Rogue (Supernatural) [Rogue Trilogy] {1}

18. The Intern

18. The Intern

"Okay, there are three storage facilities nearby," says Sam. Dean's driving us down the road in the Impala. I'm stuck in the back seat. This brings me back to the old days. Only, back then, it wasn't just me. I'd always had Sam with me. Dean was always upfront with Dad. "The closest one is about a mile up the road. Oh, and I, uh—I dug up some stuff on Candy. Turns out she was the kept woman of a powerful Congressman. Gossip blog said he worshipped the ground she walked on, literally. He, uh—had a foot fetish."

I cringe. I'm not a foot person nor do I like people so much as touching my feet.

"So, Crowley was holding the beloved tootsies of a powerful politician?" asks Dean.

"And the beloved mother of a powerful Prophet."

"Human leverage," I whisper. "But why kill Candy?"

"Well, you heard her. Uh, she tried to make a break for it. Maybe Crowley wanted to make an example."

"No," Dean cuts in. "No. The guy left in charge. Crowley wanted the victims alive."

"So, what, you want to give him a medal?" asks Sam. "I mean, Crowley's the one who put them in the cells in the first place."

"Yeah, I know. I'm just talking it out. You know, working the case. Businesslike."

You could practically hear Sam and me rolling our eyes. Businesslike, my ass. There's something with you and Crowley that I don't appreciate, brother.

"So, when we get there, how are we approaching this?" I ask. "We're not doing our usual getup, are we?"

"Nope, going all Feds on this one, sis," says Dean.

"Shit, I left that back at the bunker."

"We'll think of something."

"I am not putting on whatever leftovers you two have."

We strike out at the first storage facility. I take a backseat on that one and let my brothers do all the talking. We strike out at the second facility. So now, we're down to our last storage facility. This has to be the one.

This time, I'm in tow behind my brothers. I look so out of place compared to them, but I've prepared a story. Hopefully it's believable.

"Let me guess," says Dean as we enter the facility office, "five-foot-five, pasty white, black-rimmed hipster glasses just like the last place." He rings the bell.

I have to hide my laughter behind my hand as Dean's said description comes to help us out.

"Nailed it," I whisper.

"Can I help you?" asks the guy behind the desk. His tag reads "Del." What an odd name.

"Yeah, hi. Agents Nicks and McVie," says Dean. "Need to take a look at your, uh, rental records."

"Uh, my manager's not here. I really don't think I should—"

"Hey! The records, pal."

"Yeah. Barry! Bring out the rental binder!"

Barry walks out, carrying a massive binder. Like Del, he matches Dean's description. This is too funny. Barry hands the binder over to Dean.