Chapter Text
HOME — Part One
Whoever decided that tonight of all nights was going to be an appropriate time to break into her store was going to be in for a sorry surprise and a gut full of lead.
She whipped around the corner of the stairs, pointing the sawed-off shotgun at the two shadowy figures standing—very much real—in the middle of her lobby. “Stay where ya are!” she demanded, giving them no room to argue.
“Wait, hold on now,” the first started, raising his hands in surrender. “We’ve come to ask for your help.”
“Bu’iness ‘ours are on the door, cupcake,” she said, motioning behind them with the end of the gun. “Shoulda read ‘em. Come back t’morrow.”
“Cupcake?” he muttered as the other intruder said, “You are Salem LaFontae, correct?”
“Who’s asking?”
“Our dad told us you could help us,” the seconds answered. “John Winchester.”
“I don’know no man named Winchester.”
“Well he knew you,” the first blurted. “And he said you were the most prolific seer in the country.”
“While dat’s flatterin’, it still don’t mean yew can break into my home et t’ree in the mornin’.” As if on cue the pictures on the walls vibrated and a deathly howl creaked through the store. “Y’all come et a very bad time.”
“Witching hour,” the second intruder murmured.
“Gran’ma!” Salem snapped, glaring at the shivering woman in the corner of the store. “Don’ yew dare touch dat dare gun.”
“We’re on the ley lines, aren’t we?” the first man asked.
“De crossroads of all crossroads,” Salem agreed. “Busy night t’night.” She could barely concentrate on them in front of her with all the spirits flying past her like bullets.
“Please, can you help us with our case?” the second man asked.
“I don’ do ghost huntin’,” Salem shook her head. “I just talk to ‘em. Give ‘em safe passage to de beyond.”
“We think that’s what we need help with—sending a spirit to the beyond,” the second man argued.
She continued to shake her head. “Can’ do dat. I’m needed here. Y’all seem to know what ye’re talking abou’. I’m sure you can handle it.”
“Well obviously we can't, which is why we came to you!” The first man snapped.
“Hey, Dean, chill.”
Dean. She noted. “I’m not for hire, Dean. I said no, I can’t help yew; now ge’out.” She trained the sawed-off on him again.
“Damn it,” he grumbled.
“Sorry we bothered you—” the second started, but Salem’s attention was caught by something else.
“Gran’ma!” She snapped. “Wha’did I say?”
Both men hesitated.
“How many are there?” the second asked.
“What?” Salem turned on them again.
“How many are in the room right now?”
“All of ‘em. . .none of ‘em. Dey’re on de move righ’ now.”
“How many usually visit in a night?”
“Wouldn’ know.” She shrugged. “I’ve salted my bedroom.”
“Smart,” Dean noted.
“I know,” she shot back. “Dere’s a lot it sounds like yew don’know about dis side of yer bu’iness.”
“Oh, we’re not in the business,” the second said.
“So yew hunt for de t’rill?”
“We do it to help people,” Dean said pointedly and Salem cocked an eyebrow.
“Righ’.” She all but rolled her eyes at them.
“How many people actually come visit you in this podunk?”
Podunk? “More dan you’re bettin’ on,” she said, bristling.
“A number, cupcake.” He shoved his hands into his pockets.
“Dis here is de h’art of New Orleans. You t’ink people don’ stop to visit, even when dey aren’t lookin’ for someone?” She shook her head. “I turn over close to t’ree-hundred people a day, t’ree-hundred and sixty-five days a year, eight AM to ten PM. Yew passed all dose souls s’eeping ou’side on de sidewalk on your way in, jus’ waitin’ for de chance to make contact with t’eir loved one on de ot’er side. Dere will never not be a demand for me and what I do.”
“So you can’t come with us for even a week?” the second, who she still didn’t know the name of, asked softly.
“No can do—” she shook her head— “I’ve got promises to keep.”
“Well, that puts us straight outta luck,” Dean said and turned. “Come on, Sam.”
Sam. Sam and Dean Winchester. It was true that she didn’t know who their father was. Had never met a man named John Winchester in her life, but that didn’t mean he hadn’t come to her. She never asked the names of her clients, only the name of the soul they were trying to contact. Though, there was that one time—
“Yer momma’s name don’appen t’be Mary, do it?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Dean said as Sam asked, “Have you heard from her?”
Salem chewed on the inside of her cheek. “Turns out I do know yer daddy. He came to me—oh. . .six years ago?”
“Did you speak to her? Our mom?” Sam asked, sounding on the verge of tears.
Her lips formed a line. “Can’t say dat we did. It was like. . .dere was somet’in’ holdin’ her back.”
“But you could feel her?” Dean asked.
“Feel is a strong word. I can sense, I can assume. . .but I can’t resurrect.”
Sam let out a shaky breath. “I’m going to be honest with you—”
“Were yew not before?”
“No, we were, but I’m going to be more honest with you, I guess,” he stammered. “It was a demon that killed our mom—”
“I know.”
He hesitated. “Well, then. . . We’ve gone back to visit our old house, and we think the demon is still there.”
“I told yew I ain’t no hun’er.”
“No, we know, but that’s kind of what we’re struggling with. We don’t know if it is a demon, or just a spirit that latched onto the grief of the house.”
“Well, when yew fig’re it out yew can send me a postcard, how does dat sound?” She rested the gun across her shoulder. “Now, I’m sorry I can’ help y’all, but I’ve given you my ansah. I’d prefer not to have yew outta ‘ere in bodybags.”
“Alright, that’s no problem,” Dean said quickly. “We’re leaving.”
“We are?” Sam muttered.
“Yes,” he said pointedly. “We are.”
“How did yew get in ‘ere?” she asked, eyeing them. “Yew better not have messed up my hoodoo.”
“Oo. . .” Dean drawled. “We might have, accidentally. Real sorry ‘bout that.”
With a roll of her eyes she crossed to the counter on the east wall, stepping behind it to dig through the baskets underneath. Hoodoo, voodoo, crystals, rock salt—whatever anyone could possibly need to call, catch, or kill an entity, was living in the baskets under that counter. With a small leather pouch in her palm, she crossed out from behind the counter again. “Show me. I’ll seal up my circle again once yew bot’ are outta‘ere.”
Sam and Dean shared a look then started towards the back of the store and to the backdoor.
“Didju pick my lock?” Her face curled with a sneer.
“I would suggest investing in better ones,” Dean said simply.
“Or an alarm system,” Sam added.
“I’ll keep dat in mind,” she said as she pulled open the mouth of the back, preparing to fill in the new gaps in the circle.
“Sorry again to bother you,” Sam said as he stepped out onto the back porch.
“If you bot’ eveh break in again, I won’t hesitate nex’time,” she warned.
“Why’d you hesitate this time?” Dean asked, standing at her shoulder.
“Couldn’tell if yew were real or not.” She motioned to the darkness of the early morning with her chin. “Now ge’out.”
Without a word he stepped onto the back porch next to Sam.
“Nice meetin’ you boys. Good luck with yer ghos’ hunt.”
“Thanks—” Dean started, then his eyes went wide. “What the hell is that?”
Panic sunk Salem’s heart like a stone and she whipped around to look behind her, but all she was met with was darkness.