16. Chipping off the Rust

I've decided to devote some time to mapping out the bunker. Currently, I'm in one of the inventory rooms, just glancing through. In previous days, I've been looking through books and documents, just reading. This bunker was founded by a group called the Men of Letters. Take note of the word "men," as apparently there were no women in the group. Well, if there was the off chance that there were any women, there is no documentation on them.

Well, now, apparently, there is, if I can count. I got the history lesson from Sam that he, Dean, and myself are part of the line of Men of Letters, being that our grandfather—Dad's dad—was one. If the group had still been around, surely there would be Women of Letters too, not just the men.

I dig through boxes, finding some things that I don't want to touch. Something glints in the dim lighting in one of the boxes. I sniff, reaching it. My lips part as I feel cold, dusty metal. I pull out the two poles until I realize they really aren't poles at all. They're batons.

How in the hell did these get in here? Or even exist? I cock my head as I give them a thorough look through. I grimace, wiping the grime off of them. There's no rust on them, so they must've been cleaned when Dean and Sam went through inventory here the first time.

I test both batons in each hand. They're not heavy, but they aren't feather-light either. If I swing hard enough, I can maybe break a jaw or a nose, or a bone in general. Huh. Well, this would definitely work for up close and personals. I look around, observing the space around me.

I move my arms, baton in each hand, getting used to their feeling. I spin around, pretending to defend myself from invisible enemies. I've never been much of a fighter, but holding these weapons gives me a sense of power. Like I'm about as strong as my brothers would be.

I continue to swing at air, imagining enemies being knocked aside or unconscious. I'm getting more into it. I would've been into it much more if I had someone to fight against. Swinging at nothing would make me look crazy. Or maybe not so crazy. People do this all the time, right?

I turn around, swinging my left arm. I jump, panicked, as my baton gets caught. I react, swinging my right arm.

"Jesus, Josette!" Dean hisses as I throttle him in his side. He scowls down at me.

"You jumped me!" I say defensively.

"I didn't jump you. Calm down."

Yes, big brother Dean is back in the bunker. We got him back after two weeks of separation. The Winchester siblings came together on a case in Grantsburg, Wisconsin, involving werewolves. There I met a hunter named Garth, who was actually a werewolf himself. He was bitten, though, not a born werewolf. He'd found himself a pack, and a lovely wife. I'd had my reserves, but the family wasn't all that bad.

Well, except for the select few that wanted to frame my brothers and I for murder of their pack members so that the human-friendly pack would turn against humanity.

In the end, the bad guys bit the dust. Oh, and to top that off, we let Dean in on our failed plan to track Gadreel with his Grace. In return, Dean told us how he and Crowley went on an adventure that resulted in them both meeting Cain, who turned out to be the very first Knight of Hell. Dean wound up with Cain's mark on him, a mark he showed to Sam and me both.

My relationship with Dean is about as strained as Sam's is with him. Their issues between them haven't been worked out yet, even though we're all living under the same roof again. We're all hunting partners, but that's as far as the relationship is right now.

My brothers have just finished up a case in Stillwater, Minnesota, hence why they're back. I can tell things are still tense between Dean and Sam, seeing my older brother's face right now.

"Don't look so happy, Dean," I deadpan. "It's contagious." I pull my baton out of his grip.

"Where'd you find those?"

I swing the batons at my sides. "I was browsing and found them in a box." I shrug.

"Keep them if you want. I don't remember seeing those."

"There's probably a lot you don't remember boxing up." I look at the large inventory. "You need a system here. All I see is crap piled with other irrelevant crap just tucked away in storage."

"Why're you snooping around, anyway, Josette?"

"Well, I know I can't play couples therapy to you and Sam right now, so I figured I'd busy myself. Besides, Cas hasn't been around in a while. He's probably doing something important, and I don't want to call or pray to him or whatever just for company." I rub one of the batons against my leg. "And I live here now."

"What about Idaho?"

"Idaho doesn't have anything for me anymore."

"Like here does? What about your whole, I'm-gonna-go-live-my-own-life deal? The screw-my-family-over deal?"

I wince. "You know it wasn't like that. This is just the leftover anger from all those years." I point a baton at my brother's chest. "But you might be enjoying this. Karma came and bit me in the ass. And now, here I am, back where I'm supposed to be. Just like Dad always wanted." I sigh. "Did you want something, Dean?"

"Nah. I was just taking a walk."

"Normally when people do that, they go outside. Or they go for a drive. I'm surprised you didn't do that."

"Listen, uh, Josette. Thanks for...for keeping Cas out of trouble."

I scoff. "You know I got him into more trouble than I kept him out of it." I tilt my head.

Dean nods towards my batons. "How rusty are you?"

"Very. In everything. What, you want to volunteer as tribute to teach me?"

"Just wondering."

I sigh. "Look, we've got our differences, but just because I left all those years ago doesn't mean you should cut off training me up again."

Dean rubs his face. The fatigue is clear in his green eyes. "You know, the Dean you remember would want you around here."

"But the Dean now...?"

"Things are really tough right now, Josette. Tougher than they've ever been. The job's gotten a lot more difficult. There're a lot more players than there used to be. And with you so out of practice..."

"Dean, I killed a freaking angel to save Cas's life back in Rexford. I'm not that bad. It'd be muscle memory. It's not like I'm a beginner and don't have the knowledge or the skill."

Our heads snap up at lights flickering. Dad's old knowledge is whispering in the back of my mind. But the logical part of me doesn't conclude it's what I think it is.

"Does the bunker glitch?" I ask slowly.

"It hasn't since we've been here."

I look at my brother. "I think we both know what this is."

I almost see a smile on my brother's face. "Maybe you're not so rusty after all. If it's what we think it is, we need to prep. Those iron?"

"We'll find out soon, won't we?"

"Go find Sam, I'll start getting what we need."

I run out of the storage room, calling Sam's name through the halls. I find myself out in the library of the bunker, and Sam goes to me.

"What's with the batons?" he asks.

"Found them in storage. Cool, huh?"

"Did you see it too?" Sam changes topics.

"What?"

"The lights."

I nod. "Dean and I saw them." I jump, spinning around as books drop off the shelves. "Yeah...we've got company." I go to the fallen books, re-shelving them. It's definitely a ghost. Lights are one thing, but books skydiving from the shelves?

"Dean!" Sam disappears into the halls. The lights flicker again as I barely keep up with my brother.

Sam leads me to the kitchen, where Dean's got guns on the kitchen table.

"Did you see it yet?" I ask Dean.

"No."

"Seen anything else?"

"No. Grab a gun and start loading."

My hands grab a gun and rounds. Rock salt rounds. Things are slowly coming back to me, like a drawer is open and things are falling out of it. Rock salt doesn't kill ghosts, just slows them down.

"How is this possible?" says Dean. "I thought you said this was the safest place on the planet."

"Look, I know nothing got in," says Sam. "I mean, the bunker is warded and sigiled from top to bottom. There's no way something came in from the outside."

"Okay, so whoever's haunting us died recently," I conclude.

"What, dead Man of Letters?"

"No, that doesn't track," says Dean. "I mean, we're the first people to occupy this place in fifty years. Why would a ghost wait so long to get its spook on?"

"Must have been a more recent death."

"No."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because I burned his body myself, okay? It's not him."

One name comes to mind: Kevin.

"Okay, so you cremated him," says Sam. "We cremated Bobby, too, and he came back."

Dean looks at me, waiting for my meltdown I suppose. I do feel a heavy anvil on my heart at the mention of Bobby Singer, sure. But right now, I can't let emotions cloud my head. That's another thing Dad always told me: have a clear head. Clear head, clear shot, good judgment.

"Sam, I'm telling you," Dean says, "this ghost, it's not Kevin."

Our heads snap towards the coffeemaker next to Dean. I swallow, seeing all the lights flash. The numbers are blurry as they speed together.

"Kevin?" asks Sam.

I yelp as a coffee mug next to the machine explodes. "Shit," I stammer. I push my hair back out of my face. "I guess it is him, huh?"

"The signs are pointing to it, yeah."

"So, now what? We wait for him to make contact again?"

"It's the only thing we can do."

"But who knows how long that's gonna be?" asks Dean.

"Are you suggesting we take shifts watching a coffeemaker?" I ask.

"You got a better idea, Josette?"

I huff. "Okay, okay. Who wants first shift?"

"You and Dean go do whatever," says Sam.

"Get in a little training, then?" I propose to my older brother. "It'll kill some time."

"Take the batons with you, and let's see what you're made of," says Dean.