Bone Key (21 page)

SIXTEEN

Dean sat not-very-patiently on the hood of the Impala, currently parked on Route 1A near the Key West International Airport.
Which
, Dean thought,
is a pretty hifalutin name for a shack
with a runway.
Still, they had flights to various foreign countries—many of which were closer to Key West than the island was to the Florida state capital—so Dean supposed it made sense. Bobby had said his flight would be in around ten. Dean supposed he could have gone inside and checked, but that would’ve required setting foot in an airport, which Dean had no interest in doing. That would put him in dangerous proximity to the planes. It was bad enough the damn things kept flying overhead and making all that noise as they came crashing—okay,
landing
—to the ground. He didn’t see how Bobby could even consider traveling that way. Of course, it made more sense Bone

Key

213

right now, since they only had until sunset tonight. Sam had whined any number of times about how ridiculous it was that they had to drive everywhere. And even Dean had to admit that being grounded limited them. But air travel was expensive, as was storing the Impala (though Bobby would let them keep it at his place for free). More important, how the hell were they supposed to transport their weaponry? Dean had plenty of faith in his and his brother’s ability to forge documentation, but it was a lot easier to fool a grieving widow or an overworked hospital nurse than airport security.
Sammy . . .

Dean shook his head—then jumped out of his skin as he heard another plane take off.
Goddam-
mit.

Route 1A ran along the southeast coast of the island, and in this spot it was the beach and the ocean on one side and the airport on the other. If he faced one way, he could see the planes, and he broke out in a cold sweat. If he faced the ocean—

which had the added advantage of affording him a view of the women on the beach—he was caught off guard by the sounds of the planes, and it scared the crap out of him.

If Dean
had
to have a phobia, he supposed fear of flying was as good a one as any to have in his line of work. Beat the hell out of claustrophobia or a fear of loud noises. Dean had no problem 214 SUPERNATURAL

with fear, as long as it stayed healthy. Healthy fear kept you alive. Crippling, mind-numbing, paralyzing, sweat-inducing fear, though, that sucked. And messed with the job.

The job was all Dean had. Yes, he had Sam, too, but Sammy was intricately tied up
with
the job. He pounded the hood of the Impala and hopped off it, starting to pace on the sidewalk.
Times like
this, I wish I smoked. This’d be a great time for
a cigarette.
Not that it would help matters, and they had enough problems keeping up with rising gas prices, much less adding a habit that cost five bucks a pack.

But that was the job. Cheap motels, cheap coffee, cheap beer, cheap food that was probably hardening his arteries by the second, all of it a testament to getting what you paid for.

My health don’t matter, though. Why should I
worry about a heart attack or lung cancer when
I’m fifty when I ain’t even gonna see my thirtieth
birthday?

A tinny rendition of Eric Clapton’s guitar riff for

“Crossroads” sounded from Dean’s pocket. Taking out his cell phone, he saw that it was Bobby.
Guess
one of those planes was his.
“Yeah, Bobby?”

“Plane’s landed.”

“Okay—I’m right down the street. See you in a few.”

About twenty minutes later, Dean was wait-Bone Key

215

ing at the car pickup area near the terminal when Bobby finally emerged, holding a small carry-on bag. “I also had some stuff shipped overnight to the Naylor House. It show up yet?”

“Dunno,” Dean said. “I haven’t been there in a while.” He assumed that Bobby had sent along things you couldn’t really bring on a plane. Bobby threw his bag into the backseat, then stared at Dean through the passenger-side window.

“You okay? The bags under your eyes have bags under their eyes.”

Dean shook his head. “I was up all night digging through Dad’s journal. Didn’t find jack about the Last Calusa or about demon rituals that destroy powerful spirits. After that, I got sick of sitting in the damn room, so I went driving up and down the keys for a while.”

Bobby opened the door and climbed into the passenger seat. “After dealing with John’s thought processes, I’d need a long drive myself. C’mon, let’s figure out what’s goin’ on.”

Dean yanked on the seat belt. Something about having Bobby in the car made him want to play it safe. He didn’t always bother with it, though lately he’d been putting it on when Sam whined about it, just to avoid yet another argument. He and Sam had been bickering
way
too much lately as it was. Besides, with both of them on the federal radar, it’d be downright embarrassing to be nailed at a 216 SUPERNATURAL

traffic stop for piddly crap like a seat belt and get tossed back into the waiting arms of Special Agent Henriksen.

For Bobby, though, Dean buckled up on instinct. Out of respect, if nothing else.

It had been a very frustrating night. Pulling an all-nighter was fine if you actually
got
something out of it, but all Dean had done was read through the overstuffed leather-bound notebook that was all he had left of his and Sam’s father. In the years since the yellow-eyed bastard killed their mother, John had dedicated himself to being a hunter, and all that time he took copious notes. What they weren’t, though, were organized notes. Aside from sticking the stuff that was phony in the back, Dad didn’t keep his notes in anything like order. Sammy had been making noise about putting the whole thing into a database or something on his laptop, but he hadn’t actually had time to do so, what with them being so busy doing their jobs and all.

So Dean spent the entire night squinting over Dad’s weird handwriting and upside-down margin notes and total lack of organizational skills, all to find out that this was something he never encountered in two decades of hunting. Or if he did, he didn’t bother writing it down.

Thanks, Dad. Big help, like always.
To make matters worse, Captain Naylor wasn’t Bone

Key

217

doing so hot at keeping his promise to leave Dean alone, as he kept showing up in the room to ask how things were proceeding. He also expressed displeasure at what the Fedregottis did to him, at great length.

Finally, Dean got fed up and left.

“You get my message?” Dean asked as he headed back westward toward Old Town.

“Yeah, got the voice mail when we stopped over in Atlanta. And I don’t like it.”

“Me either, but unless you got a better idea . . .”

“
Anything’s
a better idea than workin’ with a demon, Dean.”

“Really?” Dean said snidely. “So that
wasn’t
a demon who helped you rebuild the Colt, that was just some blond chick with
really
black eyes, right?”

Bobby said nothing.

“Look,” Dean went on, “you said that Tonto can’t use me because my life’s already been sacrificed. Well, I
made
that sacrifice so that Sammy wouldn’t die. I ain’t lettin’ that be for nothing, so we are doing whatever it takes to make sure he lives. If that means workin’ with that bitch of a demon, then we do that.”

“I don’t like it, Dean.”

“Excuse me, but when did
liking
ever enter the freakin’ equation? This is
Sam
we’re talkin’

about!”

218 SUPERNATURAL

“Yeah, and you already did one stupid-ass thing to save his life, and I don’t want you doin’ another one without
thinkin’
about it first.” Bobby pointed an accusatory finger at Dean from the passenger seat. “And don’t you
dare
take that tone with me, boy. I been in this game a lot longer than you, and I know all about what you have to do when things get bad.”

Bobby didn’t elaborate, and Dean didn’t ask, mostly because he was embarrassed. Bobby was as close to a father as Dean had anymore. Hell, in some ways, he was better than the guy who originally had the job, and he certainly didn’t deserve to have Dean biting his head off. “I’m sorry, Bobby.”

“It’s all right,” Bobby said in a quieter tone. “I shouldn’ta snapped. But you ain’t the only one’s been up all night.”

They drove in silence for a few minutes.

“What exactly did the demon say she could do?”

Bobby asked.

Turning the Impala right onto White Street, Dean said, “She said her spell could channel all the spiritual energy on Key West through a single vessel.”

“And you’re the single vessel?”

Dean nodded. “Has to be a willing vessel; otherwise, she’s spending too much time struggling with the guy and isn’t able to focus.”

“Makes sense.” Bobby’s lips twisted in thought. Bone

Key

219

“The Last Calusa’s got the strength of the entire tribe, with the added bonus of all the people he killed. The spirits on the island are already more powerful thanks to the demons’ spell. Combine

’em all into one person—”

“And you got one bad-ass spirit,” Dean said.

“Sonofabitch.” Bobby suddenly got a faraway look in his eyes.

“Bobby?” Dean prompted as he turned left onto Eaton.

Shaking his head, Bobby said, “I’m a jackass. Shoulda realized it when I heard your voice mail. This sounds like a variation on a gestalt.”

“Gesundheit.”

Bobby didn’t even dignify that with a reply, which Dean found disappointing. Sam, at least, he could count on for a groan of appreciation. Instead, Bobby just said, “It’s a spell that combines several people into one.”

“You ever seen this spell in action?”

“No.” Bobby shook his head emphatically. “This is high-level stuff, the sorta thing that monks could only pull off after fifty straight years of meditation.”

“Or a demon could do in her sleep.”

“Yeah.”

Pulling into the Naylor House’s driveway, Dean said, “So basically we’re fighting fire with fire. Tonto’s a ghost to the power of a thousand, so we hit
him
with a ghost to the power of a thousand.”

220 SUPERNATURAL

“Pretty much, yeah.” Bobby climbed out of the car and opened the back to retrieve his bag. Bodge was sitting on the front porch, Snoopy draped over her lap, snoozing. “Heya Deany-baby!

You got a package. Nicki’s got it inside.”

The salutation got Dean a look from Bobby, which Dean ignored with only a little more effort than it took to ignore similar looks from Sam.

“Thanks, Bodge! This is our friend Bobby.”

“Pleased to meet you, Bob. I’d get up, but, uh—”

She pointed at the sleeping sheepdog. Bobby smiled. “Got a pooch of my own. If he ain’t up and runnin’ over to meet new people, means he’s out like a light.”

“Yeah.” Bodge laughed. “There’s some breakfast left in back if you guys want.”

“Thanks,” Dean said as he hopped up onto the porch. He paused to give Snoopy a scritch. The dog raised his furry head for a brief second, then flopped back down onto Bodge’s thigh. Inside, Nicki was sitting at the front desk, and Dean introduced Bobby to her as he signed for the package, then they took the big box and went out into the back. The table had two pitchers of coffee, several bowls filled with cut fruit, a loaf of bread next to a toaster, a butter dish, several jars of jam, and a few boxes of cereal.

“They only do the fancy breakfast from six to nine,” Dean said dolefully. Of course, he could Bone

Key

221

have had it this morning, but he had been up around Key Largo at that point.

“This’ll do.” Bobby poured himself some coffee and put two slices of bread in the toaster. After they’d stocked up on fruit, toast, and coffee, they retired to Dean’s room. Captain Naylor was waiting for them, predictably. “I see you’ve brought assistance thanks to your brother’s capture. Good morning, sir. I am Captain Terrence Naylor, and I’m a prisoner of this blasted house.”

Nonplussed, Bobby said, “Er, Bobby Singer. Friend’a Dean and Sam’s.”

“Mr. Winchester and I have an arrangement,”

Naylor said.

“Yeah,” Dean said through gritted teeth, “that you’d
leave me alone
, and I’d salt and burn your bones when this was all over. You ain’t doin’ so hot on your end.”

Sounding wholly unapologetic, Naylor said,

“My apologies, but my already-nightmarish existence has grown far worse.”

“My heart bleeds.”

“Actually,” Bobby said, “we’re gonna need your help to get this done. You and all the spirits on the island.”

“And how’s that, Mr. Singer?”

Quickly, Bobby explained what he assumed the spell to be. “If there’s anything you can do 222 SUPERNATURAL

to smooth matters over with the other spirits, it might help.”

“I doubt I have that sort of influence over my fellow deceased—however, in the interests of fulfilling my side of our arrangement, I will endeavor to do so.”

With that, he faded away.

Dean fixed Bobby with a dubious expression.

“You really think Captain Ahab there can talk the other spirits into cooperating?”

Bobby shrugged. “Got nothin’ to lose by tryin’. Maybe the horse’ll talk.”

“Sorry?” Dean asked in confusion. It was a sad commentary on Dean’s life that it was perfectly possible that Bobby really
meant
an actual talking horse.

“Story my uncle used to tell,” Bobby said after sipping his coffee. “Guy’s being condemned to death. He’s brought before the king, and the king asks if he has any last words. Guy says, ‘Your majesty, gimme a year, and I can teach your horse how to talk.’ The king thinks this sounds good, so he stays the guy’s execution for a year and tells him to go to the stables and teach his horse to talk. The guy’s friend goes up to him, and says, ‘What’re you, nuts? You can’t teach a horse to talk, nobody can!’ The guy says, ‘Look, I’ve got a year. Maybe I’ll die. Maybe the king’ll die. And hey—maybe the horse’ll talk.’”

Bone

Key

223

Dean just stared at Bobby for a second. Then he reached into his pocket to pull out a knife. “Here’s to talking horses.”