The once peaceful and silent environment of the Singer Junkyard was now interrupted by the intermittent sound of loud gunfire.
Deep south of the property, next to a patch of woodlands, stood the frustrated form of Dean Winchester, unleashing load upon loads of bullet on a set of sacks filled with sand. Bullet after bullet hit the spray painted target marks on the sand sacks.
"Are you done, ya idjit?" Bobby remarked, taking a glug of his now-warmed beer.
"Yeah, about done." Dean quipped, throwing the pistol away in a childish huff. "Man, if I see that son of a bitch again-"
"What? You're gonna clock him again?" Sam said, scoffing at his brother's words. "Dean, I think that guy let you hit him."
"Why the hell are you even angry at him?" Bobby asked as he threw away his empty bottle. He went towards Sam and motioned for him to share the laptop. He skimmed through some of the information presented on the screen. "I'll be damned. It's more information we could have gathered in the next damn year."
"Right? Dean, this guy, he did some fine lore work." Sam tried to persuade his brother. "If the information regarding Az- the Prince of Hell is true, then this is a game changer. Even dad didn't know half of the info on the stick."
Dean, unlike his brother, was extremely stubborn, "Don't compare dad to that dickbag! I mean, whose side are you on, Sammy?"
Sam gave a weary sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Our side, Dean. The side that wants to kill the damn demon that killed Mom, that killed Jesse, that killed Dad!"
Dean flinched at his brother's loud word. He shook his head. "Fine. I won't kill him the next time we meet."
"Next time?" Bobby asked.
"Yeah, the guy gave us his card." Sam took out Richard's business card and slides it towards Bobby. "Gave us a set of rules before he gave the stick."
"Sebastian Archibald Richard Greythorne IV," Bobby laughed, harder than the boys had ever seen in their entire life. "Damn, brings back memories."
"We heard. You and Dad had a truce with his family, right?" Dean asked for confirmation. If his memory and math served him right, he would have been 9-10 years old when it had taken place.
"Yeah, your dad called me 'cause he and his partner at that time... Anthony, I think it was. Well, they were ambushed by a bunch of new fangs. Needed help to take down their nest." Bobby recounted their adventures with their father. A somber tone replaced his drunken one as he told them about the Ancestor. "... we couldn't even hurt the damn thing. We fed it a dozen silver bullet, and it slowed it down. Two hunters died that day. Excellent hunters."
"Who brokered the truce?" Asked Sam, more interested in the diplomatic part of the story.
"It was Richard's father, Archibald. Old man had the guts to run through gunfire and went toe-to-toe with his werewolf brother, William. Nearly put him down too," Bobby chuckled. "Since we already killed half of them, he promised that if we let them leave," He opened another bottle of beer and took a big gulp. "they're only gonna hunt animals. Go vegan or whatever bullshit!"
"And you believed them?" Dean asked almost instantaneously, still reeling from the epiphany regarding peaceful monsters.
"Not one bit. So, your damn father told me to look after them for a few years." Bobby said gruffly, before giving a weary sigh, "Truth be told, they stuck to their damn words. Not one dead human for about two years."
Dean gave Sam an amused look as he gazed at Bobby's forlorn appearance. "Sounds like you were close to the family?"
"Me? Nah, not the family." Bobby corrected. "I've always liked that Richard brat. Used to steal some wine and bring it to me."
"I see," Sam said, chuckling at the thought of a child being led astray by a hunter. "That's why he knew you were a drunk."
"He said that?" Bobby smirked, shaking his head in amusement, before frowning at Dean. "Is that why you're pissing off in the corner? Damn, idjit! Why would I care if anybody thinks I'm a drunk?"
"Bobby, I-"
"I am a drunk!" Bobby yelled. "Now, before I shoot you in the ass for pissing me off, what're you gonna do with this information? Tell me your plans."
Sam exhaled as he shrugged at the bearded man. "I-I don't know, Bobby. We don't have the Colt. We know that-"
"I say we go to Cold Oaks and exorcise all those damn dirty demons out of Earth!" Dean roared, getting pumped up with his plan.
"Is he always that damned stupid?" Bobby threw a hateful glare at Dean.
Seeing Dean holding out his hands, aggrieved by Bobby's words, Sam chuckled further. "Richard just-"
"Dick. We call him Dick!" Dean corrected hatefully.
"He got to Dean, I think. He's cool. Told us to call him when we're in trouble." Sam rubbed his mouth, looking dumbly at Bobby. "I mean, I'm tempted. He knows what I am, and he doesn't seem to care. I-I say... he's good in my books."
Bobby gazed at the clearly irate Dean and saw him looking away. "If that idjit over there, don't got no problems, then I don't either. Richard used to be a good kid. I trust your gut."
"Look, I know I'm getting old, and you boys are gonna be in a lot of pain in the future," Bobby paused to silence Dean's reckless response. "If you're smart, then you'd at least listen to what he says and don't piss him off!"
●●●Men Of Letters Research Laboratory Beta●●●
Mick Davies stood silently at the foot of the wooden door. Sweat trailed down his forehead, which he swept away once more.
Although he had been with the organization ever since he was a young man, speaking with Dr. Hess, or any of the Elders for that matter, was still an act that unnerved him. Not that the Elders themselves helped the matter when they interrogate him whenever they talk.
Sometimes, he would even believe the rumors circulating among the low-level operators within the organization. That is, for one to be an Elder, you either have to be cunning or crazy.
Still, their work in his establishment and other such facilities within the purview of the Men of Letters had made Britain the safe, non-monster country as it is now.
'Choose the lesser evil,' He reminded himself. He had always been fond of Greek mythos. Something he had in common with... Timothy. Mick clenched his fist as he tried to suppress the memories of his dead friend.
With another sigh, he knocked on the door and waited for a response. It did not take long, however, and soon entered the neatly organized study of Doctor Hess, an Elder of the Men of Letters and his Headmistress during his stay on the Kendricks Academy.
"You called for me, ma'am?" He asked in a low tone, careful not to disturb the scholastic ambiance prevalent in Hess' office.
"Ah, yes, Mr. Davies." Doctor Hess looked up from her office table, putting down a brown file stamped with a red notice. Her brown hair neatly combed into a bob, perfectly complementing her gracefully aged face. She currently wore a green ascot and black blazer over her alabaster white long-sleeved silk shirt. A pair of thin black glasses hung over her forehead as she smiled sweetly at Michael Davies.
"Sit, Mick," She motioned at the chair to the other end of her table. "How long has it been since we've had a private conversation?"
"A couple of years now, Doctor Hess." He responded. He gave a small smile as he gazed at her, remembering his studies at the academy. "Do you have a mission for me, ma'am?"
"I do, indeed." Doctor Hess pulled out another file, this one stamp with a blue mark, and began reading from it. "It appears that your field training we're rather splendid. Excellent physique, top-notch marksmanship, and you have qualities for leadership that one of the other entrants has."
If it were any other person praising him for his talent, then he would be joyous. But it was not; this was Doctor Hess. The most brutal headmistress the academy had ever had the grace of knowing. "Thank you, ma'am."
Doctor Hess nodded her head and placed the file down. She steepled her fingers and gazed solemnly at Mick. "All you lack is... experience. Field experience, one that I would graciously offer you."
She rifled through the files before her, before settling on a rather hefty file. "The Greythorne Clan. Do you know of them?"
Mick's eyes widened in recognition and fear. He knew Doctor Hess noticed, so he nodded at her. "Werewolf clan. The only one we let live. Lady Alicia Greythorne oversees our Lycanthropic Research Division. Nice lady. What else? Uh, the main family left the country about a decade ago... and left no more than 7-8 werewolves. Doctor Vassilos used them for his research before he 'died'."
"Adequate." She commented, one of the highest praise she had given him up until now. "A month ago, we received intelligence that the ancestral guardian of the Greythorne clan, dubbed 'The Ancestor', a second-generation werewolf, had died. The werewolves within our care had been weakened and are now dying one by one. A 45% loss in test subjects and 20% future loss in the five years in our Lycanthropic Division."
Mick winced at the numbers. For such a large organization such as them, losing that much constitutes millions of pounds of investments, not to mention the loss of valuable data that could set back research for decades.
Of course, the Men Of Letters have back-up data and, even if that failed, supernatural means to gather back most of it. Still, the loss didn't sit well with the Elders.
"What would you have me do, ma'am?" He answered like a good soldier.
"You will travel and meet with Archibald Greythorne, the human liaison of the Men Of Letters in the clan." She pushed the red-notice file she was originally reading towards Mick. "You have two missions; assess the threat the Greythorne clan currently poses and find out who killed the Ancestor and why. Understood?"
●●●Bethlehem●●●
Under the heavy ray of the high sun, a portly man with a bushy beard and salt-and-pepper hair ran deep within the confines of an old establishment made of brick and mortar. Its very walls cracked and ashen, with its surface running deep with murals depicting the birth of a being made of mud and faith.
Sebastian Myron Archibald Greythorne III sighed as he wiped the sweat off his forehead and removed his bowler hat to pay respect to the Rabbi in front of him.
"It has been a long time, Rabbi Bass." Greeted Archibald as he lightly bowed his head at the man.
Rabbi Bass was an aging man with ashen white hair and a dirty goatee. His striking black eyes and wary demeanor gave way to his stout build, taut as a stretched rubber band as though his enemies would attack at any moment.
Archibald noticed the man to have aged quite a lot since they last met, a certain fire still remained ablaze within his aura. Something Archibald has been seeing a lot from his son these days.
"And you, Archibald. What brings you here?" Isaac Bass asked, scrutinizing his very form. "Your problems are too deep and too dangerous for such a long trip, old friend."
"That problem has been settled, old friend." Archibald laughed, stretching his sore muscles and calves. "In fact, you were right. My son, oh my son, fixed my problem. Sebastian is no longer."
Astonishment beset Isaac as a boisterous laugh escaped his mouth, filling the hall with the echoes of both men's celebratory mood. "Good, good. I told you, didn't I?"
"You did. You did."
"That son of yours is good. Bless him." Isaac muttered before noticing a man in a yumaka glaring at them. "Ah, apologies, Rabbi Malesky."
Archibald cleared his throat as Isaac ushered him to the inner chambers of the synagogue. A plain room with a simple wooden table and four metal chairs that barely decorated the brick and mortar walls.
"Take a seat. I'll get you some tea while you tell me what happened." Isaac patted his friend on the shoulder as he made his way to a counter.
Archibald sighed as he recanted the tales of that fateful night. His words were impassioned, filled with reverence, grief, and victory that no other man than he could convey. He detailed the arrival of the hunter, his son's near death, Wallace's death by his hands, and the eventual death of the Ancestor while they sipped their fresh and piping hot tea. From dusk 'till dawn they talked, laughed, and grieved the ones who lose their lives since they last met as the old friends brandished their lost comaraderie once again.
"I told you, my friend, there is a kedushah deep within your family and it will help you bear witness to a miracle. And you did." Isaac laughed before sighing his troubles away. "I just wish Aaron would be like Richard. To fulfill his-our sacred duty. To be a rabbi and protect our kin from the Society."
Archibald nodded as his thoughts raced to his son's past. "Have faith with Aaron, Isaac. My son, too, was... well... he was hedonistic and quite a sinner. But one night it changed. So too will your grandson. He will see the light, my friend."
Isaac let out a relieved breath as he nodded at his friend's words. "That is true. I just wish I would be alive to see the day. Now, enough of the grim matters, why are you here? I'm not that senile not to notice your motives, Archibald."
"I am on vacation with my daughter." Archibald chuckled before clearing his throat when Isaac remained steadfast. "But, also, I am in need of something. Holy Oil."
Isaac Bass narrowed his eyes. "You know, my friend, the Thule is also in need of Holy Oil. They have already burned three synagogue for theirs. What do you need it for?"
"I am not with the Thules. Never will be, however dire my situation will be. In fact, and I can't believe this will come in handy... I have a gift for you," Archibald reached deep within his coat and took out a brown envelope, which he slid towards Isaac. "From my son."
The envelope contained two documents: the location of the Thule Society's ledger of necromantic experiments and spells and a way to kill Thule high-command. Both lf which were invaluable information to the diminishing members of the Judah Initiative.
Isaac's hands trembled as he read the papers, tears unraveling his bottled-up emotions. Decades long of suffering, millions of dead souls, hundreds of members that were tortured and had died so that the Initiative lives on.
Tears slowly flowed down Isaac's wrinkly eyes as relief washed over his oaken body, now unburdened by the helplessness he had felt for decades. With the documents in his hands, the Thules neared its end. He will make sure of it.
"How much oil does your son need?" Isaac asked.
Archibald smiled. "How much do you have?"
●●●Greythorne Manor●●●
"You're leaving again?" Asked Ella atop Archibald's leather chair, looking down on Irwin like a seductive queen.
Fortunately for him, a college friend of his had invited him to a rave and hooked up with some drunk waitress. The morning after, though, was not that pleasurable. Ella had tried to castrate him, but, thankfully, he had successfully argued that he was just broadening his contacts and social skills.
'You never know when you're gonna need man-sluts', He smirked deviously.
"Yes, Ella. But I won't be long. Probably be done by Sunday." He replied. After all, he only had to buy off the silver sword and be done with it. If, at most, the curator's too thick-faced, then he just needs to showcase Gordon's persuasive attitude.
Kissing Ella In the forehead in goodbye, Irwin motioned for Gordon to start the car. The two began to drive-away, their destination: American Museum of Natural History, New York.