Bobby Singer's Daughter - A Supernatural Fan Fiction

Chapter One Hundred and Sixty-Two - Not so music to my ears

Sam and Dean are going over all of Kevin's notes and printing them out to read them, I've got a pot of coffee going along with a few beer bottles to hand over to Dean when he comes to check on me; I've been staying in the kitchen because it's the coolest room in the place and I can lean against the fridge which gives off cold waves. Dean found me in here about an hour ago leaning against the thing and thought I'd passed out, but I assured him I was just cooling myself off; he kissed my forehead then went back into the library with his brother. I can hear their voices carrying about the paperwork, Dean tries several people to hunt down Garth because he's MIA too which concerns us but not as much as Kevin going off the grid as well, I honestly don't think he's dead I just have this gut feeling that he's not.

When the coffee is done, I trust myself enough to load everything up on a tray and gingerly carry it out to the guys, when Dean sees what I'm doing he swoops in and takes it from me, "you could really hurt yourself Lennie," he scolds, "I don't need you in the ER with third degree burns or something." He sets the tray down by his brother who points to something on the papers, "there it is again, every time."

"Hmm?" Dean looks over his shoulder, "this symbol?" Sam taps his finger on it, "I know it, now, Kevin has it down as, as sort of like a signature, for the Scribe of God. It appears every time Metatron makes one of his uh, editor's notes."

"Sam, are you saying it's a glyph of some kind, like Native American or something?"

"A what?" Dean asks and Sam nods, "yeah exactly like that, it was something we studied in Stanford, Native American History; how'd you know?"

"Sam in case you forgot I studied abroad and all around after my mother died, I probably know as much as you, well maybe." This makes Sam chuckle, "even with a sick head you're still sharp as a stick."

"Yeah, yeah so what does it mean?"

We watch him go about the library grabbing a few books, flipping through pages until he finds the one he's looking for and slams it down on the desk sending painful vibrations through my head.

"This belonged to a tiny tribe in Colorado, more of a – a clan, really," he explains, "it says here they held on to their scrap of mountain when all the other tribes fell to the white men. So, this glyph was a territorial marker – closest translation, 'messenger of God'."

My eyes flick between Sam and the book, the words 'messenger of God' ringing in my head, I have this gut feeling that we need to go there, like yesterday. I start to head down the hall when Dean calls my name and I say, "we have to go there, Dean, like now, like yesterday."

"Whoa, whoa whoa,' he says, "on a hunch like that? Plus, you...you're barely functioning you can't seriously think to travel like this?"

"I'm only gonna get worse," I state, "I mean, until we get back to the real job, until we find the third trial – we're out of prophets!" My voice is becoming louder, "we're not gonna figure out what Kevin couldn't! I say we go to the Messenger of God who wrote it in the first place!"

"And you think this Metatron is hiding out in the mountains with a bunch of Indians?"

"What do we have to lose?" Sam asks, "and by the way they uh...you're not really supposed to call them Indians."

I chuckle at this which then is followed by even louder laughter as I go to the room to pack our things.

"She's delirious," I hear Dean murmur to his brother, "you married her," is the response.

We end packing up our things, well Dean packs ours because I'm still stumbling around with bleary eyes and knocking things off the bed when I tried to pack, so he sits me down in the chair in the corner of the room to keep from slowing us down. I know he's only doing this to satisfy me and maybe even Sam who was the one who found the information in the first place, but I can see on his face that he can't believe that we're running after this small of hunch except I know for a fact that we've done more for less information.