Chapter 3
Farrah climbed in the rear seat of Dean's Impala and sighed. "You have a really nice car."
"Thanks. I picked it out for my dad before I was born."
She raised her eyebrow and giggled. Dean gave a sly look to Sam that said, "She isn't half bad." Sam rolled his eyes.
While on the road, Farrah kept mostly to herself and listened to music, keeping one earbud out at all times, and watched the world pass around her.
"Whatcha listening to?" Sam asked at one point.
She grinned. "My own mix of Evanescence, Metallica, Def Leppard, and Adele."
He grinned right back at her. "A girl after Dean's own heart." Dean shot him a glare.
"Hey, I don't listen to Adele."
Farrah giggled at her uncle. "I've never been outside of town. This is amazing."
"We haven't even started."
"I know. Even the sights, I mean, look at this. Are you watching what you pass on the road nearly every day? Just..." she sighed and leaned on the window, a smile on her face. "Thanks."
~
"Let's see how you hunt. Simple job, a poltergeist," Dean said, laying out multiple weapons in front of Farrah.
"So why do you have all this out?" she asked, looking at the silver blades and bullets.
"I want you to show me what can either kill or delay it."
"The only way to get rid of a poltergeist is to salt and burn the bones, which, Sam told me, is made easier by using lighter fluid. So, lighter fluid, salt, and matches can kill it. The rock salt can be used in guns to shoot at them, which delays them, and no ghost can cross a salt line. Iron is the only other thing that delays them, which has me wondering," she picked up one of the iron bars, "why not make this into a few rings so you can punch the ghost?"
Sam snorted. "See, Dean? This is what I was talking about."
Dean heavily considered her words before slowly nodding. "Okay. How good a shot are you?"
She shrugged. "Don't know. I generally have good aim, but I've not shot a gun in my life. Knives, on the other hand, I am good with. I've got a lifetime of near-suspensions from school for fighting back against bullying."
"Throw it," Dean said, handing her a blade.
"Where?"
"Anywhere. Pick a spot and throw it."
She tapped the tip against her bottom lip and looked around the cheap motel room. Finding a good spot, she smiled and flung the knife directly at a painting on the wall, where it impaled itself in the center of the sun.
"Nice. Think you can hit it again?"
"Sure." She took another knife, stepped back, and threw it. It landed right beside her previous throw.
He nodded and looked back down, taking out of the pile what was useless.
"Take all this back to the trunk, and don't scratch the car," Dean said, handing her the keys and a duffel bag.
"Okay."
Farrah left, and as soon as the door was closed, Sam gave Dean a pointed look. "What's with the third-degree?"
"What? I want to know if she's gonna be of any use other than research."
Sam rolled his eyes. "Lay off, alright? She's probably just as uncomfortable with this as you."
"So then why is she here?"
"Dude, I'm her dad, and I didn't even know she was alive until two days ago. She's here for me. Emily told her about me, and-"
"Wait, wait. Is that why she had the salt and demon traps?"
Sam shrugged. "I guess."
"Dude, Emily Novaro knew you were a hunter? We were here for a month."
"You were. I stayed behind."
Dean sighed and flailed his arms around, not sure what to do with them. "Oh, that's right. You ran off. You know, I can't count the number of times you ran away and left me to deal with the ugly end of Dad's anger."
"I'm sorry, really, but-"
Sam was cut off by Farrah. "Uh, guys?" she squeaked.
"Yeah?"
"The car's gone."