Maddison Winchester: Journal 2 {Supernatural}

8 Crossroad Blues: Part 2

After talking to people at the bar, we figured out the man in the picture was named George Darrow. Sam did some research and found out where he lived. When we walked into his apartment building, we headed up a large wooden staircase to the fourth floor.

"What's this guy's name again?" Sam asked.

"George Darrow," I said.

"Apparently, he's quite the regular at Lloyd's. Though this house probably ain't up next on MTV Cribs, is it?" Dean asked.

Sam nodded. "Yeah. So, whatever kind of deal he made—"

"Wasn't for cash," Dean said, "Oh, who knows. Maybe this place is full of babes in Princess Leia bikinis."

Sam sighed and shook his head.

"No, I'm just saying, this guy's got one epic bill come due. Hope at least he asked for something fun," Dean said.

We reached the top of the landing and turned down the hallway, stopping in front of apartment 4C. There was a fine black powder sprinkled in front of the door.

"Look at that." Sam pointed.

Dean crouched down, picking it up. "What is that? Pepper?"

I shrugged. "It's Goofer Dust."

Dean stood up and furrowed his brow at me. "Yeah, and I'm Mickey Mouse."

I smacked him in the stomach. "Goofer... not Goofy."

Sam shook his head. "How do you know that?"

I shrugged. "When I'm alone, I get bored. I research random stuff that could be helpful."

Sam and Dean looked at each other and then down at me.

Suddenly, a middle-aged man with graying hair opened the door. "Who the hell are you?"

"George Darrow?" Dean asked.

George shook his head. "I'm not buying anything." He started to close the door.

Dean put his hand on the door. "Whoa, whoa, whoa, looks like you went for the wrong shaker there." He pointed to the powder. "Usually, when you want to keep something evil out, you go for the salt."

George shook his head. "I don't know what you talkin' about."

"Talkin' about this." Dean held up the picture from the box. "Tell me. You seen that hellhound yet?"

"Look. We want to help. Please. Just five minutes," Sam said.

George sighed and looked down. He opened the door and gestured for us to come in. Once we did, he closed the door behind us and then walked over to a table, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

The room was filled with painting supplies, easels, and paintings all over the floors, tables, and walls.

"So, what is that stuff out front?" Sam asked.

"Goofer dust," George said.

"Told you," I said quietly.

Sam and Dean shot me a look.

"What, you boys think you know somethin' about somethin', but not goofer dust?" George asked. He turned around and tossed Dean a brown sack, tied closed with twine.

"Well, we know a little about a lot of things. Just enough to make us dangerous," Dean said as he looked into the bag.

"What is it?" Sam asked.

"Hoodoo. My grandma taught me. Keeps out demons," George explained.

Dean nodded. "Demons, we know."

"Well, then. Maybe it'll do you some good." George walked over and sat in a chair. "Four minutes left."

The three of us glanced at each other.

"Mr. Darrow. We know you're in trouble," Sam said.

Dean nodded. "Yeah, that you got yourself into."

Sam snapped Dean a look. "But it's not hopeless, all right? There's gotta be something we can do."

George shook his head. "Listen. I get that you kids want to help. But sometimes a person makes their bed, they've just got to lie down in it. I'm the one called that demon in the first place."

"What'd you do it for?" Dean asked.

George sighed and took a sip. "I was weak. I mean, who don't want to be great? Who don't want their life to mean something? I just— I just never thought about the price."

"Was it worth it?" Dean asked.

"Hell no." George shrugged. "'Course, I asked for talent. Should 'a gone for fame. I'm still broke and lonely. Just now, I got this pile of paintings, don't nobody want. But that wasn't the worst."

"Go on," Sam said.

"Demon didn't leave. I never counted on that. After our deal was done, the damn thing stayed at Lloyd's for a week. Just chattin'. Makin' more deals. I tried to warn folks, but I mean, who's goin' to listen to an old drunk?" George asked.

"How many others are there?" Sam asked.

George thought for a second. "Uh, the architect, that doctor lady... I kept up with them. They've been in the papers. Least they got famous."

"Who else, George?" Dean asked. "Come on, think."

George thought again and nodded. "One more. Uh, nice guy too. Hudson. Evan, I think. I don't know what he asked for. Don't matter now. We done for."

Sam shook his head. "No. No, there's gotta be a way."

"You don't get it!" George shouted, "I don't want a way!"

Sam sighed. "Look, you don't—"

"I called that thing!" George shouted. "I brought it on myself. I brought it on them. I'm going to Hell, one way or another. All I want is to finish my last painting. Day or two, I'm done. I'm just trying to hold them off 'til then. Buy a little time. Okay. Time you went, go help somebody that wants help."

Sam shook his head. "We can't just—"

"Get out!" George stood up and turned to a painting. "I got work to do."

"You don't really want to die," Sam said.

"I don't?" George asked. "I'm— I'm tired." He picked up a paintbrush and started painting.

Sam, Dean, and I gave each other a look and then walked out.

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