Fic: We are merely players, performers and portrayers
Genre: Gen, casefic
Length: ~20K
Rating: PG-13 for language
Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Soulless Sam, Bobby Singer
Spoilers: Through season 6
Synopsis: A casefic set in season 6, soon after "Chained Heat" and before "Appointment in Samarra." Dean and Soulless Sam are in Florida again, where Dean's working two cases - the monster he and Sam are hunting at Disneyworld, and the case of Sam's missing soul. And he's got a lot of soul-searching to do. Which sounds like a bad joke, but his life has turned into a bad joke, so. It fits. With flashbacks to season 4, soon after 4.03, "In The Beginning."
Author's note: Written for the 2019 spn_j2_bigbang. Huge thanks to my artist, amberdreams, who plucked my unloved fic from the reject pile and produced some truly squeal-worthy work - please go visit the art masterpost on LJ or AO3. (Disclaimer: if any Disney lawyers come calling, I'm going to tell them I don't know her.) And equally huge thanks to my ever-lovely beta, themegalosaurus, and to madbadandplaid who went above and beyond in terms of editing, questioning, and poking me with a sharp stick.
Also on AO3
~~~
2010
Dean wakes with a start at the the thunk of the car door closing. He's kind of surprised he actually fell asleep. He doesn't normally sleep well when Sam's driving, and even less so with this particular version of Sam at the wheel. He checks his watch and is shocked to see his nap lasted several hours. It's a tribute to the effectiveness of Jack Daniels, but it also explains why he's got such a godawful crick in his neck. Dammit. How does Sam not understand that do you want to head out in the morning actually means I want to sleep before we head out? And that no, that's fine, I can drive, I don't need to sleep isn't an appropriate answer?
Real Sam got that.
No, not past tense. Real Sam gets that.
RoboSam, on the other hand, drives through the night and doesn't bother to wake Dean when he stops at a gas station. The keys are in the ignition, so Dean pockets them and climbs stiffly out of the car, stretching and popping his neck as he heads toward the building. It's warmer than he expected, the air heavy and humid for December. He peeks at the newspaper rack next to the door to check their location and stops in his tracks, confused. He's still standing there when Sam comes out.
"Sam, why are we in Valdosta, Georgia?"
Sam hands Dean a water bottle and takes a long drink from his own. "Because we need gas? Because Valdosta is a convenient stop on I-75?"
"Goddammit. Why are we in Georgia at all? We were on our way to California. How is Georgia a convenient stop on the way to California?"
"California?" Sam blinks at him for a second, then laughs. "No, dude, we're going to Disneyworld. Disneyland is the one in California. I told you, two employees were mysteriously killed at Disneyworld. Which is in Florida."
Like Dean keeps track of which Disney is where. He just assumed, because… well, because his brother would never have accepted a case in Florida without being talked into it.
"Florida? You're okay with that?"
RoboSam shrugs. Of course he's okay with Florida, in the same way he's okay with everything. "We don't have to go if you don't want to. We can hand this one off to someone else."
"No, it's not that. I'm fine with it. I just didn't think you would be."
"Oh, okay." Sam folds his arms and gets that pissy look on his face. The look that isn't really Sam's pissy look, which makes it worse. "So it's not that you don't want to go to Florida. It's just that you want me to not want to go to Florida."
Because your real brother wouldn't want to. It's like he's waiting for Dean to say it. But Dean's not going to give him the satisfaction, considering how Sam acted after their last conversation about getting his soul back. He'd told Dean he didn't want it back, stomped off and refused to discuss it further, refused to admit Dean was right. They've come to an uneasy truce, if you can call ignoring the elephant in the room a truce. Dean hasn't capitulated, he just temporarily stopped telling Sam how wrong he is.
He shoves the keys into Sam's hand. "I gotta take a piss. Get some gas and then get the a/c running, but when I come back, you're riding shotgun. I'm driving."
And it feels wrong, it feels sneaky and disloyal, dragging Sam's body to the one place he never wanted to go again. But they're on their way to Florida, because no one's here to stop them.
~~~
(At some point in the last few years, Dean's life turned into a bad joke.
Two hunters walk into a bar. The bartender asks for their order, and the first hunter says "Whiskey for me. My brother here will have some demon blood."
The bartender says, "Hey, we don't serve your type here, fella."
The second hunter says "No, it's okay, it doesn't matter if it's not my blood type. I'm just gonna drink it.")
2008
"Florida?" Sam's mouth twists around the word, like just saying it makes him uncomfortable.
"Yeah. Florida. You got a problem with that?" Which is kind of shitty, to be fair, because he knows Sam has a problem with that. He knows exactly what Sam's problem is. Except he doesn't; not really. He knows something awful happened in Broward County. He knows he died a lot. He knows Sam lived the same day over and over again, and finally got the Trickster to end the cycle. But other than that, Sam has mostly kept infuriatingly quiet about it.
Just like he's keeping quiet now; gnawing his thumbnail and refusing to look at Dean and not saying a goddamn word.
"Cas says it's a seal."
"Yeah, and that's all he says. Why's he being so vague about it? Something in a church that doesn't belong there? What's that supposed to mean? What are we getting ourselves into? You don't think this is a little weird?"
Dean shrugs. Everything about Castiel is a little weird. "If you want to argue with an angel, go on ahead. I don't think it's gonna do a lot of good. Not based on my experience."
"Yeah, I know," Sam sighs.
"So, you up for this?"
"I'm good. It's fine."
"You don't have to go, you know. I can do it without you."
Sam's eyes widen. "No," he answers quickly. "I'm going with you." Because the only thing that freaks him out more than going to Florida with Dean is Dean going to Florida without him. Dean should feel guilty about using that against him, but the truth is, he's got a buttload of his own issues right now, and keeping Sam happy isn't exactly at the top of his to-do list.
"Then get your shit. We're rolling in fifteen."
2010
For the "happiest place on earth," Disneyworld kind of sucks. It's hot even though it's December, it's crowded, a bottle of water costs four bucks, and the minions at the front gate not only want them to buy a ticket, but they give them a hard time about the suits.
"I'm sorry, sir, but adults aren't allowed to wear costumes in the park," the gatekeeper (Sarah from Waukegan IL, her nametag happily proclaims) chirps at Dean.
God, it's the stupid black suits and black ties. Yes, he and Sam do look like the Blues Brothers, but everything in their duffels is splattered in blood, or barbecue sauce, or some combination of both, and these old black suits and ties are the only ones that hide the stains. And Sam used to help take care of that kind of stuff but RoboSam doesn't care what tie he wears and Dean can't think about that right now because it causes a painful lump to rise in his throat, goddammit all.
The sunglasses don't help. Dean whips his off. "Listen, honey," he says. "I'm not in costume, and I'm not here to ride the rides. I'm a federal agent here on official business-"
Her supervisor, Glen from Des Moines IA, interrupts him. "Sir, we would have been notified if anyone were visiting on official business. Now, I understand Men in Black is a fairly subtle costume, and the Men in Black franchise is not a Disney property. But we don't allow adults to wear any character costumes in the park, Disney or not. It's to prevent guests from confusing other guests with actual cast members. Now, you can remove the jackets and ties, but we'll still need you to buy a park pass."
Dean sighs and hands Glen his card. "Here's number the number for the main office; you can talk to my supervisor-"
But Glen interrupts him again, waving the card back at him. "See, that's what I'm talking about. James Page? You think I don't know who Jimmy Page is?" He stands up straighter, attempting and failing to pull himself up to Dean's height. "You're not getting in for free and in costume. You can ditch the suit and buy a ticket like everyone else."
He can see Sam narrowing his eyes at the guy. Not his normal pissed-off look, but something cold and alien that doesn't look like Sam at all, that looks like some angry asshole just wearing his face. But for this, it works.
"Look," Sam hisses. He quickly flicks his own ID at the guy. "You can hassle us because we happen to be wearing black suits and black ties, and Agent Page happens to wear dark sunglasses, and he happens to have the same name as some dried-up, has-been guitar player. And we can go discuss this with your boss, and your boss's boss, and your boss's boss's boss, and take it all the way up to the frozen carcass of Walt Disney himself. Or you can stop being a pompous little shit, let us in, and keep your job." He takes one step closer to Glen from Des Moines and taps a finger against his name tag. "So what's it gonna be, Glen? You gonna let us do our jobs? Or are you ready to catch the next bus back to Des Moines?"
Glen from Des Moines retreats a step and makes a show of examining Agent Page's card again before shoving it into his pocket. He clears his throat, glances quickly at Sarah from Waukegan, and nods. "Sure, Agent. Agents. Sorry for the misunderstanding. Go on through. Let me know if you need any assistance."
Sam nods curtly back at him. "We will. Thanks." He turns on his heel and heads into the park. "Whenever you're ready, Agent Page," he calls over his shoulder.
Dean throws Glen and Sarah a sheepish sorry my partner's an asshole smile, something that's becoming a regular and necessary part of his repertoire, and trots after Sam.
They pass through the shadow of the giant silvery sphere of Spaceship Earth. Sam would have geeked out over it. There's no telling if he would have been more interested in the geometry or the contents, but he definitely would have loved it. That hurts too much to think about right now; it's something else to put aside and think about later. Or maybe never.
"Dude," he says. "Dried-up, has-been guitar player? Seriously?"
"Got us in the gate, didn't it?" Sam says. "You should be glad I didn't give him time to read my badge. James Page and Robert Plant? It's like you're trying to get caught."
Is it just RoboSam who has a problem with the creative aliases? Or has it been bothering Sam all along, but he never felt like he could say anything? Dammit. There's another train of thought Dean's gotta shut down real fast.
"Chill, man," Dean says. "It's Disneyworld. Families. Kids. Don't draw attention. We're gonna end up the next topic of discussion on that staff website of yours."
"Somehow I don't think angry MiB cosplayer is going to replace weird deaths at Maelstrom ride as the busiest topic on the Disney forums." Sam's face twists from angry to disdainful. "And remember, they call them cast members, not staff."
"Jesus Christ. Cast members. All the world's a stage, man."
Sam chuckles. "That should be your next fake ID. William Shakespeare. I can be Francis Bacon."
"Shakespeare? I was quoting the Rush song," Dean lies, because fuck if he's going to let RoboSam make snide little college-boy jokes about someone who isn't who people think he is. "All the world's indeed a stage," he sings, in his perfect Geddy Lee imitation that always made Sam wince, and hopefully hurts RoboSam's ears too. "And we are merely players, performers and portrayers…" He trails off, because the next line is each another's audience, inside a gilded cage. Seriously, goddamn it all.
Sam seems oblivious to whatever might be going through Dean's head. He unfolds the map he picked up at the entrance. "So… Norway… we go straight to the second lake, and then turn left."
~~~
The park is decorated for Christmas, even though it's at least 90 degrees in the shade. Florida is a great place to be if you're lying on a beach. Prowling through Disneyworld in a black suit, not so much, and Dean's relieved when they finally duck into the air-conditioned gift shop in the Norway pavilion. They're greeted by a pretty young woman with long blonde braids and a subtle lilting accent. She's wearing some Disneyfied version of a traditional Norwegian dress. Her nametag informs them that she's Marta from Oslo, Norway and that she speaks Norwegian.
"Agent Plant, FBI," Sam says, flashing his ID too quickly for Marta to read. "I'm looking for anyone who might be able to talk about some weird things going on around here recently."
Marta's blue eyes open wide. "You mean the men… I, ah, I'm afraid I can't… I'm not supposed to… I'll need to get my supervisor." She turns away to murmur into a telephone, then turns back to them with that same wide blue stare. "She'll be here momentarily."
Dean leans on her counter with a practiced smile. "Great, thanks. But while we wait… we're looking into the employee deaths in this area. Excuse me, I mean cast member deaths. Have you noticed anything unusual in the Norway area recently? Did you know the men who were killed?"
"Yes, but I'm really not supposed to… I mean, they told us to…"
Marta's stammering answer is interrupted by the arrival of a tall woman with a smile as carefully crafted as Dean's. "Marta," she says, "Are these the gentlemen you called me about?" Her eyes flick over them, appraising. "I'm Henrietta Meeks, manager of the Norway pavilion. How can I help you?"
She doesn't look like she wants to be charmed, so Dean stands up straight and puts on his serious face. "Agent Page, FBI. We have some questions about the deaths of Frederick Anderson and William Lund." Henrietta from St. Paul, MN turns out to be the type of person who does want to inspect their IDs, but luckily, not the type of person familiar with the members of Led Zeppelin. She cuts her eyes quickly at Marta, who immediately busies herself with something behind the counter, and leads Sam and Dean past a display of princess dolls into a quiet corner.
"I wasn't aware we had investigators on site today," she says, crossing her arms. "Normally this type of activity would be arranged through the main office."
"Sorry about that," Dean says. "Someone must have messed up. This shouldn't take long. We've just got a few questions."
"Everyone involved has given a statement already."
"Right. We know you've spoken to the local authorities, but we're the Feds, and we've got a few questions of our own."
"Well, as I said, normally these kind of requests go through the main office. There's protocol, you know." Henrietta Meeks stares at Dean with flinty disapproving eyes, but she's no match for RoboSam.
"Yes, you did say that," Sam snaps, glowering down at her. "Which almost makes it sound like you're refusing to speak to the FBI. You're not actually refusing to speak to the FBI, are you, Ms. Meeks?"
Her expression switches quickly to something slightly less hostile. "No, of course not. I was just saying-"
"Yes. You've made your point. And now we'd like you to answer some questions."
But in the end, she doesn't give them anything they didn't already have. No reason to suspect foul play, the deaths occurred at night after the park had closed, no one disliked the two men who were killed. The deaths have all the markings of a couple of unfortunate accidents, weeks apart, that resulted in two employees - cast members - falling into the machinery of the Maelstrom log flume ride. Reports of a foul stench near the ride have been greatly exaggerated and were undoubtedly due to stagnant water. Nothing to see here; good day.
Meeks escorts them back to the front door, flashes another angry look at Marta, and retreats into the back of the store. Probably to call the "main office," and they should probably hightail it out of there before someone less susceptible to pressure shows up. But as Dean turns to leave, he hears a soft voice.
"Agent?" Marta is tapping at Sam's sleeve. "You dropped this. It looked like it might be important."
Sam squints at the folded paper she's trying to hand him, something he absolutely did not drop, and breaks into a shark-like grin. "Very important. Thank you, Miss." He palms the paper, gives her a wink, and slips out the door, leaving an astonished Dean to trail after him.
Once they're out of view, Dean smacks Sam's arm. "Dude. Tell me that chick did not just give you her phone number!"
Sam smiles. "Don't act so surprised. It wouldn't be the first time." But when he opens the note, he frowns, and hands it to Dean.
I need to talk to you about the men who died, but not here, I'll get in too much trouble. I'll be off soon - please meet me in Morocco at 8:00.
"Well." Dean says. "It's just after 7:00 now."
"Guess we're hanging around for a while."
"Guess so. Where the hell is Morocco, anyway? And don't say Africa."
Sam laughs, pulls out his map, and motions to their left.
They make their way around a pack of slow-moving parents pushing loaded-down strollers. Sam glares a little too hard at them, and Dean gives him a quick shake of the head. Chill out, man. They walk clockwise around the central lagoon, past China, Germany, and Italy. The American pavilion gives Dean a little twinge, a memory of pre-teen Sam saying something about how cool it would be to see the animatronic presidents there, way before his hatred of all things Florida. And there's a probably a Samimatronic joke in there somewhere, but it's not a funny one.
~~~
(Knock knock.
Who's there?
Sam.
Sam who?
Just kidding. I'm not really Sam. But I sure had you fooled, didn't I?)
2008
Sam's been silent for at least half an hour, ever since the Welcome to Florida sign, and it pisses Dean off for some reason he can't really put his finger on. If he could just get inside Sam's brain, full of organized, neatly labeled little boxes, could he yank out the one that says Shit That Happened in Florida and toss it out the window? And while he was in there, could he get rid of Freaky Psychic Shit and The Dark Road Sam Is On, According to Cas and Asking Dean About Hell? Just open his brother's skull and dig in there and start rifling through his careful little stacks of boxes? Would he use a saw, dull and rusted and bloodstained, to open Sam's skull, or just squeeze it at the right spot and crack it open with his bare hands?
And then he needs to stop thinking about opening Sam's skull, needs to stop imagining that right fucking now, so instead he does the next worst thing.
"What did you do with me?" he asks. "When we were here, I mean. You know. Broward County. What did you do when I was dead?"
Sam won't look at him. "I told you. I woke up when you died, and everything started over."
Except the day it didn't. Because there was one last death; there was one Wednesday after an endless string of Tuesdays. He knows that much.
"No, I mean the last time I died, when you didn't wake up. What did you do with my body?"
"Why does it matter?"
"I don't know. Just curious."
"If you're asking if a gave you a hunter's funeral, the answer is no, I didn't. Just like I didn't when… in Indiana. I couldn't salt and burn you. I knew I had to get you back."
"So you buried me. Where?"
"It doesn't matter, okay? None of it was real. The Trickster put it all inside my head and none of it really happened, so it doesn't matter."
"That's right. None of it really happened. You need to let it go. I'm not dead. You're not dealing with the Trickster again."
"It's not that easy."
"Yeah, it is, Sam. It's exactly that easy," Dean says, gesturing at himself. "Me. Not dead. Not on the countdown to Hell." He waves at Sam. "You. Not reliving the same day over and over. Not trying to break my deal. Not trying get me out of Hell. It's over, man. I'm alive and kicking, and there's no reason to freak out over fucking Florida. Just let it all go."
Truth is, he wants to know more, but if he pushes it, Sam might just say you show me yours and I'll show you mine, and Dean's not gonna show his. There are things in Dean's head that he's never, absofuckinglutely ever, going to reveal to Sam.
They're an hour past the state line before Sam speaks again.
"He wouldn't let us leave Florida," he says quietly. "Or maybe it was just you he was blocking. Maybe he would have let me leave if I'd gone alone. I don't know. I never tried it without you until… you know. After. But until then, any time I got us out of that town, any time we headed for the border, he would stop us somehow. A semi would cross the median, or someone would throw a rock off an overpass. There was a train, once. Came out of nowhere."
The conversation more uncomfortable than Dean expected it would be. Of all the questions he has about that time in Florida, how exactly did I die? is suddenly not the one he wants answered right now. Not when it makes his brother look like he's reliving the whole damn thing. Still, Sam's finally talking about Broward County, and if he doesn't take advantage of it now, it might never happen again.
"So, a semi would hit us head-on and then, boom, you'd wake up in the hotel room?"
"Yeah, that." But Sam took a beat too long to respond, and it makes the back of Dean's neck go all prickly.
"Every time?"
Another pause. "I mean, yeah, it was usually instantaneous. And usually you were the only one hurt, and I was just there watching." Sam swallows hard. "But then, one time, I guess he got pissed because I wasn't doing what he wanted. The semi. That one actually took a long time. It hit us, and we were both there, you know, trapped in the wreckage, broken bones, internal injuries, the works. You were unconscious and bleeding out, but obviously you were still alive, because we were still there. So all I could do was wait for you to die. Except you didn't." He pauses again and takes a deep breath.
"I heard a siren, and I knew an ambulance was coming, but it didn't matter, I knew you were still gonna die. I knew there was nothing anyone could do to stop it, and all I could think was, Please let him die before they get here. Because if they rescued you, that would just prolong it, and I needed it to end. I needed to get out of it and start the next day. They fired up the jaws of life and tried to cut us out, and the whole time I was praying, Don't let him wake up, don't make him suffer, just please let him die. And about half an hour later, you… I woke up."
Dean turns and stares at him, watches him run a hand down his face and leave it over his mouth.
"Fuck, Sam."
"Yeah." Sam goes quiet again, and Dean's a lot less curious about Broward County than he was a few minutes ago.
2010
The Japan pavilion is just past the American area, and Dean's tempted to cruise through the gift shop to check out the anime. But Sam makes a bitchface when Dean slows to peer through the door, because that's a Sam thing that RoboSam maintained, and what are the odds Disneyworld would have the kind of stuff he's interested in anyway? So they walk straight through to the Morocco pavilion. When they get there, Sam says "wait here" and heads toward a small greenish kiosk in the neighboring France area. He returns with a beer in one hand and some kind of frozen drink in the other. In a plastic martini glass, for fuck's sake. Sam hands Dean the beer and ignores his raised eyebrows, taking a sip of the pale yellow concoction in the martini glass.
"Dude. I'm embarrassed to even be seen with you."
"What?" Sam takes another drink. "It's hot. This is cold. And full of vodka."
"Yeah, whatever." Dean takes a drink of his beer, which is pretty good even though it's some weird brand he's never heard of. "Just don't forget to extend your pinky finger."
"Like this?" Sam raises his middle finger, flashing a full-on dimpled grin, and it's so close, so much like Dean's actual little brother that his stomach does a warm little flip. Then Sam spies something over Dean's shoulder. His expression goes predatory, eyes narrowed, and the moment's gone. Dean turns around and sees what caught Sam's focus: a young woman with a long blonde ponytail, wearing shorts and a t-shirt, slipping through a tiled archway in the Morocco pavilion. It takes him a second to recognize her as the plainclothes version of Marta.
She's perched nervously on a bench in a quiet alley when they catch up with her. Out of costume, she seems like a completely different person.
"Drinking on the job, agents?" Even her accent seems to have disappeared along with the long dress and braids. She smiles, but her eyes are flicking anxiously around her.
"Well, we are off the clock," Sam says, setting his drink on the ground. "Unless you have something to share with us?" He plants one hand on the wall above her and leans in, looming over her and also effectively hiding her from anyone who might be passing by, though Dean suspects that wasn't his intent.
It seems to calm her nerves, though. "You were asking about Freddie Anderson and William Lund," she says. "And I imagine no one's telling you anything. They're not going to. Not on the record, anyway."
"But off the record?" Dean asks.
Marta sighs. "Off the record, William Lund was my uncle. Well, my great uncle. My grandma's brother. And I don't think it was an accident."
Sam starts to ask her a question, but Dean steps in. "We're sorry for your loss," he says. A flash of annoyance flits across Sam's face at the interruption, and Christ, this isn't right. Sam's supposed to be the one who jumps in with the touchy-freely stuff. He's not supposed to ignore the victim's feelings, let alone get pissy when Dean pauses to offer the barest minimum of condolences.
Sam resumes his line of questioning. "So, why do you think it wasn't an accident?"
Marta chews her bottom lip. "You know what? This is nutso. I don't even know why I'm bothering you. I should go."
She starts to stand, but Dean gently rests a hand on her shoulder. "Nutso is our specialty. I swear to God, whatever you're going to tell us, it won't be the weirdest thing we've ever heard." He sits on the bench next to her and gives her his warmest you can trust me smile, and it may not be the puppy-dog eyes, but it works.
"Okay, but listen," she says, "I don't believe any of this, you understand? I'm not crazy, and I know this is just some weird old Norwegian superstition." Marta stops to touch a simple chain at her throat. "After Freddie was killed, Uncle Will was acting pretty paranoid. He was convinced he was going to be killed too. He left instructions about what to do if he died. But they're bizarre."
"Bizarre how?" Dean prods.
"I heard the other uncles talking about it. You're gonna laugh, but…." Marta trails off with an embarrassed smile. "He wanted them to tie his big toes together." She rolls her eyes self-consciously. "I know, right? Some tradition from the old country, I guess. But he insisted they do it if he died. He talked about it a lot. So I think maybe he knew something. Maybe something was wrong with the ride, or someone made a threat, you know?" Marta touches her chain again and pulls up a pendant that had been resting beneath her shirt, a small circle of dark metal. "The uncles made everyone wear one of these. They didn't really explain why. Something about luck or respect or protection. I don't know. Old country stuff."
Dean looks up at Sam, and is surprised to see he looks thoughtful rather than amused, examining Marta's pendant. Or using it as an excuse to examine her tits. Hard to tell. "Do you know anyone who would want to hurt your uncle?" Dean asks.
"Not at all. He was a sweetheart. So was Freddie. Everyone loved them."
"Have you noticed anything unusual in the area where he was killed?" Sam asks. "Cold spots, odd smells, strange noises? Anything at all, even if you didn't think it would be related."
"Well, people must have told you about the smell, right? That's one thing he was so freaked out about. He kept talking about the stench near the Maelstrom at night, and I've gotta say, he wasn't wrong about that. It still reeks sometimes, especially at night. Now, I know Meeks won't tell you jack shit. She'll give you the official Disney line, it's not uncommon for water rides to develop a temporary stagnant pool which can result in unpleasant but harmless odors, blah blah blah, but it's worse than stagnant water. It's like something rotting. Something dead."
"Okay," Sam nods. "See, that's something. That might be helpful."
"I can't imagine how," Marta says, with a bitter smile. "But I just hate that Meeks and the rest of them are trying to make everything go away. Like, it doesn't matter that people died. Nothing matters but keeping up that Disney magic. Everything's gotta stay perfect, no matter how fake it is."
Speaking of maintaining the magic… . "Your accent," Dean says. "You don't have it any more."
"Oh. That. Yeah." She laughs nervously. "I really was born in Oslo, but my family moved to the U.S. when I was a year old. It's just that you get a better position if they think you're actually from Norway, you know? Marty from Clearwater gets to work in the kitchen, or on the rides. Marta from Oslo gets behind the register in the gift shop."
"Your secret's safe with us," Sam says, as he pulls a card out of his pocket and hands it to her. "If you think of anything else, give me a call, okay?" His smirk is all kinds of wrong, but Marta doesn't know what Sam's real smile is supposed to look like, so it probably looks normal to her. She takes out her phone and snaps a picture of the card, then pulls a pen from her purse and scribbles a number on the back of it. "And if you have any more questions for me, you should probably text me. I can't really talk in front of Meeks, but you can text me any time." She hands the card back to Sam, and he slips it back into his pocket with another not-Sam smile.
Marta rises from the bench, nodding at the plastic martini glass Sam left on the ground. "That Grey Goose slushie is a damn good choice. Think I'm gonna go have one myself. If you're done with me, that is."
"We are," says Dean. "Thanks for your help."
"No, thank you," she replies. "Uncle Will was a sweet old guy. Freddie too. Neither of them deserved this. I hope you find out what happened to them."
Once she's out of sight, Dean downs the rest of his beer while Sam finishes his now-melted Grey Goose slushie. "So, what are you thinking?"
"The toe thing," Sam muses. "It sounds familiar. I think it's something."
"Yeah, something kinky."
"No, seriously. I've heard of that. It's something. I'm just not sure what. And I'm pretty sure her pendant was iron."
"Well, okay. Protection against something. Maybe those old uncles knew what they were talking about. Probably worth a visit, then. See what the uncles were worried about. And we need to poke around that ride, too."
"Yeah, but not tonight," Sam says, loosening his tie. "I've had all the Disney I can stand for today, and I don't really want to run into Meeks again."
"That's the most intelligent thing you've said all day," Dean says with a grin. Sam smiles back, but it doesn't reach his eyes.
They loop through the Norway pavilion again on their way back to the park entrance for a quick look, but nothing catches their eye other than a guy with a service dog that growls at Sam. Because of course it does. That dog in St. Louis didn't like the shifter version of its neighbor, and this one probably doesn't like this soulless excuse for Dean's brother, either.
For a second, Dean imagines the dog will lunge at Sam and catch his arm in its teeth; maybe it will even peel off a long strip of skin and reveal him as a shifter. And then the shifter will laugh and say fine, you caught me; Sammy's been out of Hell for a year and a half and I can't believe I got away with it for so long. Dean will jump him and find something on him, the key to a hotel room or a storage unit or something. He'll call Cas, who'll actually show up for once, and they'll zap over there and they'll find Sam, the real Sam, trapped and maybe tied up and maybe hurt, but not dead and not in Hell. He'll smile up at Dean, that dopey grin that RoboSam can't ever quite duplicate, and he'll be there, Dean's stupid brave little brother, heart and soul, in one piece all along.
But none of that happens. What happens is they make their way through the crowds, back to the Impala, and drive into Orlando.
Once there, they turn down International Drive just for the spectacle, but neither is interested in the candy-colored Family-Friendly! Pets Welcome! hotels, chain restaurants, and tourist attractions. "It looks like Las Vegas threw up on Branson," Sam says, and that's not far from the truth. They eat thin, greasy drive-through burgers and then find a decidedly family-unfriendly motel on a quieter side street, next to Ricky's Discount Liquor Warehouse and across the street from Orlando's Best Bungee Fun.
"I figure you're going to sleep, so I thought I'd go get a drink or something," Sam says, as he dumps his duffel bag on the bed he won't be using and peels off the Fed suit. "Or did you want to go with?"
That kind of non-invitation can only mean one thing. "Just don't bring your something back here, okay?" Dean mutters. "I want you to be wearing pants the next time I see you." Sam laughs but doesn't dispute Dean's basic hypothesis, so there you go. He hangs the suit in the closet and stands for a minute, unfamiliarly big and muscular in his briefs and socks.
Sam gets skinny when he stops hunting and training. Dean is just the opposite; he goes soft around the middle if he stops. It doesn't happen often. He'll let go of the daily grind for a while when he gets badly hurt, or unusually sick, or when he spends a year playing house because it was the only thing his little brother asked of him before he threw himself into Hell, and fuck if he wasn't going to at least give it a shot. But Sam's got the metabolism of a goddamn freight train, and when he stops hunting and training, he gets skinny. Sam's not skinny now. The old suit jacket looked strained over his new muscles. He's obviously spent his own gap year working harder than ever, and Dean wonders again what his brother was up to for that year. And then forces himself to stop wondering, because he probably doesn't want to know.
Sam is still standing there, contemplating the black tie in his hand. "Guess it's time to get rid of these," he says, "if they're gonna make people think we're wearing costumes." He tosses the tie into the wastebasket and Dean has to stop himself from lurching forward and stopping him, because that's not his, it's Sam's, it's Sam's tie that they bought together, right after Palo Alto, when they were still looking for Dad and learning to be a team again, all those months spiked with worry for his father, rekindled appreciation of his brother, and a sick, guilty hope that Sam had lost too much in California to ever want to go back. It was something they lived through together, and RoboSam has no goddamn right to throw that fucking tie away.
But that's stupid. It's just an old tie.
A small, sharp voice in the back of Dean's head says, It's not like it's anything important, not like it's an amulet you gave him when you were eight years old and he wore every day of his life, or something like that. He'd started to turn back and look at Sam when he threw the amulet away, to say see what you did, and thank fuck he didn't because he'd have seen Sam's face, and he'd be reliving the sight of that kicked-puppy expression right now, now that it's too late to apologize or dig the goddamn thing out of the trash. Even if he had it right here, even if he could pull the amulet out of his pocket and say I didn't mean it, I was just mad and hurt but I didn't mean it, even then it would be too late because Sam's not fucking here to see it.
Dean rolls his own black tie into a tight little ball and shoves it deep into an interior pocket of his duffle.
Once he's dressed, RoboSam says "don't wait up" with an ugly smirk and then he's gone, leaving Dean to consider his own options for the evening. He could sit here completely sober in this dim, barely-cooled motel room watching pay per view and feeling sorry for himself, or he could go next door and visit his new best friend Ricky at his Discount Liquor Warehouse. And that's an easy decision, because he really needs something to make that small, sharp voice shut the fuck up.
~~~
By the time he gets back from Ricky's, it's dark. Not dark dark, not hunting dark, not the kind of dark that forces you to rely on your senses of hearing and touch and smell, the kind of dark where you feel your brother next to you and realize he's holding his breath because he detects something out there, where you could sense that because you knew him that well (know him that well). It's what passes for dark in Orlando. Hot, heavy, ink-blue sky suspended above the haze of light pollution that rises over the city streets, stars replaced by vibrating swarms of insects, punctuated by the neon pulse of Save On Liquor! flashing next door.
It's too still and quiet in the motel. Dean unwraps a plastic cup and sits on a metal bench bolted to the pavement just outside their room. Halfway through the bottle of whiskey, he takes out his phone and hesitates over Bobby's number. Bobby won't have anything. Bobby would have called him if he had anything.
He pushes the button anyway.
"Hey, Dean, how ya doin'? Got a call from someone at Disneyworld earlier. Thought maybe you two were takin' a little vacation."
Dean laughs. Looks like Glen from Des Moines got brave enough to check up on them once RoboSam was out of sight. "Not exactly. We're working an actual case at Disneyworld. Might need some intel on Norwegian ghosts later."
"You got it. So, you boys okay?"
"Oh, I'm peachy. Just enjoying the Orlando night life. And Sam's off doing Sam stuff… or, I guess, not-Sam stuff."
"You keepin' him outta trouble?"
"Doing the best I can, considering. I, ah, don't suppose you've got anything new on that front."
Across the street, a group of teenagers ascends to the bungee platform, laughing and jostling on their way up the steep steps, disappearing into the darkness hovering above the pools of street-level light. They're too far away for Dean to make out their words, but their voices are spiked with fear and bravado.
"Sorry, son. Nothing on this end. But listen…"
Bobby hesitates, and Dean knows that hesitation well, wants to say Whatever you're afraid to say, I'm afraid to hear, so how about you just spare us both? But nobody ever gets spared.
"Remember, we never expected to get him out. We thought it was forever. He did it, thinking it was forever."
Yeah, thanks Bobby, he might have forgotten that. He might have somehow forgotten that his little brother knew he'd be trapped with Lucifer forever and jumped into the hole anyway.
The teenagers climbing the steps to the bungee jump have emerged onto the brightly-lit platform. After a few rounds of what looks like rock-paper-scissors, the first jumper is buckled into a harness.
"I'm just thinking about what Cas said," Bobby continues. "That putting his soul back in him could kill him. I know we want to get his soul out of Hell, and if we do… maybe you just stop there and let him go. Leave this soulless version of him alone, rather than trying to re-soul him."
"Bobby-"
"Don't Bobby me, son. Just listen. I think Sam would be glad you at least had part of him, you know? Hunting with you. I know he ain't really Sam, but he's getting better, right? I mean, you gotta think what it could do to him. This might just be as good as it gets. Pushing it any further might leave you with nothin'."
As if this part of Sam actually had Dean's back. As if Sam would really be glad to know his brother was hunting with someone who let him get turned into a vampire, for Christ's sake.
"Dammit, Bobby. You're saying this is our best case scenario? That I should be glad at least some of Sam is walking around topside?"
Bobby sighs. "You know that ain't what I meant. Sam being without his soul is never gonna be the best case scenario. It's just that it might be all we get. And it's more than we thought we'd ever have."
Dean runs a hand down his face and thinks about Karen Singer. Yeah, Bobby knows what it's like to lose someone and have them come back not right, and he still would have been happy with any little piece of Karen he got to keep. But it's not the same thing. Zombie Karen was still sweet and kind, not a goddamn killer robot. And she still loved Bobby.
(The memory surfaces, unbidden… Sam saying I don't even really care about you, not an angry adolescent I hate you hurled at him in the heat of an argument and immediately regretted, but a calm, cold statement of fact; the bemused look on Sam's face like he recognized, on an intellectual level, how wrong it was, but he couldn't be bothered to give a damn.)
"We thought wrong," Dean says. "We didn't think he could get out of Hell because we didn't think anything could get out of the cage. But if his body can make it out, so can his soul. If there's even a little bit of a chance that I can put Sam back together again, I've gotta try. I owe him that."
"Yeah, but it might kill the little bit of Sam you got left."
"He's strong, Bobby. He's stronger than you know. He's stronger than Cas knows. He might be just fine. We can't give up."
"Okay, okay. No one's giving up. I promise. You go take care of your Norwegian ghost thing. Let me know if you need help."
"Yeah. Thanks."
(And if he's not strong enough? If putting that shredded soul back into his body leaves him irreversibly broken? Or dead? Would Sam still rather be dead than be a monster? Is RoboSam better than no Sam at all?)
The bungee jumper stands on the edge of the platform, arms spread wide, and falls backward into the darkness below.
Dean lurches to his feet, leans against a blue Ford Focus, and vomits a greasy burger and half a bottle of whiskey onto the driver's door. He stumbles into the motel room and fills the cracked plastic ice bucket with water. After rinsing the vomit off the car, he goes back inside and finishes the rest of the whiskey before falling, fully clothed, onto his bed.
~~~
(Two hunters walk into a bar. One of them says "My brother here is about to take on Lucifer and lock himself up in Hell, so he's gonna need a couple of gallons of demon blood. As for me, I'd like to see your list of local organic craft beers."
"What the hell?" says the bartender. "What kind of bar do you think this is, buddy?"
The hunter says, "Jesus, fine, don't get your panties in a twist. Forget the craft beer; I'll just drink whatever beer you've got on tap.")
On to part 2