Chapter Text
Mary, Dean, and Sam Winchester got word of the case from Jeff Wagner, the police chief of the town of Kermit, Texas. Sam Winchester had lived there with his veterinarian girlfriend Amelia Richardson while Dean was in Purgatory. The younger brother had introduced Jeff to the Supernatural world after an altercation with the werewolf capo of a Mexican cartel.
[See The Wolf.]
Once upon a time Jeff had been a cop in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. When an old friend from the Badger State reached out to the officer for advice about suspicious goings-on in his small Wisconsin town, Jeff flipped to a special card in his ancient Rolodex®, the one with Sam Winchester’s #3 cell phone number and the letter “S” printed in the younger Winchester brother’s precise, college-era, note-keeping script. Jeff had drawn a rough sketch of a five-pointed sheriff’s badge in the upper right-hand corner as a reminder.
As if he could ever forget the sight of Sam thrusting a long, glowing, silver blade into the throat of a charging mythological beast.
Sam answered on the third ring. A few minutes to catch up–small-town gossip, Jeff’s new family, Sam’s reunion with Dean and their sister Mary (too much to explain over the phone), a brief but happy report regarding Amelia, her formerly MIA husband, and Riot the dog–and enough information to satisfy the Winchester family that Jeff had found them a legitimate case.
What’s more, said the police chief, the potential client, a business owner, was wealthy and willing to pay for services rendered, whether or not Sam and his siblings were successful. Jeff told Sam that he had informed the client that the Winchesters were trustworthy specialists in closing cases that baffled conventional law enforcement.
“Here’s the number; he’s waiting your call. Mr. Gimpel is a sweet old guy, but don’t let the George Burns shtick fool you. Smart and still the sharpest knife in the drawer.”
“And hey, come see us soon,” said the cheerful police chief. Had found new love with an ex-military nurse with violet eyes.
“When was the last time you chowed down on decent Tex-Mex burritos, smothered? And I wanna meet your brother and sister.”
Sam and Mary were all in. Credit card frauds were harder to pull off in the age of Internet malware and identity theft protection, as were barroom pool and dartboard hustles. Fewer innocents with money to spend on betting in questionable roadhouses. Sam called ahead and confirmed with Mr. Gimpel’s pleasant executive assistant, a woman named Tasha, that they would be driving out from Kansas, leaving within the hour.
Yes, said Sam to Tasha, all things being equal, just as fast as flying, given the distance to the airports in Omaha and Kansas City and the sparse scheduled flights between those airports and Milwaukee. And their car conveniently was loaded up with the equipment they would need for the investigation.
We’ll be there in a jiffy.
Did not mention Dean’s hatred of travel at 30,000 feet.
Tasha gave Sam the address of the suburban Milwaukee hotel where the Gimpel Corporation was putting them up. Asked some polite questions about their preferences.
A shared suite with three bedrooms sounds fine, said Sam.
Mary claimed shotgun in Baby’s spacious front seat before her sons had finished packing. Her Hunter parents drilled her on the importance of having a “go bag”, and it was a family joke that she took less time on her appearance than either of the boys.
She had raided the Bunker’s kitchen and snatched the portable beer cooler and Dean’s not very well-hidden grocery sack of tasty junk food. And, since she was a good mom, she stuffed a bag with fruit and protein bars for her baby Sammy as well.
Mary loved road trips with her children. Once Dean, under duress, had let his mother drive Baby on the way back from northern Illinois. She wove her way through Chicago’s maze of expressways during Friday afternoon rush hour. Did she shut her eyes, just for fun? Really?
(Yes, we know, what was Dean thinking? It never occurred to him that his Hunter mom would voodoo her boys, shamelessly, with relatively benign magic that she had picked up on the road. Got Dean to eat veggie pizzas without complaining and got Sam to take naps. And enjoyed the parental privilege of pranking both sons, one of the best payoffs of her resurrection.)
Sam, huddled in the back seat, chanted under his breath. At first Dean thought it was Enochian prayers. But he leaned back and cupped his ear. It was a prayer, of sorts, that his younger brother repeated over and over.
“We are going to die. We are going to die. We are going to die.” They didn’t, but Mary didn’t drive Baby again, except in emergencies.
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The Impala was warded against the watchful radar of the highway patrol across four states, which meant Dean could aim Baby through the messy network of Heartland interstates at a steady 110 mph. He should have been happy, but he would not stop bitching.
“All rich guys are douche-bags” was his mantra, with few variations, mile after mile, until Mary threatened to dump him at the exit to an Interstate 80 truck stop in Iowa and let Sam drive on to Wisconsin without him.
After that, Dean shut up, mostly, not willing to risk testing his mom’s patience.
Dean changed his mind about rich guys after he met the client.