Supernatural Page #2

LUIS:

You know, I hear that in real life,

Bill Cosby’s a totally harsh guy.

SAM:

See? There you go.

JESSICA:

Okay, I get it, you never talk

about ‘em, no reason to start now.

LUIS:

Must be some serious skeletons in

that family closet.

SAM:

(beat)

Throw your darts.

JESSICA:

It’s just... you work so hard, I

mean, even getting you out

tonight... and now you’re gonna

spend Thanksgiving, alone, wading

through bench memos? It makes me

kinda sad.

Sam moves close to her. Puts his arms on her shoulders.

Sincere and sweet.

8.

SAM:

Don’t be. Jess, I’m happy. The

happiest I’ve been since... well,

forever. Trust me on this.

Sam’s turn at the dart board again. He begins to throw.

Jessica takes a beat, and then--

JESSICA:

Well. There is another option, of

course.

SAM:

What’s that?

JESSICA:

You could... come home. With me.

Sam turns to Jessica, surprised and pleased. Meanwhile, Sam

just threw yet another triple bulls-eye.

LUIS:

Dude! You’re like Rain Man!

SAM:

(moving back to Jessica)

Really? You sure I’m ready for

family consumption?

JESSICA:

You’ll have to watch the

spontaneous drooling... but yeah, I

think so. What do you think?

SAM:

Can we have that awkward “where do

I sleep” moment with your Dad?

JESSICA:

Definitely.

SAM:

Then I’m in.

Sam and Jessica smile at each other. A deeply romantic

moment, all in the eyes, all without kissing. Until-

LUIS (O.S.)

CRAP!

Sam and Jessica start laughing.

9.

INT. SAM’S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - LATE NIGHT

We PAN OFF Sam’s bedside table (an OLD FRAMED PHOTO-- Mary

Harrison, cradling infant Sam) to find...

Sam, sleeping. Jessica, peaceful and dreaming, beside him.

Then-- a soft SHATTER, tinkling like a bell. Sam joltsawake. He clearly sleeps with one eye open. Silent, he

slides out of bed.

INT. SAM’S APARTMENT - HALLWAY - LATE NIGHT

Sam emerges from the bedroom, into the hallway. He peersinto the BATHROOM.

POV-- INSIDE BATHROOM. Sure enough... the window is broken.

Sam’s expression tightens. He pivots to the hall closet. In

the back... a battered, VINYL-SHELL SUITCASE. As silent as

he can, eyes and ears peeled for any coming threats, Sam

opens the case.

INSIDE. Guns. Knives. Multiples of each. Damn.

Sam snatches a BOWIE KNIFE. He doesn’t hold it in that

Psycho-stabbing, amateur way; no, he grips it tight and low.

Like a professional. He prowls into the main room.

INT. SAM’S APARTMENT - MAIN ROOM - LATE NIGHT

The room’s black. Gloomy. Sam searches. Wary, vigilant.

Under furniture. Behind curtains. He finds nothing. Until

his razor-sharp eyes discern-

Beneath the SWINGING DOOR, leading to the kitchen. A pale,

ghostly light flits across the linoleum. (It may even remind

us of the shimmering glow from the teaser).

Sam backs up, against the wall, beside the kitchen door.

Clutching the knife.

Sure enough... the swinging door CREAKS, slow, as someone

(something?) inside attempts to open it quietly-

When Sam ATTACKS!

And surprisingly, the MAN from the kitchen dodges, just as

expertly. Efficiently TWISTING the knife out of Sam’s hand.

We get a good look at the man. DEAN HARRISON, 26.

DEAN:

Easy, tiger. Just looking for a

beer.

10.

SAM:

(beyond shocked)

Dean...?

DEAN:

(inappropriately casual)

Hey Sammy. How’s things? How’s

law school treating you?

SAM:

You scared the crap outta me.

DEAN:

Well. That’s because you’re out of

practice.

SAM:

What are you doing here?

DEAN:

What, I can’t pop in for a visit?

(off Sam’s skeptical look)

Okay, okay. We gotta talk.

SAM:

Um. The phone...?

DEAN:

Would you have picked up?

SAM:

(beat)

Yeah, okay, fair point.

JESSICA:

Sam...?

Jessica appears on the other side of the room. With a

“Smurf” T-shirt and long, bare legs. Dean casually reaches

inside the kitchen, deposits the Bowie knife on the counter,

out of sight. Then he grins, mischievous.

DEAN:

I love the Smurfs.

SAM:

Jess, hey, sorry to wake you. This

is... this is Dean.

JESSICA:

Your brother Dean?

11.

DEAN:

I gotta tell you, you are

completely out of Sam’s league.

Sam rolls his eyes. Dean’s regularly like this with women.

Jessica can’t help but blush a little.

JESSICA:

That’s what I’m always saying.

(then)

Just let me put something on-

DEAN:

No, I wouldn’t dream of it.

Besides, I gotta chat with your

boyfriend in private.

JESSICA:

Oh. Alright.

SAM:

No, whatever you wanna say, you can

say it in front of her.

DEAN:

Um. Okay. Dad hasn’t been home in

a week.

JESSICA:

Oh my God.

SAM:

So he’s working overtime on a

Miller Time shift. He’ll stumble

back sooner or later.

DEAN:

Dad’s on a hunting trip, and he

hasn’t been home in a week.

SAM:

(after a long beat)

Jess. Excuse us. We’re gonna go

talk outside.

EXT. SAM’S APARTMENT - LATE NIGHT

In Sam’s lighted, ground floor BEDROOM WINDOW. Jessica peeksout from behind curtains. Curious and concerned. But then

she recedes back-- she doesn’t want to pry...

Sam and Dean walk to Dean’s curb-parked car. A 1965 CHEVY

IMPALA. Black, dented, a Rottweiler of a muscle car.

12.

Kansas plates. Dean pops the trunk, and we catch a glimpse

inside-- like Sam’s suitcase, only much more so. Shotguns.

Crucifixes. Chainsaws. God knows what else.

Dean roots around, before coming up with a faded LEATHER

JOURNAL. Sam’s both surprised and displeased to see it.

SAM:

He left the book behind?

Dean nods, grim. We can tell-- this is a bad sign.

SAM:

So tell me everything.

EXT. STANFORD UNIVERSITY - MAIN QUAD - NIGHT

CLOSE ON THE JOURNAL. The book is jammed with dense writing,

yellowed obituaries. We see the FINAL entry-- a taped

newspaper article, from the SANGER HERALD:

CENTENNIAL HIGHWAY: 4th DRIVER DISAPPEARANCE

DEAN:

...it’s this stretch of two-lane

blacktop, just outside Sanger,

California... few hours from here,

actually. Anyway, these drivers.

They just vanish. No bodies, no

cars, nothing. It’s like

Interstate Bermuda Triangle.

Sam reads from the journal. As the two brothers walk through

Stanford’s main quad. Dark. Empty. Atmospheric stonearches, ornate libraries.

DEAN:

Dad went to check it out last

Monday, haven’t heard from him

since.

SAM:

Why didn’t you go with him?

DEAN:

I was working my own trip. This

voodoo thing, in New Orleans.

SAM:

Dad let you go on a hunting trip by

yourself?

DEAN:

I am 26, dude.

13.

SAM:

Not emotionally.

(anyway--)

It’s only been a week. Maybe he’son radio silence.

DEAN:

You know him. Not for this long.

SAM:

So. What’s your plan?

DEAN:

(taken aback)

Our plan is that we shag ass toSanger, California and find Dad.

Sam’s emotions bubble and roil beneath the surface. But for

now, he keeps them to himself.

SAM:

Look, whatever’s going on here, Dad

can handle it. He eats this kind

of thing with his Wheaties.

DEAN:

Um. What don’t you understand? We

have to find him. You have to help.

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