even to each other. Sam tries to catch Dean’s eye in the mirror a couple of times, but his gaze is locked downwards, presumably at his hands, fists clenched in his lap. His jaw is tense, and his leg is bouncing anxiously. Sam wishes he could defuse the situation somehow, but knows from experience he’ll only make it worse if he tries to say anything. Best to let their dad cool off before attempting any sort of conversation. At least he’d come to pick them up after their shopping trip. He could’ve told them they’d have to walk home as well. So that’s.. progress? Sam thinks. His eyes sting, threatening to well over with tears, and so Sam bites down on his tongue, hard, and focuses instead on the busy street outside the window.

  No one says anything the entire thirty minute ride back to the motel. And when they arrive? John doesn’t get out of the car.

  “Get out.” He says simply. Dean doesn’t waste any time, he rushes out and goes to empty the trunk. Sam does the same, grabbing the cage firmly before opening the door and exiting the vehicle. Dean barely has the trunk shut before the car pulls away again.

  Sam takes some of his things, and Dean unlocks the door. They carry it all inside, and Dean suggests they order pizza, as if everything’s normal. But Sam knows. Nothing will ever be normal again.

  *

  7th of August 1971, London

  There’s no immediate fight, because John doesn’t stick around long enough for one to start. Actually, he’s gone for a full week before returning, casually strolling into the room as if he hadn’t left the boys alone for an unspecified amount of time. It wasn’t as if either of them would dare to question his methods anyway, so he could just.. carry on as usual.

  When he comes in through the door, he tosses a bag into Sam’s lap, startling him.

  “Get up,” he says sternly, already turning to leave again.

  “What?” Sam replies, his voice brittle. Dean’s head perks up from Dad’s journal, he’d been flipping through it, reading all that he could, while John was away.

  “We’ve got a job to do.” He says, back still turned to the boys, hand on the door handle. He doesn’t offer any more explanations, before tossing Dean an identical bag too, just a bit more worn.

  “We?” Sam asks, bewildered. He’d never been allowed to come with on a job before. Never. Despite having shown more “interest” in the family business the past two years or so, his father had always said no whenever he asked to be allowed to come with. John turns on his heels, looking at Sam. Sam’s gaze immediately drops.

  “What do we know so far?” Dean asks, a skeptical undertone to his voice. He eyes Sam wearily, his brows knitted together in obvious worry.

  “Poltergeist. Two towns over. Should be an easy job, if all goes well.” John always spoke like that. Very matter of factly, straight to the point.

  “And Sam’s going too? You’re sure he’s ready for that?” Dean asks. John looks at him then and just … stares at him, for a good thirty seconds. After five, Dean’s gaze drops submissively.

  “You ready for this, Sam?” he then asks, turning to Sam who has paled a lot.

  “Yes sir.” he says, no pause, no hesitation. No weakness.

  “Good. Five minutes and we head out.” John says, closing the door. Shit. Sam quickly unzips the bag and does a brisk inventory check. There’s a big container of salt, ropes, a bottle of what Sam assumes is holy water (it’s a flask with a cross on it), chains, three wooden stakes and shotgun shells just laying loose in the bag. Sam moves some of the stuff aside, and sees a flashlight, extra batteries, waxed cotton rounds and a full bottle of lighter fluid, a jar of dirt, a .. spoon? a pocket knife, a bottle with.. blood? and some other things Sam doesn’t really know what to make of. He picks up the pocketknife and slides it into his front jeans pocket.

  “Can you kill ghosts with wooden stakes?” Sam asks Dean, who is currently tying his shoelaces. Dean laughs.

  “Nah, but you knew that,” Dean says, getting up, slinging the bag across his shoulders. “Why you ask?”

  “There’s wooden stakes in here,” Sam says, pointing to the bag.

  “Oh yeah, but that’s just your starter kit, you know?” Dean says, as if it was obvious. “That reminds me,” he unzips his own bag, and pulls out a leatherbound book, very similar to Dad’s. “This is for you. Dad told me to hang onto it until you were ready. And I think he just gave the signal that you are.”

  “Is this-”

  “A hunter’s journal? Yeah,” Dean says proudly as he hands Sam the journal. He takes it, cautiously, and flips it open. On the very first page, his dad has written:

  Property of Samuel Winchester

  Sam can’t help but smile. His own journal. He finally has a place to put all his thoughts down, all he’s going to learn. But then his smile fades. His own hunter journal. His dad knows he’s going to Magic Scho- to Hogwarts. He’s not going to be a hunter. He’s a wizard. Sam’s brows furrow, and he places the journal in his new bag, getting up, ready to go. The boys shuffle out to the car, and both get into the backseat. John adjusts his mirror so he can lock eyes with Sam.

  “How do we identify poltergeists?” he asks Sam then, looking directly into his eyes. Sam begins to sweat, rubbing his palms on his pants.

  “Uh-”

  “A little more confidence.” John interrupts.

  “Poltergeists are a type of ghost,” he begins, trying to put as much poise behind his voice as he can muster. “They can be forced out of a home by performing a house purification ritual.”

  “And how do you do that?”

  “You place gris-gris bags in each of all the floors, of the north, south, east and west corners of the building it's haunting,” Sam says, knowing he’s right. He’s read this segment of Dad’s journal plenty of times. “The ingredients are; Angelica root, crossroads dirt, Van Van oil-”

  “Alright, alright, seems like you’ve got that covered,” John pulls out of the motel parking lot and gets on the road. He tosses four bags behind him, Sam and Dean catching them, bumping into each other while doing so. Dean stifles a laugh. “What if that doesn’t work?”

  “Uhm..” Sam thinks for a moment, cursing himself for “uhm”-ing before knowing the answer. He searches his brain, tries to picture the journal in his mind. And then he has it. “Salt and burn the remains.”

  “Correct.” John says, no more praise will come out of this. Dean gives Sam a thumbs up and smiles proudly. This makes Sam smile too, and he nudges Dean with his shoulder. “I am pretty sure the ghost is one by the name of Hillary Dunkin, who died a few years back. Take a look at the newspaper article in my journal.”

  Dean picks up the journal from the pocket on the carseat, obviously having done the same thing before. He flips the newspaper open until he reaches the page with black sharpie drawn basically all over it. A picture of a young woman has been circled. Sam leans in to read.

  Hillary Dunkin (46) is survived by her parents Donna and Martin Pearlson, and her husband Francis Dunkin. She was tragically killed in a robbery gone wrong. Should you have any information about the incident, please contact local authorities.

  [...]

  “They never caught the robbers?” Sam asks. He looks at the picture of the woman. She’s quite pretty. Long, blonde hair. She’s wearing a summer dress with daisies on it. When there’s no answer from John, Sam looks back down and continues reading a little further down on the page.

  [...]

  Services will be held on August 22, 1968 at 10:00am in the Union Funeral-West London. There will be a closed casket, and the family accepts flowers for the funeral. Her final resting place will be Bunhill Fields graveyard.

  “When did the hauntings start?” Dean asks.

  “A few weeks ago.” Their dad replies, taking a right onto a new road. They've been driving for about ten minutes now, and Sam has no idea how far away this job is, or how long it will take. Would they have to sleep over at a new motel? Sam curses himself for not bringing a book, or any of his new things or–

  His stomach tumbles over. His owl. Oh no. His first day, and he’s already neglecting his new pet. Sam bites the inside of his cheek and thinks to himself how stupid and irresponsible he is. Shit!

  “You okay?” Dean whispers, seeing his clear distress.

  “No.” Sam gets out, between gritted teeth. “My owl…”

  “Oh.” Dean seems to catch on. “He’ll be alright, yeah?”

  “I don’t know Dean, I’ve.. I’ve never had a freaking owl before, have I?” Sam says, and it comes out way more aggressive than he intended.

  “The pigeon will be okay, you’ll see,” Dean says, bumping his shoulder again. Sam doesn’t budge.

  “He’s not a pigeon.”

  “Looks like one.”

  “Does not!”

  “Does!”

  “Boys!” The voice is cold as ice, and John is not messing around. “Focus.”

  “Yes sir,” they both say at the same time. The rest of the car ride is silent.

  *

  When they finally arrive, and John pulls up in the driveway of the little suburban home, it’s slowly getting dark. Probably about 7 pm or so. Great. Sam’s owl probably hates him already.

  “Okay boys, let me do the talking, and don’t get in the way. Dean, you take a look upstairs after I’ve spoken to the man of the house. I’ll let you know when. Sam, stay close, okay?” John instructs, facing his sons, arms crossed glumly across his chest. The boys nod, and follow after him.

  John knocks on the door, and steps aside to wait. When thirty seconds pass, and no one’s come to open up, John knocks again, this time a bit more adamant about it. Ten seconds, twenty, and just as John raises his knuckles to knock for a third time, the door opens, and a man with a gruff looking beard, deep circles under his eyes and very little hair left atop his head mopes out at them.

  “What?!” he hollers, quite loudly too.

  “My name is John, we spoke on the telephone?” their father is calm, nothing can shake him.

  “John?” the man repeats, blinking slowly. He blinks again. And again, and then it’s as if a light is turned on, and his eyes widen. “Winchester!”

  “Indeed.”

  “Come on in, please, come on inside!” The man ushers them in, and Sam and Dean follow tightly behind John. They are shown into the sitting room, and the boys slump down on one of the couches, as instructed by their fathers outstretched hand. John himself does not sit down, he just leans slightly on the wall, eyeing the man wearily.

  “You’re Francis?” he asks, as though bored.

  “Yes, that’s right,” the man says nervously, twiddling his thumbs, not really knowing what to do with his hands. Sam knows the feeling. John Winchester was an intimidating man to his sons, Sam couldn’t imagine how small he could make other people feel. If this was the reaction of another grown man… Sam shudders.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  “Can I offer you anything? Tea?” The man asks, wringing his hands together, Sam can see little beads of sweat form on his clammy forehead. Francis was a … pathetic looking man, if Sam’s being honest. He’s got approximately twenty two hairs left atop his head, and that’s being generous, combed over to the side, and a ring of thinning, gray hair from ear to ear at the back of his head. He’s got bushy eyebrows and square, unflattering glasses and his teeth are crooked and discolored. Sam suddenly feels a strong urge to brush his teeth, he’d forgotten this morning, too caught up in preparing for his first Job.

  “I’d rather we get right to business,” John says, arms folded across his chest again.

  “Very well,” Francis replies, wetting his lip with his tongue. In the corners of his mouth, Sam can see a white sort of.. something. The man also smells. A lot. Sam tries hard not to wrinkle his nose in disgust.

  “You live here alone, Francis?” John asks, looking around, eyeing the shoe rack, which had multiple pairs of shoes on it. Some high heels as well, and two pairs of kids shoes.

  “Eh, no,” he begins, but corrects himself quickly. “No sir, my- my wife is also here. Not at the moment, of course, her and the kids-”

  “Your wife?” John raises an eyebrow.

  “Yes, Joselynn, we.. We got married this spring.” he shuffles uncomfortably from one foot to the other. He then rubs his protruding belly, undoubtedly trying to straighten his ruffled shirt. Hasn’t been ironed in a while, Sam notes.

  “You remarried after Hillary then,” John says, not a question, but Sam can see Francis wanting to explain himself nonetheless.

  “I was heartbroken, of course, after Hills died, but .. I thought, for the sake of the children.. you know, no boys should be without a mother…” he stumbles through the sentence, and the words make Sam’s whole body tense uncomfortably.

  “Right..” John says, eyes darting across the room, no doubt trying to look for… for clues. Sam takes this opportunity to look around the room as well. There’s lots of framed pictures on almost every single wall of the room.

  There’s mostly framed pictures of Franic’s sons, only a few years separate them, Sam thinks. There’s also some of Francis with a brown haired young woman. She’s in quite a few of the pictures actually, maybe she’s the boy's aunt? Sam looks at one where the brunette embraces the boys with her eyes closed in content. A few of the pictures seem to have been taken on the same day, at a beach photoshoot. They look like a very happy family, Sam thinks. But he also knows pictures can lie. He thinks back to his own photo album, which they’d left behind at Bobby’s place. There were plenty of pictures in it, and both him, Dean and Dad had looked happy in most of the pictures. Sam’s favorite pictures were definitely those of his mom. He didn’t have enough of her, never would have enough of her. Sam has to swallow the lump ever growing uncomfortably in his throat, and he continues scanning the room.

  “Where is your wife now? And your kids?” John asks, unimpressed.

  “They’re staying with Jo’s mother. That’s uhm, that’s my wife.” Francis’ hand goes to the back of his neck, and he scratches himself, licking his lips again too.

  “Because of the ghost?” John asks matter of factly.

  “Y-yes.”

  “When did the hauntings start? Can you tell me about it?” John asks and pulls out something from his leather jacket, the one Dean likes to borrow. Sam can’t quite see what it is John’s holding, but it is small enough to fit in his hand, and he watches as his dad retracts a long antenna from the square.. thing.

  “It all started earlier this year,” Francis swallows audibly. “First there was an awful wailing noise, we thought it was a dying animal or something, perhaps the neighbours? Then, stuff started going missing, mirrors cracked, picture frames were thrown, it was so scary, I tell you!” Francis eyes are wide in terror, and he’s flailing dramatically with his hands as if to emphasize how traumatic this all was for him. “Knives were stuck in the walls, the cupboards kept banging open and shut, the wailing continues on, day after day, night after night, we start hearing whispers– my wife, she woke up in the middle of the night, with scratches down her arms and legs, and, and, and it doesn’t stop, we had to board up the closets upstairs, the kids refused to sleep in their own rooms, we took off the legs from their beds so there’d be nothing underneath but they still-” he frantically catches his breath, words spilling out rapidly. “The kids, my boys, they said the house, it was, I don’t quite know-”

  “Let me take a look around, alright? My son here, Dean, he’s gonna do the upstairs.” John gestures for Dean to get up. He does, unzipping his bag and grabbing his own metal square, pulling up the antenna of it. Sam sends him a questioning look, and because Dean is focused on Francis, Dean whispers to him:

  “EMF reader,” he tells Sam, and it’s as if a bell dings inside Sam’s head, because of course, he’s read about those. EMF scanners are used to detect and measure electromagnetic radiation produced by ghosts or other supernatural entities. It was a vital tool in any job. Sam’s brows furrows. His bag did not have an EMF reader in it. He tries his best not to make a face, and decides he’ll just ask John for one after this job is done. But then Sam catches himself, did he even want one? He’s going to Hogwarts! He’s not actually a hunter, he’s just tagging along for this one job because his dad told him he had to, and it was better to just.. go along, instead of making a fuss like a crybaby.

  “Anything we need to know before we get started?” John asks then, and waves Dean to step closer. He does. Dean’s very obedient. Like a dog, Sam thinks begrudgingly. Or a soldier.

  When Francis doesn’t respond right away, John clears his throat.

  “Oh, sorry? What?”

  “Does the house have a history of violence? Do you know the previous owners? Has something happened on the grounds, other than the robbery in ‘68?” John asks then, seeing as Francis needs a bit more of a nudge to get talking.

  “Uhm.. I don’t think-” he starts, biting his lip. “No, no history of violence, and we bought the house back when Hills and I were newly weds, no one’s owned it before us. It’s just.. the robbery..” his words trail off. John nods.

  “Dean, head upstairs. Do a sweep of the floors, return to me with the deets, ‘kay?” John says.

  “Yes sir,” Dean answers dutifully and heads up the stairs.

  “If you could come with me as I check the downstairs area here, I have a few more questions to ask…” John then leads Francis down the hallway of his own house and Sam is left to his own devices.

  There’s mud tracks through the kitchen, and Sam sees a baseball bat lean against the porch door. The kitchen is very cluttered as well, Sam realizes. All the doors have been taken off their hinges. He wonders why, but doesn’t dare ask questions. Sam’s eyes go back to the wall. One of the boys has lost both his front teeth in another picture, and makes a funny face to the camera, Sam has to bite the inside of his cheek so as not to smile at that. He scans the walls, looking for a picture of Hillary, but seems to not find any. That is until he sees the wedding photo, which must have been taken many years ago, because Francis has hair in it. He also seems fitter, there’s no belly in sight, and he’s not hunched over like he is now. In the picture, Sam sees two young boys stand by their father, one a bit shorter than the other, both with the same hair and eyes as Francis and- that’s not Hillary, Sam realizes then.

  “... to make it clear, the haunting only started earlier this year? In springtime?” Sam hears John ask as they come back into the sitting room.

  “Yes,” Francis says. A few moments pass. His eyes widen. “You’re not suggesting…”

  “The timeline adds up.” John says simply. Just then, Dean comes back down. John raises an eyebrow, as if to prompt Dean to.. what? Spill the beans?

  “Not too much to note, there’s scratches on the outside of all the bedroom doors, the mirror in the bathroom’s cracked, and all the clothes in the master bedroom have been ripped apart, and it’s all like, spread around on the floor.” Dean says, straightening his posture, meeting John's eyes without hesitation. “I’m definitely picking up something on the EMF, and there’s no particular smells or anything.”

  John nods, then looks to Francis. He shakes his head disapprovingly, staring daggers at him, now choosing to sit down in one of the armchairs. John gestures for Francis to sit down in the other one. Dean plumps down next to Sam again, tucking the EMF scanner back in his bag. Sam swallows nervously, and twiddles his own thumbs, just like Francis had done before.

  “Tell me about the night of the robbery.” he says, and just by Francis’ change of expression, Sam knows this is about to get messy.

  *

  It was indeed messy.

  Apparently, the hauntings had started around the same time Francis’ new wife had moved into the house. Odd, right? John had thought so too, and after about an hour of questioning, and convincing Francis to start telling the truth, it was decided they would take into a motel room close by, and perform the ritual the next morning. Francis was encouraged to go be with his wife and kids, it just wasn’t safe to stay at the house. After investigating the whole building, seeing the signs and hearing the story from Francis, Dean and John had both agreed it was definitely a poltergeist they were dealing with. They’d even let Sam join in on the discussion before they decided on a plan for tomorrow. Right now, Sam is laying on one of the three beds, taking notes in his very own hunter’s journal. He was told by his dad to save the first pages for an index, and to also include a list of all the known supernatural beings he knew of, so he could fill it out at a later date. The list was.. alarmingly long so far. He couldn’t quite believe most people didn’t know of these things. Like.. how can you be so blind? Maybe “most people” just didn’t want to see it all. Perhaps they were in denial. Because there’s no way someone can go an entire life without ever coming into contact with something unnatural, something they don’t understand. So yeah, Sam concludes that most people are living in denial about the state of the world, and its lack of supernatural beings and incidents.

  “Lights out, Sammy,” Dean says and takes the book out of Sam’s hands.

  “I wasn’t done!” Sam huffs, annoyed.

  “Too bad, you gotta be rested ‘till tomorrow. Big day.” Dean says, winking. Their father has already fallen asleep. Sam grumbles curses under his breath, but reluctantly lays down on his pillow, punching it angrily to adjust it, and then squeezing his eyes shut, hoping he can fall asleep fast. He doesn’t.

  *

  In the morning, they’d headed out early, and Sam and Dean got to place the gris gris bags themselves. Dean beams proudly at his little brother when he places the last bag in the east corner of the house. They’d used a crowbar to rip up the flooring, it wasn’t easy work, but oh man, how therapeutic it had been ripping up the floorboard like that!

  After a couple of hours, laying down salt in all the windowsills and drawing protective runes on the underside of the floorboards, Sam remembers his owl, who was left behind at the other motel. His stomach is uncomfortably tangled in multiple knots now, and he curses himself for already messing up in leaving the owl behind.

  “You good, mate?” Dean says, nudging Sam’s shoulder with his own, as he puts the floorboard back in place.

  “My owl..”

  “Oh, Pigeon? Nah, don’t worry man, he’s fine, he’s an owl after all, an apex predator-”

  “He’s in his cage still, and I left him, he’s probably out of food, and I-”

  “He’s not in the cage, Sammy.” Dean says then, interrupting Sam’s spiralling. Sam doesn’t say anything, his jaw hangs loose and he just stares at Dean.

  “What did you say?”

  “I let him out, before heading out to the car, figured he could fly around until we got back. Way better than being stuck in a cramped cage, right?”

  Sam doesn’t know if he wants to laugh or cry. If he wasn’t so worried and feeling so guilty for leaving it in the cage, he’d be furious at Dean for letting Pigeo- his owl out like that before he was properly bonded. When he can’t seem to find the words, Dean simply grabs him by the shoulder, pats him once and says:

  “Don’t mention it, kid.”

  He doesn’t. The boys head back to their father, who’s waiting outside. Nothing’s happened, and they haven’t actually seen or heard anything supernatural happening at the property since they arrived. They’ve only seen the after effects of it all, and have had the incidents retold to them by Francis.

  John had told the boys he hadn’t decided yet if he wanted to contact the authorities yet, but in Sam’s mind, there was no doubt. Francis was a murderer, simple as that. And he’d gotten away with it, for all these years. But John said it’s not their business, they were here to take care of the poltergeist, not to pass judgement on whether or not Francis had murdered his wife instead of just leaving her. Sam thought the man was despicable for it. Poor Hillary hadn’t been a victim of robbery, she’d been killed by the hands of who she thought loved her most in this world. There were too many things not adding up, like the only people home at the time of the robbery being Francis and Hillary, the kids, for the first time, spent the weekend at their grandparents. John had gotten his hands on the police report from the incident, Sam doesn’t bother asking how, his father just.. has access to these things, it seems. It felt pretty awesome though, Sam has to admit, to be able to read through official documents like this, seeing pictures of the crime scenes, reading witness statements from neighbours and Francis himself.

  Francis, had conveniently been knocked out, and therefore had no recollection of the incident, other than being able to describe the two assailants very descriptively. There were too many details, Sam thought, to his statement. He’d been knocked out, so he didn’t know anything, but he still knew what the robbers looked like? They also found DNA evidence (report doesn’t say exactly what that was but alas) on Hillary that matched Francis, but because he was her wife, they didn’t seem like this was evidence, and rather just, unrelated to the case.

  When John later that evening had straight up told Francis that he had to cut the bullshit and tell the truth, or else he’d pack up and leave him with the ghost - Francis had started crying, confessing to having an affair and killing his wife when she’d found out. Sam couldn’t hide his feelings then. What a coward. He’d drugged her, with her own sleeping pills, mixed out in the wine they’d shared, and then he’d.. he’d… Sam actually didn’t know that last part, because John had made Dean cover Sam’s ears, much to Sam’s dismay. He wasn’t some freaking baby!

  Dean caught Sam up later, telling him that Francis had been seeing Joselynn for almost a year, before the two had decided to get his wife out of the way. Horrible, horrible people, Sam had thought. Then, after the deed was actually done, Francis had gotten cold feet, and wouldn’t let Joselynn actually move in, in fear of how it would look. Okay, so he had some sort of self awareness. That’s why she hadn’t moved in prior to earlier this year, despite Francis and Joselynn having been together for years. Hillary’s spirit probably didn’t take very kindly to her husband’s mistress playing house with her children and redecorating her home. Sam understood Hillary in a way, and felt incredibly sorry for the woman, replaced by another. He wouldn’t go as far as to say Francis deserved to be haunted, but.. Sam shrugs away that thought.

  The ritual was complete, John had done a double take of the boys’ work, and found it satisfactory. They both got a quick “good” and a pat on the shoulder. It felt.. so good, even if it was a small gesture. John tells Francis then that they would be back in a few days, and if nothing else happens, they’d leave, because the ritual was successful. If anything else happens, he were to contact them again with the new number John provided. It belonged to the telephone box outside the motel, since their room didn’t have their own phone line.

  Before they left this town, Sam vowed he’d somehow tell the authorities. He couldn’t just let Francis get away with it. Hillary deserved better.

  Only two days pass before Francis calls John again, Dean is the one who picks up the phone. The boys had been on phone duty interchangeably for the past few days, and John had said they’d leave if he didn’t call by tomorrow. Sam is almost relieved, because he was hoping he’d get a chance to talk to Francis in person before they left town forever. John tells Francis they would come by once nightfall arrives. Francis had begged him to come earlier, he was so frightened, completely out of his mind, but John just hung up on him. The boys are quickly told to get ready once it starts getting dark, and Sam gets to ride shotgun, much to Dean’s displeasure. He grumbles unhappily in the backseat, but Sam tunes him out, getting to control the music for once. He turns up the volume louder, and sings along to some Elvis song he knows Dean doesn’t like.

  The Winchesters pull up to the Dunkin residence, and John puts the car in park. Francis is standing outside on the front porch, rubbing his hands together.

  “Okay, here’s how this is going to go down,” their father begins, turning slightly in his seat to face both his sons. “Dean and I will head to the graveyard to dig up the bones, and burn the remains. If they’re not there, for whatever reason, we’ll come straight here. If the remains are there, it is very likely the poltergeist will manifest as we begin digging her up. Here’s where you come in, Sam.”

  Sam attempts to swallow the lump in his throat. He nods, they had already gone over the plan the day prior, but it was nice hearing it again, that way, Sam knew exactly what was expected of him.

  “You are not to enter the house, once Dean and I have arrived at the graveyard, under any circumstance, got it?” John asks. Sam nods.

  “Got it.”

  “And you are to stay out here, on the lawn, with Francis. Do not let him enter either. When me and Dean leave, you are to check the house, make sure the salt barriers are all intact, so the poltergeist cannot leave. Then you leave the house, and stand with Francis like I told you. Understood?”

  “Understood,” Sam repeats, confidently meeting his dad’s scrutinizing eyes. “I can do it, Dad.”

  “Good boy,” John responds then, ruffling Sam’s hair. Wow, if this is what it took for his dad to finally show him an ounce of affection, Sam would have embraced the hunter lifestyle way earlier. But it’s too late now, he knows that, and he feels bad, almost as if he has done something, his conscience slowly eating away at him.

  Because Sam’s not a hunter. Sam’s a wizard.