FIC: The Devil Really Does Wear Prada, Part 2
The Devil Really Does Wear Prada
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Epilogue
Luckily for them, the morgue had a back door, and it was conveniently located near a stock of lab coats. Sam had chosen to wear a fairly understated, casual outfit consisting of mostly Armani earth-tones and matte fabrics for specifically this purpose. The lab coat would compliment it all beautifully. Dean had a crumpled suit stuffed in the trunk of the Impala that he put on once they'd slipped inside, ordering Sam to keep watch while he changed. Sam tried not to cringe too noticeably. "Damn it," Dean muttered, hopping gracelessly as he tried to wedge his shoe on.
Sam whipped a shoehorn out of his bag, passing it backwards to Dean, not taking his eyes off the hallway. "Here. Never leave home without it."
"I won't even ask," Dean mumbled, finally getting his shoes on and handing the shoehorn back to Sam.
"You look ridiculous, Dean. Where did you even find that suit? The bargain bin at Wal-Mart? And your tie, besides being the most heinous thing I have ever seen, is knotted all wrong."
Dean pursed his lips and looked like he was about to give Sam what-for, but Sam effectively silenced him by reaching out and grabbing the tie. The knot was lopsided and ugly, and he had the undeniable compulsion to fix it. He tried to make quick work of it; there wasn't anyone on lookout since he was now shoved in the alcove alongside Dean, but his fingers didn't seem to be cooperating very well. Plus, Dean wouldn't stop staring at him, which was just making him nervous and goosebumpy. Hunting clearly didn't agree with his constitution anymore, if it ever had.
"Okay, you look. Remotely presentable now," Sam said, voice low. He wasn't even going to start in on the collection of scraps that Dean referred to as a 'suit'. There wasn't enough time in the world.
Their fake IDs got them into the right room with little trouble. Sam worked some of his ass-kissing charm on one of the middle-aged technicians, and Dean blinded a receptionist or two with his smile. Sam was getting used to it again, working with Dean, hitting his stride, when they wound up standing directly in front of two of the three dead girls. Just stretched out on cold metal tables like the specimens for examination they undoubtedly were. "Jesus," he breathed, shocked. He'd seen dead bodies before, of course. But not for a long time, and never. Never girls he'd actually known.
They were beautiful, in a way. Beautiful in life and beautiful in death, though the sheen of their skin was plasticy, now. Unreal. Like something was wrong.
Dean peered oddly at the blonde girl on the left, Zoe, and reached for a pair of rubber gloves. "What is it?" Sam asked, resisting the urge to turn away and just let Dean deal with the whole thing.
"I don't know, it's. There's something-weird. Feels off." He was pressing at the pale skin of Zoe's shoulder and throat.
The girls were supposed to have died of some sort of indeterminate illness, but there definitely weren't any typical signs, either visible or on the charts by their feet. When Sam looked closer, he realized the doll-like smoothness of the skin couldn't be something that occurred naturally in death. Their features were exactly symmetrical, and while they had been models and therefore pretty much perfect to begin with-well, if they'd looked this disconcerting before, they probably never would've gotten any work. Their skin was tinged an odd greenish color, rather than the usual purple-ish pallor of rigor mortis, and if he wasn't mistaken-they had no pores. Anywhere.
"No, there's definitely something wrong here. They don't, uh. Don't look right. The coloring, and the texture of their skin. And it's like all the right features are there, but they've been. Put together, or something. Like a doll, maybe?"
Dean nodded, sucking his full bottom lip into his mouth to bite at while he thought. "Shapeshifter. I mean, that's their M.O., right? Changing into people, especially successful ones like models, for the money, fame, even sex."
"But why would there be three dead shapeshifters? And how did they die? I mean, there weren't any reports of foreign agents in the bloodstream, and there aren't any puncture wounds, so there's no way silver could have gotten in their bodies," Sam reasoned. Not shapeshifters, definitely. But maybe- "If shapeshifters can do it, though, there have to be other things that can. If these aren't really the girls, then they could still be alive somewhere, Dean. We could still save them."
"Sam. Don't-they're probably gone. Even if these aren't really them, don't. You know. Get your hopes up." Sam had thought Dean might make fun of him for going soft or something, but he seemed genuinely concerned. Which, well. They were just little girls, really, and of course Dean was probably just as upset. "We'll do what we can. I got some samples, not that I think it'll do us that much good, but. We gotta dig some more, figure out how these girls were connected. If there's any significance to when they died."
Sam grabbed the samples from Dean, just locks of hair, tucked them in his bag, and took a last look at Zoe. "Right. We've got a database at Runway that'll have listings for all the models. I can get us into the office no problem." They slipped out of the morgue the way they came, Sam assuring Dean there'd be plenty of places to change out of his suit once they got to the Elias-Clark building.
*
It only took Sam about twenty minutes to get up to the seventeenth floor and back down with the print-outs for each model. He had pretty much their entire life histories, complete physical work-ups, and every job they'd had for as long as they'd been working in the industry. It turned out the over-efficient, anal-retentive records department was, occasionally, good for something.
When Sam strode into the café in the lobby, he found Dean (recently changed back into his charming hunting ensemble) parked at a table by the window, plate heaped with what looked suspiciously like half a dead cow smothered in the entire national gross export of cheese from Switzerland. Sam sat down gingerly, attempting to avert his eyes.
"Hey, wha'd'ya find, Sammy?" Dean mumbled through a mouthful of vile disgustingness.
"God. God, Dean, please don't. Or I will seriously be ill all over your stunning K-Mart jeans," he squeezed out, grabbing a napkin to hold tightly over his lips.
Dean swallowed massively, and Sam tried not to follow the actually-visible lump of food as it went down Dean's throat. He'd never be able to eat again as long as he lived. Not that that was going to be much of a problem, considering food seemed to be banned on the Runway premises at all times. Sam wasn't entirely sure where in the building Dean had even found something that hinted at containing fat. Or cheese. The café was all raw salads as far as the eye could see.
"Anyway," he began, sliding his leather Louis Vuitton portfolio case across the table, "uh, there were extensive records on all the girls. From what I can tell, the only single job they all have in common is a Prada shoot from about three months ago. But they're also all between the ages of sixteen and twenty, they live within five blocks of each other, and there were two parties this season at which all three girls made an appearance. So it's not a lock, just a lead."
Dean nodded as he flipped through the pages, making some notes with the Waterman Edson fountain pen Sam had grabbed from his own desk along with the portfolio case. Dean could probably fence that pen and feed himself for a year on the road. "Good, okay. That's still narrowing it down."
Sam went on. "The thing is, I ran the dates of that Prada shoot through the system, too, and apparently it was only a four-girl layout," he said, biting his lip, worried. "So every single girl who was there is dead now, except one." Mona. The next target was Mona, that model he'd talked to not long after he started at Runway, the bright, sincere one. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and refocused. It was just another job.
Dean found the printout with the information on the one model still alive. Sam tried not to gag when Dean rubbed grease all over it while circling the address. "Well," Dean said, laying out the death reports side by side. "The others had a T.O.D. around midnight, and they were found roughly two weeks apart. The last report was filed, uh. Sunday before last."
Sam pursed his lips. "So that means the fourth one is probably going to get picked off tonight."
"Maybe. It couldn't hurt to stake out her place. Better safe than sorry."
"It won't take that long to get there. We'll have the rest of the day to get ready." Sam felt his stomach twist. Surveillance and research were one thing (or two, rather), but a stakeout? Possible action? Completely different.
"You sure you can still handle it?" Dean said, half concerned and half mocking. Sam wasn't sure which was worse.
"Yeah, I'm sure." Not hardly. "Just because I work in the fashion industry, I'm not necessarily soft. It's a really grueling job. I can probably bench twice as much as you can."
Dean snorted. "Right. I'm sure you'd have Chuck Norris on his back in two seconds flat."
Sam raised an eyebrow pointedly.
Dean choked on his Coke and tried not to spew it on Sam. That was one point in his favor, anyway. "Jesus, Sam. D'you have to?"
"I didn't say anything."
Dean was silent for long moments, working on his food. Sam realized a bread plate with Dean's unwanted salad garnish had materialized in front of him, so he nibbled on it absently. The whole situation wasn't really all that bad. Maybe even a little pleasant.
"I don't get it," Dean finally said. Sam felt his mood deflate.
"Don't get what?"
"Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what? Helping you? As I recall-"
"No, this." Dean made an expansive gesture.
"Because it pays the bills. Because it will get me where I want to go. Because I don't have a choice."
"But fashion? Really? It's just. There's no point. Sam, you used to save people's lives. Rid the world of evil. Bring justice. And now, what-you spend twenty hours a day waiting hand and foot on a woman you clearly hate?"
Sam's mouth tightened, eyes narrowing. "I may not be digging up graves, Dean, or slogging through ectoplasm, but fashion is important. And by working here, I'm securing a better future than I ever could have dreamed of when we were growing up. Miranda is the most successful woman in publishing, and she can get me wherever I want to go, as long as I pay my dues."
"Since when have you ever done anything just to 'pay your dues'? You hated being obedient so goddamn much you ran thousands of miles away from your own family. And now you're doing it for a living? I don't know, man. Doesn't really sound worth it just to write some stories for a glossy magazine."
"What would you know about it?" Sam snapped. This was all going downhill really fucking fast.
"Okay, you know what? Never mind. Let's just. Not talk about this. Or anything."
Tension coiled in Sam's shoulders, and he pushed his plate away with a heavy sigh. "Fine."
*
The rest of the day didn't turn out much better. Sam was on edge, Dean had no patience, and pretty much everything they said to each other was met with belligerence.
"Okay, so what will we be needing tonight?" Sam asked (reasonably, he thought) as he grabbed a black Gucci carry-all from the top shelf of his wardrobe. It was two seasons old now, and he hardly needed to be seen carrying it around the office. It should do nicely as a rock salt schlepper.
"Not that," Dean grunted. Sam swore he could actually hear Dean's feet resting on the coffee table out in the den.
"You can't even see what I'm holding, you cretin," Sam pouted.
"Don't need to. It's a big, gay waste of space, whatever it is," Dean said, mouth full of something. Sam didn't think he even had anything in the apartment that Dean would deem appropriate to put in his mouth. Ignoring the connotations of that statement, he remembered Jess's stash of peanut M&Ms. What used to be her stash of peanut M&Ms, anyway. Jesus. Dean was wearing on his last nerve.
Sam flounced into the den, placing himself between Dean and the TV, which appeared to be switched to some sort of National Geographic documentary about walruses. On mute. "Just shut the fuck up about my stuff, Dean. You might as well just call me a big, gay waste of space and get it the hell over with." Okay, he hadn't really meant to say that. But. Now that it was out there, well. It did need to be addressed. Sam realized he was actually nervous, worried about what Dean would come back with. Shit.
At first, Dean just tilted to the left, watching the screen around Sam's hip, sliding his tongue back and forth in his cheek, presumably to clear it of peanut M&Ms. Years seemed to pass before he finally flopped against the back of the couch, put the bag down, and sighed. "Sam. I don't-I was kind of hoping we wouldn't ever have to talk about this. Ever."
"You're really not big on the talking, huh?" Sam said, cocking his hip.
"You've known that I'm 'not big on the talking' since you were, like. Six."
"I was hoping you'd grown up sometime between then and now. Pipe dream, I see."
"Shut up. You're the one who wants to talk about this."
"Right. I just-I know I'm probably. Not really what you expected, is all."
"Got that right. But I don't really know what I expected. Sam, I haven't seen you, talked to you, at all. Not in five years. That's a long fucking time not to see your little brother. The only other person in the world who knows how I-what it's really like."
"Yeah, I know. It's been tough for me, too. No one-I mean. Jess, my roommate. She's my best friend in the world. Has been since my second year at Stanford. Or at least she was, until this stupid job. Anyway, she doesn't even know you guys are alive. Doesn't know anything about what my life was like before she met me. Lying was just so much easier than trying to explain anything."
Dean was staring at Sam's knees, hand rubbing over his mouth. He stayed silent, just nodding as Sam talked.
"I don't want you to feel uncomfortable around me, Dean. If it's a problem that I sleep with guys, I don't-I'm not sure how this is going to work. You'll just have to deal with it until Monday. Then you can go back to your life, and I can go back to mine. Another five years of radio silence, if that's what you want."
And at the worst possible second, as usual, Sam's phone rang shrilly from the counter in the kitchen. Dean looked up at Sam like the apocalypse had just been averted, and Sam grumbled dramatically as he rushed to pick it up.
"Hello? Yes, Miranda, I know." Sam grabbed a notepad and pen from the drawer in the kitchen, watching the back of Dean's head as he scrawled down whatever petty crap Miranda needed in the next five minutes. Dean had unmuted the walrus documentary, and Sam realized with an odd heaviness that he'd never get another chance to finish their one-sided conversation.
*
After hiring a new cook for Miranda, checking on her twins' homework, and making sure the right cuts of specially-ordered red meat were going to be served on her flight home from Milan, Sam figured he should start trying to pinpoint what exactly their options were as far as supernatural beings that preyed on young women and either turned them into dead doll-things, or left dead doll-things in their places.
Dean had gone to procure some last minute supplies (Sam assumed this involved large volumes of processed snack foods and sugary beverages), leaving Sam feeling useless and frothy and shallow. Which was probably Dean's intention from the beginning, the selfish bastard.
Sam had a sudden idea, and grabbed Mona's file from the stack on the coffee table. Her grandmother's phone number was printed in the "Emergency Contact" section of one of her employment forms, and from what he remembered her saying about the woman, it stood to reason that there was no better way to get background information on her. It couldn't hurt to check, make sure there wasn't anything huge they were missing.
Fatima Jamil Al-Misri answered the phone in Arabic. There was a note on the form that she spoke English, though, and so Sam enunciated clearly, "This is Samuel Winchester, calling about your granddaughter Mona."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Is Mona alright?" she asked, uncertain worry apparent in her voice though she spoke with a heavy accent.
"Of course, ma'am, this is simply a. Reference call. Regarding possible employment. When was the last time you spoke to Mona?" Sam really, really hoped she wouldn't ask why he was making an international call to Egypt for one crummy reference. Maybe he could say Mona was looking for government work.
Fatima's tone grew cold. "Not for some time."
Sam blinked at the curt answer, scrambling for relevant questions that wouldn't be suspicious. "What can you tell me about her-work ethic? Interests? What sort of background does she have?"
"I don't know. We have not been in contact, her interests are of no concern to us, and neither are we to her. She left for America many years ago, now, against the wishes of her family. If you want to know about her, I think perhaps she is your best resource herself."
"Thank you for your time," Sam muttered into the dial tone. She'd hung up on him. Mona had left her family to pursue modeling, apparently. Against their wishes. They didn't know how well she was doing, what an amazing girl she was in the face of a soul-sucking business. Or that she admired her grandmother more than anyone and thought of her often.
Sam pressed his lips into a thin line, scrubbed his hands over his face, and went to get ready for the stakeout. He hadn't learned anything useful, but he felt overwhelmed just the same.
*
It was late evening, and he had put together a tasteful outfit in all black, packed the big, gay carry-all, and was sitting in his club chair, flipping through a book on Malaysian folklore by the time Dean finally slammed his way back into the apartment.
"Up and at 'em, Sam. Time to hit the road."
The Impala was idling on the curb outside when Sam and Dean made their way out to it, the doorman, Frank, looking at it askance. "Thanks, man," Dean said with a wink, and Sam gave Frank a little embarrassed wave.
"Won't be back 'til late, Frank. Tell Bruce to look out for us." The usually over-friendly Frank scowled, and Sam figured Jess hadn't been crazy after all when she'd said he had a crush on Sam. Dean just shook his head, peeling out the second Sam had closed his door.
Night folded over the city, streetlights casting their yellow glow on the sidewalk as Dean pulled up about fifty yards away and across the road from the model's apartment. Sam had made sure he knew the basics: her name was Mona, she was Egyptian, and Sam had met her once when Miranda had assigned him to pick out girls for the cyber-inspired accessories spread five months ago.
It was all a little awkward, neither Sam nor Dean entirely sure what they were looking for, deep shadows lining the entire street, tense silence interrupted only by the sporadic bursts of city noise bleeding through from the main road.
After a while, Dean leaned across Sam's lap without preamble. Sam scooted as far back as he could, grunting with annoyance as Dean popped the glove compartment open and retrieved an enormous bag of Cheetos. Which wouldn't have been too bad, except that then Dean started eating them like he was some sort of crazed farm animal in a cud-chewing competition.
"Jesus, Dean!" Sam hissed. Dean just gave Sam The Look, that one with the eyebrows and the sneer and the shrug and the head shake all mushed together, perfectly designed to make Sam wither on the spot. Not this time, though. "You sound like a large quadruped eating for the first time after months of starvation. Shut up, or whatever it is we're hunting's going to hear you and come after us."
Dean was about a millisecond away from hurling the bag at Sam's head and giving him a vicious (verbal) reaming out, when he just. Didn't. He swallowed what was in his mouth and set the bag down by his feet, his glare replaced by a look Sam couldn't even identify, a hint of a wry smile on his face. It was kind of creepy.
Sam sat stiffly in the renewed silence, looking at his feet, waiting for Dean to stop staring at him.
"I don't mind," Dean finally said, turning back to look out the window, voice quiet.
Sam blinked, nonplussed. Dean's face was shadowed, expression unreadable, and Sam found himself focusing instead on the dip of Dean's neck into the worn collar of his t-shirt. "What?"
"I said I don't mind," he said again. "You know. Earlier."
It took a long moment for Sam to realize that Dean was voluntarily picking up the loose thread of their conversation from before. "You don't mind-that I'm gay?"
"You're just. It's not that you like guys. It's that you like-stuff. You care about what colors you're wearing. You're obsessive about what you eat and how much things cost and it's just. It's not you, Sam. It's not the Sammy I know. Knew." He sighed, meeting Sam's eyes, face carefully blank. "It's like I came back here, looking for you, and I never found you."
Sam pressed his lips together, brow furrowed, trying to understand. Dean's freckles stood out in sharp relief under the wash of the streetlights, his breathing soft and even. Just waiting.
"I don't know what to say. I-it is me. I just. I keep trying to tell you that I have a different life now. Of course I'm going to have different priorities," Sam said dejectedly. Dean's gaze raked over him, lingered on his hair, sleek and straightened; his sweater, six-hundred dollars from Paul Smith; his belt, real alligator; his shoes, custom Prada sneakers. Not that his brother would know any of that. Dean shifted, mumbled something before checking on Mona's building again. "I didn't quite catch that," Sam prodded.
"Nothing," Dean grunted. It seemed that their Kodak moment had passed. Sam couldn't help but notice the nervous movements of Dean's hands against his jeans, the steering wheel, rubbing through his hair. When he started jiggling his thigh, making the car rock slightly on its shocks, it was too much.
Sam reached out, spreading a hand heavily over Dean's bouncing knee. "Quit it."
Dean jerked away like he'd been burned. "Fine! Jesus, you could'a just said it. Keep those big paws to yourself, huh?"
Sam folded his hands back in his lap, shrugging it off. Someone was certainly touchy tonight. Or not-touchy, really.
Dean settled back into a more comfortable position, one arm propped against the window, the other stretched along the back of the seat so his hand lay just behind Sam's shoulder. He had on the same cheap jeans he'd been wearing for the past two days, old and worn thin around the knees, backs of the thighs, pockets. A t-shirt, probably from a multi-pack of Hanes, faded from black to fuzzy grey, clinging tight around Dean's chest, hanging loose around his waist, rucked up ever so slightly, showing a hint of muscled belly. A flannel shirt, oversized, cuffs flopping soft and rubbed-smooth over Dean's rough hands. Boots, black and thick-soled and muddy, leather supple with use. That pendant, glinting brassy against his sternum like it had for as long as Sam could remember.
Sam felt an ache well up inside him, a sudden urge to just reach out to Dean. Start all over again. He missed him then, in that moment, more than he ever had in the last five years. And he was right there.
Dean looked over his shoulder with an easy smile. "I got somethin' on my face, man?"
Sam blinked, jerked out of his reverie. He smiled back, feeling the flush creep up his neck into his cheeks. "Nah. Just trying to figure out if I recognize those gross old jeans from five years ago. We'll get you some new ones on Monday when I go back to the office. I know how annoying it is, trying to find stuff that fits at Goodwill." Dean's mock-offended face was worth the whole awkward mess; Sam had to physically restrain himself from busting out in uncontrollable laughter, fingertips pressed tightly to his mouth.
They fell into a comfortable silence after that, both with traces of laughter still on the curves of their lips, watching the door of Mona's apartment building as if it were only the secondary reason for them to be parked on an empty residential street in the middle of Manhattan in the middle of the night.
Soon, though, the street wasn't empty anymore. It was about five minutes until midnight when Sam and Dean both spotted the dapper figure walking up to Mona's door, standing back and looking up at her window as he waited for her to buzz him up. Sam let out a confused huff. "That. I could swear that was Rizal. What the hell is he doing at Mona's in the middle of the fucking night?" Maybe-Rizal went into the building, leaving the stoop empty.
Dean raised his eyebrows, shooting Sam a look.
"Dean. Rizal is as gay as a paisley velvet caftan. Trust me." Dean scowled, but there wasn't any heat there.
"Whatever. We should check it out anyway. Think of something gay and fashion-y that we can use as a cover story on the way," he said, getting out of the car as quietly as he could. Sam followed, grasping for believable excuses to give. Miranda was keeping the Runway staff all night until a re-shoot was done? And they needed Mona to substitute for another girl down with the flu? That would probably work, and wasn't even too far-fetched. Miranda had done much crazier.
Dean pressed the buzzer just as Rizal pushed open the front door, trailing Mona after him. She looked dazed, but not unhappy. It was just-Rizal was walking funny. And not in the good way. He-"Dean!" Sam hissed, elbowing Dean in the ribs. "Look! His-his feet!" Sam wasn't even really sure what he was seeing. Rizal's feet were on backwards. "What the fuck is that supposed to be?"
Dean's jaw dropped, and he looked monumentally confused as Rizal made his way down the sidewalk with Mona. "What the fuck?"
Just then, the sound of something smashing filtered down to them from what looked like Mona's window. They stood back on the stoop, trying to see who was up there, when Sam suddenly recognized Mona. "But, I thought-" He turned back to check the girl with Rizal, who he was positive had been Mona, but they were gone. Vanished. There weren't even any side-streets to turn onto along this road. "Shit, Dean-"
But Dean had already started jimmying the deadbolt, and he and Sam were inside and up the stairs in less than a minute. Sam, for once, wasn't willing to wait to pick the lock on Mona's door once they got to it, so he stepped back and threw himself into a kick right above the knob, splintering the wood and sending the door slamming back against the wall inside the apartment. All those hours at the gym turned out to be useful for more than just filling out his clothes nicely. Dean spared a split-second for an impressed grin before rushing in after Sam.
"Mona? Mona?" Sam whipped around, taking stock of everything he could see. No signs of struggle, nothing weird or out of place. He made his way down the short hall to what looked like Mona's bedroom, and saw a water glass smashed on the floor, puddle spreading slowly outwards. Mona was splayed out on the bed, breathing shallowly, staring blankly at the ceiling. "Oh god. Mona, are you-can you speak? What's the matter?" Mona just let out a weak whimper.
Dean skidded into the room, going around to the other side of the bed to feel for Mona's pulse, listen to her breathing. Sam felt her clammy skin, waxy to the touch. She looked-
"Sam. She doesn't have any pores. She's. One of the fakes," Dean said.
"Yeah, I. She's-it's dying. I don't think there's really anything we can do."
Dean pulled out one of the plastic baggies from the morgue, where they'd stashed the sample of Zoe's hair, presumably to compare. But it was gone. "What?" Dean up-ended the baggie, pouring little bits of oily twigs and grasses into his palm. "What the hell?"
Sam shook his head. "I honestly don't know. I haven't touched them."
Dean stared at the mess in his hand, rolling it between his fingers, then glanced back at the fake Mona. "This is. So fucking weird. Let's just take the body and split, man. We gotta follow Rizal."
"He disappeared, Dean. Poof. Into thin air."
"You know where his place is, though, right?"
Sam thought for a moment. "Yeah. It's a luxury condo Prada sublet for him for the few months he's in the country. You think he'd take her back there? Like it's his lair or something?"
"Can't hurt to check, Sammy. Come on, help me with this." Dean looped his arms under pseudo-Mona's shoulders and started to drag her off the bed. Sam grabbed her legs, and heaved a sigh. Just like the good ol' days.
They stuffed the body in the trunk, and Sam tried desperately not to think about it lying back there, slowly and silently dying as they drove. Mona's grandmother would never know what was going on. If Sam and Dean couldn't save Mona, couldn't find her-Fatima might not get a call for weeks yet, depending on how the case was handled by the authorities. Sam thought about Dean, and their dad, and ignored the feeling in his gut like he'd been suckerpunched.
*
Rizal didn't live too far away, but the city streets were hard for Dean to navigate. After half an hour of prodigious cursing, they finally leaped out of the car, rushing past the doorman of Rizal's building with muttered apologies, and took the stairs up to the fourth floor three at a time. Dean got his chance to kick down the door, and they pulled their guns before the dust had settled.
It was all to no avail; the place was deserted. They poked around, checked for secret entrances and exits and closets, but didn't turn up anything even remotely suspicious. "Maybe he has somewhere else he takes them," Sam suggested, after pulling out every single book from the bookshelves and going through all the drawers and cabinets in the kitchen. Lots of books on the Philippines, fashion photography anthologies, and the largest collection of designer flatware Sam had ever seen. Looked like Rizal didn't exactly travel light.
Dean stumbled out of the bedroom, nose wrinkled in distaste. "Probably," he said, making a beeline for the sink to wash his hands. "All I found in the bedroom were a bunch of gay skin mags. Complete with used tissues. Eugh." He grabbed the plush purple tea-towel. "And the man-thing-whatever. He has more clothes than you do, Sam. It's pretty disgraceful."
Sam battled the urge to stick his tongue out, and raised an eyebrow sardonically instead. "Okay, so this was a bust. Let's get the body back to my place and figure out what the hell is going on here." The most delicious Prada bag and overcoat Sam had ever seen in his life were hanging innocently by the door, and it took every ounce of moral fiber he had not to snatch them on the way out. Clearly, being Miuccia's personal assistant paid off.
*
There was a dead thing on his couch. A dead thing on his couch, and Dean singing off-key in his shower, and Miranda would not fucking stop calling. Typical. He was shirtless and attempting to blow-dry his hair, which was turning out to be a colossal failure, because every time he turned on his Sedu Ultrapower hairdryer, his phone rang. Which meant his hair was going to air-dry, and be a total mess, and he was just. Fucking fed up with the whole thing. Dead bodies and bad hair did not mix.
He finally got Miranda's crisis de l'heure sorted to her satisfaction, and could devote himself entirely to his grooming. He was working on a particularly crazy curl at the back, torso contorted in front of the mirror in his bedroom, Ralph Lauren loungewear pants hanging low on his hips, when Dean came out of the en suite bathroom. He was fresh and slick from his shower, chest and shoulders tinged pink, clad in only a towel. Well, two towels, seeing as how he had one wrapped around his head like a turban. Which was probably the single gayest thing Sam had ever seen, and considering he had partaken in more than his fair share of actual gay sex, that was saying something.
"Gnurf," Dean said, immediately turning around and disappearing back into the bathroom. Sam blinked owlishly, then overzealously returned to his hair, only looking up from the task at hand when Dean reappeared wearing his t-shirt and jeans from earlier.
"So, uh," Sam began, putting down the hairdryer. "What's next? Research, research, research?"
"Guess so," Dean said, tossing his towels on the floor of the bathroom. Sam pursed his lips and glared. "Oh, sorry," Dean mumbled as he picked up the towels and threw them on top of the toilet tank. Great. "You have so many fucking bottles of smelly stuff in there, man. How the hell do you know what's in 'em all? How the hell do you need what's in 'em all?"
"I don't need all that stuff, I just like it. It makes me feel-"
"Pretty?" Dean said with a smirk. He was looking everywhere but at Sam.
"I was going to say 'good about myself', but. Pretty works, too."
Dean shuffled out of Sam's room and into the den without comment, cracking open a book.
Sam pulled on his black Calvin Klein tank top and followed Dean, grabbing the Malaysian folklore volume he'd been working through earlier. "So. Rizal is a Filipino name, and he had kind of a lot of anthropological books on the Philippines at his place. I figure that's got to be something." He looked up when Dean didn't answer. "Dean?"
Dean snapped his mouth closed. He did not appear to be reading his book. "Uh. Yes?"
"The Philippines?"
"What-huh?"
"Never mind, I got it covered. You just. Space out all you want," Sam sighed.
It didn't take long, only about an hour of reading and note-taking, before Sam sat up with a shout. "Hah!"
Dean started, jerking where he was slumped in the club chair. His book was upside-down. "What'd you find?"
"There's a section in here about superstitions in the Philippines, and apparently, they have a myth about this creature called an aswang-"
"Aswang? Hey, that sounds-" Dean grabbed their dad's journal from under a pile of papers, flipping through it. "There are some really cryptic notes here about something called an aswang." He handed it over when Sam made the universal grabby-hands, give-it-here gesture.
"Aswangs steal people in the middle of night, usually right about midnight," Sam explained, looking back and forth from the book to the journal. "They make replicas of their victims out of, uh, bundles of sticks, talahib grass, and rice or banana stalks, and leave them in their place to get sick and die. I assume so no one suspects the victims have actually been kidnapped."
Dean moved to stand behind the couch where Sam sat, leaning over his shoulder and reading along. He smelled clean and warm. "There are a million different kinds of aswangs, though," he said, looking at the list of half-illegible names in the journal.
"Uh. Yeah." Sam drew a blank for a second, then refocused on the book in front of him. "Oh, see, this one? There's one town in the province of Capiz, called Panitan. I guess it's a municipality, really. But anyway. They have stories about a type of aswang called the dangga, or asitot." Dean leaned his elbows on the back of the couch, looking up and back at Sam, waiting for the punch line. "They say it looks like a handsome gay man, often with blood-shot eyes because they never sleep. Captures beautiful young women during the night and drinks their blood using a proboscis-like tongue inserted in a vein. Keeps the girls alive for two weeks until they've been sucked dry."
"Two weeks. Fits with the death reports. Definitely sounds like our man," Dean said, hopping over the couch to sit down and grab the book from Sam. "Backwards feet. Huh. Well, I'll be damned."
"They're a lot like vampires, apparently. Some of them shapeshift, but not the dangga. Asitot. Whatever. Point is, we can kill it with a stake to the heart."
"That's easy. Kind of anti-climactic, even."
"Not so much," Sam continued. "We have to coat the stake with special oil, made from coconuts, garlic, banana leaves, talahib grass, a bunch of random other stuff. The whole thing has to brew for seven days." He reached out, pointing to the relevant passage in the book on Dean's lap.
Dean just sighed. "Right. Should'a known." He kept reading, eventually stopping with a perplexed noise. "What's this symbol?" Sam looked over, trying to recognize it sideways.
"I think it has something to do with the replica?" He eyed the fake Mona lying prostrate on the other side of the coffee table. He'd been trying really hard to ignore her. It. "The Banyan tree has enormous spiritual symbolism in that area of the world." Grabbing a Sharpie from a drawer in the kitchen on the way, Sam went over to kneel by the body.
"This part makes it sound like that symbol will-I don't know, the language is kind of weird. Unlock it? Or something?"
Sam shrugged, figuring it probably couldn't hurt to try, since the thing was already dead. He inked the best facsimile of the tree he could manage onto the plasticy skin drawn tight over the sternum. As soon as he finished the last stroke, the replica started dissolving, layers of its body flaking away in peels of bark and grass and leaves, leaving a skeleton of thick sticks and branches beneath. Sam stood up so fast all the blood in his head rushed down to his toes, making him dizzy as he stumbled backwards. Dean was right there, solid weight behind him, watching around Sam's shoulder, hand firm on Sam's arm. "Woah there, Sparky, don't get too excited now."
Sam breathed deep, smelling the tropical, foresty scent of the pile of vegetation now sitting in his den. "Huh. Well, at least it'll be easy to salt and burn."
Dean laughed, low and real, and smacked Sam's arm. "Grab me a trash bag, I'll take care of it while you start thinking up ways to stake your boyfriend."
Sam rolled his eyes, heading for the cabinet under the sink in the kitchen. "He's not my boyfriend, Dean. We slept together once and went out on that one date. I know for a fact you got off with that succubus floozy before we wasted her back when I was, like, 16 or something, so you're in no position to make fun. Plus, Rizal totally thought you were hot after he met you. Wanted me to hook you up."
"No way. You are such a lying bitch, Sammy," Dean said with a bark of laughter.
"Yes way! I'm totally serious. Told him there was no way in a jillion years you were even a teeny tiny bit gay. A complete zero on the Kinsey scale," Sam called as he came back with the trash bag, throwing it in Dean's face. He tried not to think about the implications of their conversational thread. Talk about awkward.
Dean spluttered and wrestled with the bag, finally getting it open. He started shoveling piles of ex-Mona into it, biting his lips in feigned concentration and remaining suspiciously silent on the breeder-or-homo issue. Sam went with it, not wanting to press if it made Dean uncomfortable. He had to remember that Dean spent pretty much all his time in truck-stop America, among some of the worst homophobes the world would ever know, and be grateful that the only thing Dean seemed to have picked up from them lately was a little aloofness when it came to discussing dick. And his stellar fashion sense. "Well. If you're sure you've got that covered, I need to get my beauty sleep," Sam said with a wink and a yawn. It was already way past when he usually turned in on weeknights. He'd probably only get a few hours of sleep. "Must get up early for work tomorrow. Chanel layout and Miranda's flight and all that."
*
Dean picked up on the second ring. "You're like, a thirty, thirty-two, right?" Sam asked, rummaging around in the Closet.
"I don't want any foofy princess jeans, Sam. I have a couple old pairs that do me just fine."
"Whatever, I'm getting you some anyway. You don't have to wear them." Aha. A grungy pair by Diesel in the right size that Dean couldn't possibly scoff at. Sam's other line beeped ominously. "Shit, that's Miranda. See you later tonight. Probably way late, considering she's been gone, so we'll all be scrambling around after-hours trying to catch up."
"Whatever, I don't know when I'll be home. I can't find any of this banyan root compote crap, may have to drive out-of-state. See you when I see you."
Sam switched lines, bracing for the onslaught.
It turned out not to be too bad, and Sam found himself called back to his desk so Allison, newly well after her inconvenient bout with mono (and of course Sam couldn't pass up the infinite supply of high-school-kissing-disease jokes), could go out and meet with Joanna Krupa or someone about a cover-shoot. Apparently Joanna wanted to clean up her image, the publicity department was all for it, but Miranda needed industrial-strength convincing.
Sam was taking down his fifteenth message for the Bulletin, Miranda's militantly controlled to-do list, when someone stood directly in his light and cleared their throat impatiently. Sam was just about to politely ask him to take a seat and wait one moment when he realized it was Dean. So he just glared. "Yes, sir, I'll have her call Jonathan before tomorrow night. Thank you." He hung up and spun around in his chair. "What do you need, Dean? I thought you had negative interest in my place of employment. What happened to driving out of state?"
Dean shrugged and was about to come out with a no-doubt stupid excuse when Sam noticed the flurry of activity in the hall that meant Miranda was swiftly approaching. "Shit!" Sam whispered, grabbing Dean's arm with both hands and yanking as hard as he could, effectively felling Dean and shoving him under the desk. "Stay there," he hissed, ignoring Dean's grunted protests. "I don't want her to flip out. You look like a hobo, she doesn't know I have a brother, and I don't have time to think of an excuse. Just. Stay completely fucking silent and maybe I won't lose my job. If she notices you down there, I don't know, pretend to be a janitor cleaning the carpet or something."
"Samuel, was there someone in here just now?" Miranda shrilled as she waltzed into the room, dumping her coat and bag unceremoniously all over the papers Sam had painstakingly organized.
"No, Miranda, I-"
"I don't have any appointments until later this afternoon, make sure I'm not disturbed. Do you think you can handle that, Samuel? Not too difficult for you? Since of course, managing to make sure my driver knows when to pick me up seems to be beyond your myopic scope, I never know these days." She swept into her office, giving Sam no chance to defend himself, as usual. He sighed heavily. It wasn't that he minded her demeaning him; he'd gotten quite used to it by now. It was that Dean, still curled silently under the desk, had to hear it. Sam may have been imagining it, but he could swear he heard Dean growl, low in his throat, after the inner doors had swung shut.
"Shh, just a second. You can get up when she's turned towards the window." He sat tensely, waiting, trying not to focus on the bristle of Dean's bull-dyke haircut rubbing against the inside of his knee, tickling through the pre-worn denim of his DKNY skinny jeans. He straightened his silk waistcoat instead (brand-new from Jean-Paul Gautier), thought about the coffee order he needed to run out and get from Starbucks as soon as Allison got back, and whether it was brisk enough to need the fitted Versace blazer he had hanging in the closet.
Miranda finally turned around in her desk chair, picking up the phone to call her husband, guaranteeing at least fifteen minutes of blissful silence. Sam signaled Dean to get up, herding him out of the office and into the hallway. "Way to completely screw me over, Dean. I really appreciate that."
Dean actually looked contrite. "I didn't know it would be that bad, man, I'm sorry. I have half a mind to storm in there and Christo that harpy. I can't believe-"
Sam laughed humorlessly. "Did it already. First time I met her, during my interview. She's really just a raging bitch."
Dean grinned and smacked Sam affectionately on the shoulder. "'Atta boy, Sammy." Sam just narrowed his eyes.
"Right. Anyway, was there actually anything you needed, or were you just coming here to annoy me? Because I have to get back in there, and-"
"Nah, it's cool. I have an address for a lead on the banyan root, and everything else is already starting to simmer back at your place." Dean gave Sam a mock-salute and spun on his heel, making his way to the elevator without waiting for a reply. Sam was getting really used to holding his tongue these days.
When he got back to his desk and started hanging up Miranda's coat, she materialized behind him, withering glare firmly in place when he turned around. "Yes, Miranda?"
"Who was that person in my hallway just now?" she asked, voice icy smooth.
"Just a jani-"
"He looked like a mugger. And what on earth was he doing up here during the workday? Is this a hospital? Do I have visiting hours now? Have him fired immediately, Samuel." She blew back into her office as silently as she had appeared, and Sam just dropped his head to the desk with a thick smack. He wasn't getting paid nearly enough for this, haute couture or no.
*
Part 3
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Epilogue
Luckily for them, the morgue had a back door, and it was conveniently located near a stock of lab coats. Sam had chosen to wear a fairly understated, casual outfit consisting of mostly Armani earth-tones and matte fabrics for specifically this purpose. The lab coat would compliment it all beautifully. Dean had a crumpled suit stuffed in the trunk of the Impala that he put on once they'd slipped inside, ordering Sam to keep watch while he changed. Sam tried not to cringe too noticeably. "Damn it," Dean muttered, hopping gracelessly as he tried to wedge his shoe on.
Sam whipped a shoehorn out of his bag, passing it backwards to Dean, not taking his eyes off the hallway. "Here. Never leave home without it."
"I won't even ask," Dean mumbled, finally getting his shoes on and handing the shoehorn back to Sam.
"You look ridiculous, Dean. Where did you even find that suit? The bargain bin at Wal-Mart? And your tie, besides being the most heinous thing I have ever seen, is knotted all wrong."
Dean pursed his lips and looked like he was about to give Sam what-for, but Sam effectively silenced him by reaching out and grabbing the tie. The knot was lopsided and ugly, and he had the undeniable compulsion to fix it. He tried to make quick work of it; there wasn't anyone on lookout since he was now shoved in the alcove alongside Dean, but his fingers didn't seem to be cooperating very well. Plus, Dean wouldn't stop staring at him, which was just making him nervous and goosebumpy. Hunting clearly didn't agree with his constitution anymore, if it ever had.
"Okay, you look. Remotely presentable now," Sam said, voice low. He wasn't even going to start in on the collection of scraps that Dean referred to as a 'suit'. There wasn't enough time in the world.
Their fake IDs got them into the right room with little trouble. Sam worked some of his ass-kissing charm on one of the middle-aged technicians, and Dean blinded a receptionist or two with his smile. Sam was getting used to it again, working with Dean, hitting his stride, when they wound up standing directly in front of two of the three dead girls. Just stretched out on cold metal tables like the specimens for examination they undoubtedly were. "Jesus," he breathed, shocked. He'd seen dead bodies before, of course. But not for a long time, and never. Never girls he'd actually known.
They were beautiful, in a way. Beautiful in life and beautiful in death, though the sheen of their skin was plasticy, now. Unreal. Like something was wrong.
Dean peered oddly at the blonde girl on the left, Zoe, and reached for a pair of rubber gloves. "What is it?" Sam asked, resisting the urge to turn away and just let Dean deal with the whole thing.
"I don't know, it's. There's something-weird. Feels off." He was pressing at the pale skin of Zoe's shoulder and throat.
The girls were supposed to have died of some sort of indeterminate illness, but there definitely weren't any typical signs, either visible or on the charts by their feet. When Sam looked closer, he realized the doll-like smoothness of the skin couldn't be something that occurred naturally in death. Their features were exactly symmetrical, and while they had been models and therefore pretty much perfect to begin with-well, if they'd looked this disconcerting before, they probably never would've gotten any work. Their skin was tinged an odd greenish color, rather than the usual purple-ish pallor of rigor mortis, and if he wasn't mistaken-they had no pores. Anywhere.
"No, there's definitely something wrong here. They don't, uh. Don't look right. The coloring, and the texture of their skin. And it's like all the right features are there, but they've been. Put together, or something. Like a doll, maybe?"
Dean nodded, sucking his full bottom lip into his mouth to bite at while he thought. "Shapeshifter. I mean, that's their M.O., right? Changing into people, especially successful ones like models, for the money, fame, even sex."
"But why would there be three dead shapeshifters? And how did they die? I mean, there weren't any reports of foreign agents in the bloodstream, and there aren't any puncture wounds, so there's no way silver could have gotten in their bodies," Sam reasoned. Not shapeshifters, definitely. But maybe- "If shapeshifters can do it, though, there have to be other things that can. If these aren't really the girls, then they could still be alive somewhere, Dean. We could still save them."
"Sam. Don't-they're probably gone. Even if these aren't really them, don't. You know. Get your hopes up." Sam had thought Dean might make fun of him for going soft or something, but he seemed genuinely concerned. Which, well. They were just little girls, really, and of course Dean was probably just as upset. "We'll do what we can. I got some samples, not that I think it'll do us that much good, but. We gotta dig some more, figure out how these girls were connected. If there's any significance to when they died."
Sam grabbed the samples from Dean, just locks of hair, tucked them in his bag, and took a last look at Zoe. "Right. We've got a database at Runway that'll have listings for all the models. I can get us into the office no problem." They slipped out of the morgue the way they came, Sam assuring Dean there'd be plenty of places to change out of his suit once they got to the Elias-Clark building.
*
It only took Sam about twenty minutes to get up to the seventeenth floor and back down with the print-outs for each model. He had pretty much their entire life histories, complete physical work-ups, and every job they'd had for as long as they'd been working in the industry. It turned out the over-efficient, anal-retentive records department was, occasionally, good for something.
When Sam strode into the café in the lobby, he found Dean (recently changed back into his charming hunting ensemble) parked at a table by the window, plate heaped with what looked suspiciously like half a dead cow smothered in the entire national gross export of cheese from Switzerland. Sam sat down gingerly, attempting to avert his eyes.
"Hey, wha'd'ya find, Sammy?" Dean mumbled through a mouthful of vile disgustingness.
"God. God, Dean, please don't. Or I will seriously be ill all over your stunning K-Mart jeans," he squeezed out, grabbing a napkin to hold tightly over his lips.
Dean swallowed massively, and Sam tried not to follow the actually-visible lump of food as it went down Dean's throat. He'd never be able to eat again as long as he lived. Not that that was going to be much of a problem, considering food seemed to be banned on the Runway premises at all times. Sam wasn't entirely sure where in the building Dean had even found something that hinted at containing fat. Or cheese. The café was all raw salads as far as the eye could see.
"Anyway," he began, sliding his leather Louis Vuitton portfolio case across the table, "uh, there were extensive records on all the girls. From what I can tell, the only single job they all have in common is a Prada shoot from about three months ago. But they're also all between the ages of sixteen and twenty, they live within five blocks of each other, and there were two parties this season at which all three girls made an appearance. So it's not a lock, just a lead."
Dean nodded as he flipped through the pages, making some notes with the Waterman Edson fountain pen Sam had grabbed from his own desk along with the portfolio case. Dean could probably fence that pen and feed himself for a year on the road. "Good, okay. That's still narrowing it down."
Sam went on. "The thing is, I ran the dates of that Prada shoot through the system, too, and apparently it was only a four-girl layout," he said, biting his lip, worried. "So every single girl who was there is dead now, except one." Mona. The next target was Mona, that model he'd talked to not long after he started at Runway, the bright, sincere one. He swallowed past the lump in his throat and refocused. It was just another job.
Dean found the printout with the information on the one model still alive. Sam tried not to gag when Dean rubbed grease all over it while circling the address. "Well," Dean said, laying out the death reports side by side. "The others had a T.O.D. around midnight, and they were found roughly two weeks apart. The last report was filed, uh. Sunday before last."
Sam pursed his lips. "So that means the fourth one is probably going to get picked off tonight."
"Maybe. It couldn't hurt to stake out her place. Better safe than sorry."
"It won't take that long to get there. We'll have the rest of the day to get ready." Sam felt his stomach twist. Surveillance and research were one thing (or two, rather), but a stakeout? Possible action? Completely different.
"You sure you can still handle it?" Dean said, half concerned and half mocking. Sam wasn't sure which was worse.
"Yeah, I'm sure." Not hardly. "Just because I work in the fashion industry, I'm not necessarily soft. It's a really grueling job. I can probably bench twice as much as you can."
Dean snorted. "Right. I'm sure you'd have Chuck Norris on his back in two seconds flat."
Sam raised an eyebrow pointedly.
Dean choked on his Coke and tried not to spew it on Sam. That was one point in his favor, anyway. "Jesus, Sam. D'you have to?"
"I didn't say anything."
Dean was silent for long moments, working on his food. Sam realized a bread plate with Dean's unwanted salad garnish had materialized in front of him, so he nibbled on it absently. The whole situation wasn't really all that bad. Maybe even a little pleasant.
"I don't get it," Dean finally said. Sam felt his mood deflate.
"Don't get what?"
"Why are you doing this?"
"Doing what? Helping you? As I recall-"
"No, this." Dean made an expansive gesture.
"Because it pays the bills. Because it will get me where I want to go. Because I don't have a choice."
"But fashion? Really? It's just. There's no point. Sam, you used to save people's lives. Rid the world of evil. Bring justice. And now, what-you spend twenty hours a day waiting hand and foot on a woman you clearly hate?"
Sam's mouth tightened, eyes narrowing. "I may not be digging up graves, Dean, or slogging through ectoplasm, but fashion is important. And by working here, I'm securing a better future than I ever could have dreamed of when we were growing up. Miranda is the most successful woman in publishing, and she can get me wherever I want to go, as long as I pay my dues."
"Since when have you ever done anything just to 'pay your dues'? You hated being obedient so goddamn much you ran thousands of miles away from your own family. And now you're doing it for a living? I don't know, man. Doesn't really sound worth it just to write some stories for a glossy magazine."
"What would you know about it?" Sam snapped. This was all going downhill really fucking fast.
"Okay, you know what? Never mind. Let's just. Not talk about this. Or anything."
Tension coiled in Sam's shoulders, and he pushed his plate away with a heavy sigh. "Fine."
*
The rest of the day didn't turn out much better. Sam was on edge, Dean had no patience, and pretty much everything they said to each other was met with belligerence.
"Okay, so what will we be needing tonight?" Sam asked (reasonably, he thought) as he grabbed a black Gucci carry-all from the top shelf of his wardrobe. It was two seasons old now, and he hardly needed to be seen carrying it around the office. It should do nicely as a rock salt schlepper.
"Not that," Dean grunted. Sam swore he could actually hear Dean's feet resting on the coffee table out in the den.
"You can't even see what I'm holding, you cretin," Sam pouted.
"Don't need to. It's a big, gay waste of space, whatever it is," Dean said, mouth full of something. Sam didn't think he even had anything in the apartment that Dean would deem appropriate to put in his mouth. Ignoring the connotations of that statement, he remembered Jess's stash of peanut M&Ms. What used to be her stash of peanut M&Ms, anyway. Jesus. Dean was wearing on his last nerve.
Sam flounced into the den, placing himself between Dean and the TV, which appeared to be switched to some sort of National Geographic documentary about walruses. On mute. "Just shut the fuck up about my stuff, Dean. You might as well just call me a big, gay waste of space and get it the hell over with." Okay, he hadn't really meant to say that. But. Now that it was out there, well. It did need to be addressed. Sam realized he was actually nervous, worried about what Dean would come back with. Shit.
At first, Dean just tilted to the left, watching the screen around Sam's hip, sliding his tongue back and forth in his cheek, presumably to clear it of peanut M&Ms. Years seemed to pass before he finally flopped against the back of the couch, put the bag down, and sighed. "Sam. I don't-I was kind of hoping we wouldn't ever have to talk about this. Ever."
"You're really not big on the talking, huh?" Sam said, cocking his hip.
"You've known that I'm 'not big on the talking' since you were, like. Six."
"I was hoping you'd grown up sometime between then and now. Pipe dream, I see."
"Shut up. You're the one who wants to talk about this."
"Right. I just-I know I'm probably. Not really what you expected, is all."
"Got that right. But I don't really know what I expected. Sam, I haven't seen you, talked to you, at all. Not in five years. That's a long fucking time not to see your little brother. The only other person in the world who knows how I-what it's really like."
"Yeah, I know. It's been tough for me, too. No one-I mean. Jess, my roommate. She's my best friend in the world. Has been since my second year at Stanford. Or at least she was, until this stupid job. Anyway, she doesn't even know you guys are alive. Doesn't know anything about what my life was like before she met me. Lying was just so much easier than trying to explain anything."
Dean was staring at Sam's knees, hand rubbing over his mouth. He stayed silent, just nodding as Sam talked.
"I don't want you to feel uncomfortable around me, Dean. If it's a problem that I sleep with guys, I don't-I'm not sure how this is going to work. You'll just have to deal with it until Monday. Then you can go back to your life, and I can go back to mine. Another five years of radio silence, if that's what you want."
And at the worst possible second, as usual, Sam's phone rang shrilly from the counter in the kitchen. Dean looked up at Sam like the apocalypse had just been averted, and Sam grumbled dramatically as he rushed to pick it up.
"Hello? Yes, Miranda, I know." Sam grabbed a notepad and pen from the drawer in the kitchen, watching the back of Dean's head as he scrawled down whatever petty crap Miranda needed in the next five minutes. Dean had unmuted the walrus documentary, and Sam realized with an odd heaviness that he'd never get another chance to finish their one-sided conversation.
*
After hiring a new cook for Miranda, checking on her twins' homework, and making sure the right cuts of specially-ordered red meat were going to be served on her flight home from Milan, Sam figured he should start trying to pinpoint what exactly their options were as far as supernatural beings that preyed on young women and either turned them into dead doll-things, or left dead doll-things in their places.
Dean had gone to procure some last minute supplies (Sam assumed this involved large volumes of processed snack foods and sugary beverages), leaving Sam feeling useless and frothy and shallow. Which was probably Dean's intention from the beginning, the selfish bastard.
Sam had a sudden idea, and grabbed Mona's file from the stack on the coffee table. Her grandmother's phone number was printed in the "Emergency Contact" section of one of her employment forms, and from what he remembered her saying about the woman, it stood to reason that there was no better way to get background information on her. It couldn't hurt to check, make sure there wasn't anything huge they were missing.
Fatima Jamil Al-Misri answered the phone in Arabic. There was a note on the form that she spoke English, though, and so Sam enunciated clearly, "This is Samuel Winchester, calling about your granddaughter Mona."
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. "Is Mona alright?" she asked, uncertain worry apparent in her voice though she spoke with a heavy accent.
"Of course, ma'am, this is simply a. Reference call. Regarding possible employment. When was the last time you spoke to Mona?" Sam really, really hoped she wouldn't ask why he was making an international call to Egypt for one crummy reference. Maybe he could say Mona was looking for government work.
Fatima's tone grew cold. "Not for some time."
Sam blinked at the curt answer, scrambling for relevant questions that wouldn't be suspicious. "What can you tell me about her-work ethic? Interests? What sort of background does she have?"
"I don't know. We have not been in contact, her interests are of no concern to us, and neither are we to her. She left for America many years ago, now, against the wishes of her family. If you want to know about her, I think perhaps she is your best resource herself."
"Thank you for your time," Sam muttered into the dial tone. She'd hung up on him. Mona had left her family to pursue modeling, apparently. Against their wishes. They didn't know how well she was doing, what an amazing girl she was in the face of a soul-sucking business. Or that she admired her grandmother more than anyone and thought of her often.
Sam pressed his lips into a thin line, scrubbed his hands over his face, and went to get ready for the stakeout. He hadn't learned anything useful, but he felt overwhelmed just the same.
*
It was late evening, and he had put together a tasteful outfit in all black, packed the big, gay carry-all, and was sitting in his club chair, flipping through a book on Malaysian folklore by the time Dean finally slammed his way back into the apartment.
"Up and at 'em, Sam. Time to hit the road."
The Impala was idling on the curb outside when Sam and Dean made their way out to it, the doorman, Frank, looking at it askance. "Thanks, man," Dean said with a wink, and Sam gave Frank a little embarrassed wave.
"Won't be back 'til late, Frank. Tell Bruce to look out for us." The usually over-friendly Frank scowled, and Sam figured Jess hadn't been crazy after all when she'd said he had a crush on Sam. Dean just shook his head, peeling out the second Sam had closed his door.
Night folded over the city, streetlights casting their yellow glow on the sidewalk as Dean pulled up about fifty yards away and across the road from the model's apartment. Sam had made sure he knew the basics: her name was Mona, she was Egyptian, and Sam had met her once when Miranda had assigned him to pick out girls for the cyber-inspired accessories spread five months ago.
It was all a little awkward, neither Sam nor Dean entirely sure what they were looking for, deep shadows lining the entire street, tense silence interrupted only by the sporadic bursts of city noise bleeding through from the main road.
After a while, Dean leaned across Sam's lap without preamble. Sam scooted as far back as he could, grunting with annoyance as Dean popped the glove compartment open and retrieved an enormous bag of Cheetos. Which wouldn't have been too bad, except that then Dean started eating them like he was some sort of crazed farm animal in a cud-chewing competition.
"Jesus, Dean!" Sam hissed. Dean just gave Sam The Look, that one with the eyebrows and the sneer and the shrug and the head shake all mushed together, perfectly designed to make Sam wither on the spot. Not this time, though. "You sound like a large quadruped eating for the first time after months of starvation. Shut up, or whatever it is we're hunting's going to hear you and come after us."
Dean was about a millisecond away from hurling the bag at Sam's head and giving him a vicious (verbal) reaming out, when he just. Didn't. He swallowed what was in his mouth and set the bag down by his feet, his glare replaced by a look Sam couldn't even identify, a hint of a wry smile on his face. It was kind of creepy.
Sam sat stiffly in the renewed silence, looking at his feet, waiting for Dean to stop staring at him.
"I don't mind," Dean finally said, turning back to look out the window, voice quiet.
Sam blinked, nonplussed. Dean's face was shadowed, expression unreadable, and Sam found himself focusing instead on the dip of Dean's neck into the worn collar of his t-shirt. "What?"
"I said I don't mind," he said again. "You know. Earlier."
It took a long moment for Sam to realize that Dean was voluntarily picking up the loose thread of their conversation from before. "You don't mind-that I'm gay?"
"You're just. It's not that you like guys. It's that you like-stuff. You care about what colors you're wearing. You're obsessive about what you eat and how much things cost and it's just. It's not you, Sam. It's not the Sammy I know. Knew." He sighed, meeting Sam's eyes, face carefully blank. "It's like I came back here, looking for you, and I never found you."
Sam pressed his lips together, brow furrowed, trying to understand. Dean's freckles stood out in sharp relief under the wash of the streetlights, his breathing soft and even. Just waiting.
"I don't know what to say. I-it is me. I just. I keep trying to tell you that I have a different life now. Of course I'm going to have different priorities," Sam said dejectedly. Dean's gaze raked over him, lingered on his hair, sleek and straightened; his sweater, six-hundred dollars from Paul Smith; his belt, real alligator; his shoes, custom Prada sneakers. Not that his brother would know any of that. Dean shifted, mumbled something before checking on Mona's building again. "I didn't quite catch that," Sam prodded.
"Nothing," Dean grunted. It seemed that their Kodak moment had passed. Sam couldn't help but notice the nervous movements of Dean's hands against his jeans, the steering wheel, rubbing through his hair. When he started jiggling his thigh, making the car rock slightly on its shocks, it was too much.
Sam reached out, spreading a hand heavily over Dean's bouncing knee. "Quit it."
Dean jerked away like he'd been burned. "Fine! Jesus, you could'a just said it. Keep those big paws to yourself, huh?"
Sam folded his hands back in his lap, shrugging it off. Someone was certainly touchy tonight. Or not-touchy, really.
Dean settled back into a more comfortable position, one arm propped against the window, the other stretched along the back of the seat so his hand lay just behind Sam's shoulder. He had on the same cheap jeans he'd been wearing for the past two days, old and worn thin around the knees, backs of the thighs, pockets. A t-shirt, probably from a multi-pack of Hanes, faded from black to fuzzy grey, clinging tight around Dean's chest, hanging loose around his waist, rucked up ever so slightly, showing a hint of muscled belly. A flannel shirt, oversized, cuffs flopping soft and rubbed-smooth over Dean's rough hands. Boots, black and thick-soled and muddy, leather supple with use. That pendant, glinting brassy against his sternum like it had for as long as Sam could remember.
Sam felt an ache well up inside him, a sudden urge to just reach out to Dean. Start all over again. He missed him then, in that moment, more than he ever had in the last five years. And he was right there.
Dean looked over his shoulder with an easy smile. "I got somethin' on my face, man?"
Sam blinked, jerked out of his reverie. He smiled back, feeling the flush creep up his neck into his cheeks. "Nah. Just trying to figure out if I recognize those gross old jeans from five years ago. We'll get you some new ones on Monday when I go back to the office. I know how annoying it is, trying to find stuff that fits at Goodwill." Dean's mock-offended face was worth the whole awkward mess; Sam had to physically restrain himself from busting out in uncontrollable laughter, fingertips pressed tightly to his mouth.
They fell into a comfortable silence after that, both with traces of laughter still on the curves of their lips, watching the door of Mona's apartment building as if it were only the secondary reason for them to be parked on an empty residential street in the middle of Manhattan in the middle of the night.
Soon, though, the street wasn't empty anymore. It was about five minutes until midnight when Sam and Dean both spotted the dapper figure walking up to Mona's door, standing back and looking up at her window as he waited for her to buzz him up. Sam let out a confused huff. "That. I could swear that was Rizal. What the hell is he doing at Mona's in the middle of the fucking night?" Maybe-Rizal went into the building, leaving the stoop empty.
Dean raised his eyebrows, shooting Sam a look.
"Dean. Rizal is as gay as a paisley velvet caftan. Trust me." Dean scowled, but there wasn't any heat there.
"Whatever. We should check it out anyway. Think of something gay and fashion-y that we can use as a cover story on the way," he said, getting out of the car as quietly as he could. Sam followed, grasping for believable excuses to give. Miranda was keeping the Runway staff all night until a re-shoot was done? And they needed Mona to substitute for another girl down with the flu? That would probably work, and wasn't even too far-fetched. Miranda had done much crazier.
Dean pressed the buzzer just as Rizal pushed open the front door, trailing Mona after him. She looked dazed, but not unhappy. It was just-Rizal was walking funny. And not in the good way. He-"Dean!" Sam hissed, elbowing Dean in the ribs. "Look! His-his feet!" Sam wasn't even really sure what he was seeing. Rizal's feet were on backwards. "What the fuck is that supposed to be?"
Dean's jaw dropped, and he looked monumentally confused as Rizal made his way down the sidewalk with Mona. "What the fuck?"
Just then, the sound of something smashing filtered down to them from what looked like Mona's window. They stood back on the stoop, trying to see who was up there, when Sam suddenly recognized Mona. "But, I thought-" He turned back to check the girl with Rizal, who he was positive had been Mona, but they were gone. Vanished. There weren't even any side-streets to turn onto along this road. "Shit, Dean-"
But Dean had already started jimmying the deadbolt, and he and Sam were inside and up the stairs in less than a minute. Sam, for once, wasn't willing to wait to pick the lock on Mona's door once they got to it, so he stepped back and threw himself into a kick right above the knob, splintering the wood and sending the door slamming back against the wall inside the apartment. All those hours at the gym turned out to be useful for more than just filling out his clothes nicely. Dean spared a split-second for an impressed grin before rushing in after Sam.
"Mona? Mona?" Sam whipped around, taking stock of everything he could see. No signs of struggle, nothing weird or out of place. He made his way down the short hall to what looked like Mona's bedroom, and saw a water glass smashed on the floor, puddle spreading slowly outwards. Mona was splayed out on the bed, breathing shallowly, staring blankly at the ceiling. "Oh god. Mona, are you-can you speak? What's the matter?" Mona just let out a weak whimper.
Dean skidded into the room, going around to the other side of the bed to feel for Mona's pulse, listen to her breathing. Sam felt her clammy skin, waxy to the touch. She looked-
"Sam. She doesn't have any pores. She's. One of the fakes," Dean said.
"Yeah, I. She's-it's dying. I don't think there's really anything we can do."
Dean pulled out one of the plastic baggies from the morgue, where they'd stashed the sample of Zoe's hair, presumably to compare. But it was gone. "What?" Dean up-ended the baggie, pouring little bits of oily twigs and grasses into his palm. "What the hell?"
Sam shook his head. "I honestly don't know. I haven't touched them."
Dean stared at the mess in his hand, rolling it between his fingers, then glanced back at the fake Mona. "This is. So fucking weird. Let's just take the body and split, man. We gotta follow Rizal."
"He disappeared, Dean. Poof. Into thin air."
"You know where his place is, though, right?"
Sam thought for a moment. "Yeah. It's a luxury condo Prada sublet for him for the few months he's in the country. You think he'd take her back there? Like it's his lair or something?"
"Can't hurt to check, Sammy. Come on, help me with this." Dean looped his arms under pseudo-Mona's shoulders and started to drag her off the bed. Sam grabbed her legs, and heaved a sigh. Just like the good ol' days.
They stuffed the body in the trunk, and Sam tried desperately not to think about it lying back there, slowly and silently dying as they drove. Mona's grandmother would never know what was going on. If Sam and Dean couldn't save Mona, couldn't find her-Fatima might not get a call for weeks yet, depending on how the case was handled by the authorities. Sam thought about Dean, and their dad, and ignored the feeling in his gut like he'd been suckerpunched.
*
Rizal didn't live too far away, but the city streets were hard for Dean to navigate. After half an hour of prodigious cursing, they finally leaped out of the car, rushing past the doorman of Rizal's building with muttered apologies, and took the stairs up to the fourth floor three at a time. Dean got his chance to kick down the door, and they pulled their guns before the dust had settled.
It was all to no avail; the place was deserted. They poked around, checked for secret entrances and exits and closets, but didn't turn up anything even remotely suspicious. "Maybe he has somewhere else he takes them," Sam suggested, after pulling out every single book from the bookshelves and going through all the drawers and cabinets in the kitchen. Lots of books on the Philippines, fashion photography anthologies, and the largest collection of designer flatware Sam had ever seen. Looked like Rizal didn't exactly travel light.
Dean stumbled out of the bedroom, nose wrinkled in distaste. "Probably," he said, making a beeline for the sink to wash his hands. "All I found in the bedroom were a bunch of gay skin mags. Complete with used tissues. Eugh." He grabbed the plush purple tea-towel. "And the man-thing-whatever. He has more clothes than you do, Sam. It's pretty disgraceful."
Sam battled the urge to stick his tongue out, and raised an eyebrow sardonically instead. "Okay, so this was a bust. Let's get the body back to my place and figure out what the hell is going on here." The most delicious Prada bag and overcoat Sam had ever seen in his life were hanging innocently by the door, and it took every ounce of moral fiber he had not to snatch them on the way out. Clearly, being Miuccia's personal assistant paid off.
*
There was a dead thing on his couch. A dead thing on his couch, and Dean singing off-key in his shower, and Miranda would not fucking stop calling. Typical. He was shirtless and attempting to blow-dry his hair, which was turning out to be a colossal failure, because every time he turned on his Sedu Ultrapower hairdryer, his phone rang. Which meant his hair was going to air-dry, and be a total mess, and he was just. Fucking fed up with the whole thing. Dead bodies and bad hair did not mix.
He finally got Miranda's crisis de l'heure sorted to her satisfaction, and could devote himself entirely to his grooming. He was working on a particularly crazy curl at the back, torso contorted in front of the mirror in his bedroom, Ralph Lauren loungewear pants hanging low on his hips, when Dean came out of the en suite bathroom. He was fresh and slick from his shower, chest and shoulders tinged pink, clad in only a towel. Well, two towels, seeing as how he had one wrapped around his head like a turban. Which was probably the single gayest thing Sam had ever seen, and considering he had partaken in more than his fair share of actual gay sex, that was saying something.
"Gnurf," Dean said, immediately turning around and disappearing back into the bathroom. Sam blinked owlishly, then overzealously returned to his hair, only looking up from the task at hand when Dean reappeared wearing his t-shirt and jeans from earlier.
"So, uh," Sam began, putting down the hairdryer. "What's next? Research, research, research?"
"Guess so," Dean said, tossing his towels on the floor of the bathroom. Sam pursed his lips and glared. "Oh, sorry," Dean mumbled as he picked up the towels and threw them on top of the toilet tank. Great. "You have so many fucking bottles of smelly stuff in there, man. How the hell do you know what's in 'em all? How the hell do you need what's in 'em all?"
"I don't need all that stuff, I just like it. It makes me feel-"
"Pretty?" Dean said with a smirk. He was looking everywhere but at Sam.
"I was going to say 'good about myself', but. Pretty works, too."
Dean shuffled out of Sam's room and into the den without comment, cracking open a book.
Sam pulled on his black Calvin Klein tank top and followed Dean, grabbing the Malaysian folklore volume he'd been working through earlier. "So. Rizal is a Filipino name, and he had kind of a lot of anthropological books on the Philippines at his place. I figure that's got to be something." He looked up when Dean didn't answer. "Dean?"
Dean snapped his mouth closed. He did not appear to be reading his book. "Uh. Yes?"
"The Philippines?"
"What-huh?"
"Never mind, I got it covered. You just. Space out all you want," Sam sighed.
It didn't take long, only about an hour of reading and note-taking, before Sam sat up with a shout. "Hah!"
Dean started, jerking where he was slumped in the club chair. His book was upside-down. "What'd you find?"
"There's a section in here about superstitions in the Philippines, and apparently, they have a myth about this creature called an aswang-"
"Aswang? Hey, that sounds-" Dean grabbed their dad's journal from under a pile of papers, flipping through it. "There are some really cryptic notes here about something called an aswang." He handed it over when Sam made the universal grabby-hands, give-it-here gesture.
"Aswangs steal people in the middle of night, usually right about midnight," Sam explained, looking back and forth from the book to the journal. "They make replicas of their victims out of, uh, bundles of sticks, talahib grass, and rice or banana stalks, and leave them in their place to get sick and die. I assume so no one suspects the victims have actually been kidnapped."
Dean moved to stand behind the couch where Sam sat, leaning over his shoulder and reading along. He smelled clean and warm. "There are a million different kinds of aswangs, though," he said, looking at the list of half-illegible names in the journal.
"Uh. Yeah." Sam drew a blank for a second, then refocused on the book in front of him. "Oh, see, this one? There's one town in the province of Capiz, called Panitan. I guess it's a municipality, really. But anyway. They have stories about a type of aswang called the dangga, or asitot." Dean leaned his elbows on the back of the couch, looking up and back at Sam, waiting for the punch line. "They say it looks like a handsome gay man, often with blood-shot eyes because they never sleep. Captures beautiful young women during the night and drinks their blood using a proboscis-like tongue inserted in a vein. Keeps the girls alive for two weeks until they've been sucked dry."
"Two weeks. Fits with the death reports. Definitely sounds like our man," Dean said, hopping over the couch to sit down and grab the book from Sam. "Backwards feet. Huh. Well, I'll be damned."
"They're a lot like vampires, apparently. Some of them shapeshift, but not the dangga. Asitot. Whatever. Point is, we can kill it with a stake to the heart."
"That's easy. Kind of anti-climactic, even."
"Not so much," Sam continued. "We have to coat the stake with special oil, made from coconuts, garlic, banana leaves, talahib grass, a bunch of random other stuff. The whole thing has to brew for seven days." He reached out, pointing to the relevant passage in the book on Dean's lap.
Dean just sighed. "Right. Should'a known." He kept reading, eventually stopping with a perplexed noise. "What's this symbol?" Sam looked over, trying to recognize it sideways.
"I think it has something to do with the replica?" He eyed the fake Mona lying prostrate on the other side of the coffee table. He'd been trying really hard to ignore her. It. "The Banyan tree has enormous spiritual symbolism in that area of the world." Grabbing a Sharpie from a drawer in the kitchen on the way, Sam went over to kneel by the body.
"This part makes it sound like that symbol will-I don't know, the language is kind of weird. Unlock it? Or something?"
Sam shrugged, figuring it probably couldn't hurt to try, since the thing was already dead. He inked the best facsimile of the tree he could manage onto the plasticy skin drawn tight over the sternum. As soon as he finished the last stroke, the replica started dissolving, layers of its body flaking away in peels of bark and grass and leaves, leaving a skeleton of thick sticks and branches beneath. Sam stood up so fast all the blood in his head rushed down to his toes, making him dizzy as he stumbled backwards. Dean was right there, solid weight behind him, watching around Sam's shoulder, hand firm on Sam's arm. "Woah there, Sparky, don't get too excited now."
Sam breathed deep, smelling the tropical, foresty scent of the pile of vegetation now sitting in his den. "Huh. Well, at least it'll be easy to salt and burn."
Dean laughed, low and real, and smacked Sam's arm. "Grab me a trash bag, I'll take care of it while you start thinking up ways to stake your boyfriend."
Sam rolled his eyes, heading for the cabinet under the sink in the kitchen. "He's not my boyfriend, Dean. We slept together once and went out on that one date. I know for a fact you got off with that succubus floozy before we wasted her back when I was, like, 16 or something, so you're in no position to make fun. Plus, Rizal totally thought you were hot after he met you. Wanted me to hook you up."
"No way. You are such a lying bitch, Sammy," Dean said with a bark of laughter.
"Yes way! I'm totally serious. Told him there was no way in a jillion years you were even a teeny tiny bit gay. A complete zero on the Kinsey scale," Sam called as he came back with the trash bag, throwing it in Dean's face. He tried not to think about the implications of their conversational thread. Talk about awkward.
Dean spluttered and wrestled with the bag, finally getting it open. He started shoveling piles of ex-Mona into it, biting his lips in feigned concentration and remaining suspiciously silent on the breeder-or-homo issue. Sam went with it, not wanting to press if it made Dean uncomfortable. He had to remember that Dean spent pretty much all his time in truck-stop America, among some of the worst homophobes the world would ever know, and be grateful that the only thing Dean seemed to have picked up from them lately was a little aloofness when it came to discussing dick. And his stellar fashion sense. "Well. If you're sure you've got that covered, I need to get my beauty sleep," Sam said with a wink and a yawn. It was already way past when he usually turned in on weeknights. He'd probably only get a few hours of sleep. "Must get up early for work tomorrow. Chanel layout and Miranda's flight and all that."
*
Dean picked up on the second ring. "You're like, a thirty, thirty-two, right?" Sam asked, rummaging around in the Closet.
"I don't want any foofy princess jeans, Sam. I have a couple old pairs that do me just fine."
"Whatever, I'm getting you some anyway. You don't have to wear them." Aha. A grungy pair by Diesel in the right size that Dean couldn't possibly scoff at. Sam's other line beeped ominously. "Shit, that's Miranda. See you later tonight. Probably way late, considering she's been gone, so we'll all be scrambling around after-hours trying to catch up."
"Whatever, I don't know when I'll be home. I can't find any of this banyan root compote crap, may have to drive out-of-state. See you when I see you."
Sam switched lines, bracing for the onslaught.
It turned out not to be too bad, and Sam found himself called back to his desk so Allison, newly well after her inconvenient bout with mono (and of course Sam couldn't pass up the infinite supply of high-school-kissing-disease jokes), could go out and meet with Joanna Krupa or someone about a cover-shoot. Apparently Joanna wanted to clean up her image, the publicity department was all for it, but Miranda needed industrial-strength convincing.
Sam was taking down his fifteenth message for the Bulletin, Miranda's militantly controlled to-do list, when someone stood directly in his light and cleared their throat impatiently. Sam was just about to politely ask him to take a seat and wait one moment when he realized it was Dean. So he just glared. "Yes, sir, I'll have her call Jonathan before tomorrow night. Thank you." He hung up and spun around in his chair. "What do you need, Dean? I thought you had negative interest in my place of employment. What happened to driving out of state?"
Dean shrugged and was about to come out with a no-doubt stupid excuse when Sam noticed the flurry of activity in the hall that meant Miranda was swiftly approaching. "Shit!" Sam whispered, grabbing Dean's arm with both hands and yanking as hard as he could, effectively felling Dean and shoving him under the desk. "Stay there," he hissed, ignoring Dean's grunted protests. "I don't want her to flip out. You look like a hobo, she doesn't know I have a brother, and I don't have time to think of an excuse. Just. Stay completely fucking silent and maybe I won't lose my job. If she notices you down there, I don't know, pretend to be a janitor cleaning the carpet or something."
"Samuel, was there someone in here just now?" Miranda shrilled as she waltzed into the room, dumping her coat and bag unceremoniously all over the papers Sam had painstakingly organized.
"No, Miranda, I-"
"I don't have any appointments until later this afternoon, make sure I'm not disturbed. Do you think you can handle that, Samuel? Not too difficult for you? Since of course, managing to make sure my driver knows when to pick me up seems to be beyond your myopic scope, I never know these days." She swept into her office, giving Sam no chance to defend himself, as usual. He sighed heavily. It wasn't that he minded her demeaning him; he'd gotten quite used to it by now. It was that Dean, still curled silently under the desk, had to hear it. Sam may have been imagining it, but he could swear he heard Dean growl, low in his throat, after the inner doors had swung shut.
"Shh, just a second. You can get up when she's turned towards the window." He sat tensely, waiting, trying not to focus on the bristle of Dean's bull-dyke haircut rubbing against the inside of his knee, tickling through the pre-worn denim of his DKNY skinny jeans. He straightened his silk waistcoat instead (brand-new from Jean-Paul Gautier), thought about the coffee order he needed to run out and get from Starbucks as soon as Allison got back, and whether it was brisk enough to need the fitted Versace blazer he had hanging in the closet.
Miranda finally turned around in her desk chair, picking up the phone to call her husband, guaranteeing at least fifteen minutes of blissful silence. Sam signaled Dean to get up, herding him out of the office and into the hallway. "Way to completely screw me over, Dean. I really appreciate that."
Dean actually looked contrite. "I didn't know it would be that bad, man, I'm sorry. I have half a mind to storm in there and Christo that harpy. I can't believe-"
Sam laughed humorlessly. "Did it already. First time I met her, during my interview. She's really just a raging bitch."
Dean grinned and smacked Sam affectionately on the shoulder. "'Atta boy, Sammy." Sam just narrowed his eyes.
"Right. Anyway, was there actually anything you needed, or were you just coming here to annoy me? Because I have to get back in there, and-"
"Nah, it's cool. I have an address for a lead on the banyan root, and everything else is already starting to simmer back at your place." Dean gave Sam a mock-salute and spun on his heel, making his way to the elevator without waiting for a reply. Sam was getting really used to holding his tongue these days.
When he got back to his desk and started hanging up Miranda's coat, she materialized behind him, withering glare firmly in place when he turned around. "Yes, Miranda?"
"Who was that person in my hallway just now?" she asked, voice icy smooth.
"Just a jani-"
"He looked like a mugger. And what on earth was he doing up here during the workday? Is this a hospital? Do I have visiting hours now? Have him fired immediately, Samuel." She blew back into her office as silently as she had appeared, and Sam just dropped his head to the desk with a thick smack. He wasn't getting paid nearly enough for this, haute couture or no.
*
Part 3