(no subject)
Title: Full Tilt Boogie (2/6)
Authors: hansbekhart & essenceofmeanin
Artist: ladyvyola
Rating: NC-17 (Sam/Dean, Michael/Dean, Sam/Michael, Sam/Dean/Michael, Sam/OC)
Summary: There are only two kinds of secrets: the ones you keep, and the ones you shouldn't have at all. When Sam and Dean take Michel on his first hunt (that doesn't involve a shtriga), they end up on the psychedelic dance floor of a long-vanished motel where disco never died and no one is quite who they appear to be. What was supposed to be an easy salt and burn descends rapidly into a morass of temptation and gold lame, bell bottoms and lies. No one gets to choose what secrets stay buried.
Unless they don't mind checking in ... forever.
Nothing. No one. The hotel is huge and seems deserted in every way possible. He hunkers down for a while - finds a quiet corner and sends out his mental fingertips. The hotel feels sticky and devoid of all things, like he’s playing blind man’s bluff in an empty room. The only benefit Sam’s powers have ever given him is the unerring ability to find his brother - miles away, lost in the woods, buried alive, in Hell - and now Dean is gone.
He wants to let himself panic. The impulse is there, and Sam buries it alongside everything else he’s feeling. If the job is fucked, then he just has to work a little harder. He remembers folding military corners into his bed sheets, a hundred meals eaten by himself. Doing what he had to.
Psychically, the Red Room is a wash-out. So he switches to a more hands-on approach. He starts with the public places, the hallways, the dining room. Fifty-four people seemed like a lot when they were doing the research but the place is huge and is almost as physically deserted as it is psychically. There’s a constant buzz of noise, faint enough that he’s not sure whether it’s inside his head or out. It almost sounds like a drum beat. The few people he sees are scattered, small knots here and there, indistinct conversations about nothing. They’re as hazy as the faded postcard view he saw from the lobby, the same colors as the clothing they’ve got on. He doesn’t reach out to them. He feels like he’d pass right through them if he tried.
He feels like a ghost himself, moving through a world where no one looks at him, as insubstantial as the smell of sex and cigarette smoke that teases the edge of his awareness. The smell is in every room; it wears on him as he searches for what feels like days. No way to tell; he hasn’t found a clock in the entire place. His eyes ache from color saturation, each room brighter than the last: avocado and harvest gold and tangerine.
It’s the smell of food that really does him in. His stomach is sick, roiling with old alcohol and nothing else. When he steps into the dining room, the scent of food hits him like a dream. He very nearly staggers. He stops dead and lifts his nose up, his eyes closing; he knows that smell. He can’t place it and then suddenly he does, like a lock turning. Meatloaf. And not just meatloaf, but Dean’s meatloaf. Been years since he’s smelled it, maybe decades. It was an end of the week, money’s running out meal, where Dean would pulverize anything left in their fridge and throw it in with some ground chuck and some closely guarded secret ingredients. They’d eat meatloaf sandwiches for days afterwards, slathered with mayonnaise and ketchup and spoiled lettuce rescued from the dumpster.
He feels a completely new kind of fucked.
The kitchens smell like Jess’ favorite potluck contribution: green beans and bacon. It fills the dirty room the same way the smell used to fill their little apartment, that crisp, slightly burned bacon overpowering the watery beans. It’s a low blow and he feels it sick and heavy in his gut.
He feels like he’s being watched. It’s a familiar feeling for him, a prickle on the back of his skull like someone’s fingers are back there, ghosting over his skin. He’s used to being watched. There’s only been a handful of years that Dean hasn’t kept a close eye on Sam, and Sam has had a long time to get used to looking over his shoulder and finding his brother there. This feels different. Sometimes, when he little, he’d wake up and find Dad watching him instead, and the strangeness of it always scared him a little. It was never anything he could put a finger on; Dad got him a glass of water the same as Dean did, tucked him back in, left the door open only a hair wider than Dean did, but it always felt different. Like being in the forest, not knowing what was looking back at you.
In the end, Michael finds him. Sam’s dragging when he finds the rotating bar and the plush vinyl seats are too hard to resist. There are a couple pens stuck in with the swizzle sticks and he grabs one, drags over some cocktail napkins and starts sketching a layout of the hotel, of the rooms he’s visited so far. It’s not a very good sketch and not really even that proactive, but it makes him feel a little better. Makes him feel better to be sitting down; his feet are pinched in shoes that don’t quite fit and his vision swims. He can feel something scratching at the walls of his mind - Bones, the place itself, if there’s a difference. The smell of cigarettes is making him a little ill. He thinks he’d kill someone for a drink of water, much less an ice-cold beer. Probably not safe to eat or drink anything in the place; three pomegranate seeds, updated for the modern age in the form of a meatloaf sandwich.
It’s dark in the bar, dark enough that he can close his eyes and let it soothe the pounding in his head. He rests his chin in his hand and thinks, just for a minute.
He startles when a warm body presses up against his. A hand wraps around his face, thumb stroking his cheek. He can feel soft lips against his ear and a familiar voice purrs, “You look lonely, handsome.”
Michael’s on him before Sam can move, sliding one long leg up and over Sam’s lap, settling flush up against him. There’s hardly room for it in the little bar chair and he can feel the muscles of Michael’s thighs, flexing through layers of clothing, holding himself steady. “Michael,” he says, and Michael smiles. No recognition in his eyes.
His mouth is hot and wet against Sam’s, so solid that it makes Sam gasp out loud. It’s the first real thing he’s felt since Dean’s hand on his neck, hours or days or weeks ago. He can feel his brain short-circuiting, already overloaded, blood pooling in his cock as Michael pushes against him, rolling his hips against Sam’s. He fists both hands in Sam’s hair. He fits in Sam’s lap like he was made for it.
Sam sucks in a breath and Michael leans back, runs his tongue along Sam’s bottom lip like a promise, and it’s harder than he thought it’d be to say, “R-Ron Jeremy.”
Michael stills. Sam can feel him breathing, slowly, long exhales against Sam’s skin. When he licks his lips, his tongue flickers over Sam’s mouth and they both flinch backwards. Sam holds still as Michael climbs off him, far less gracefully than he had been climbing on. He takes the stool next to Sam’s without looking at him. “Uh. Hey. Sam. Um. Oh my god.”
“Was it good for you?” Sam deadpans.
Michael drops his head hard onto the bar top. “I want to die. Oh my god. I am so, so sorry, Sam.”
Sam laughs. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. It - it happens.”
Michael rolls his eyes. Every bit of exposed skin is the same shade of pink. Sam can sympathize; he’s sure he looks the same. He shifts a little in his seat. “Yeah, sure,” Michael says. “It’s loads of fun to get brainwashed into thinking you’re a young runaway, doing whatever he can to survive, and go molest someone you totally look up to. You should totally try it.”
You look up to me? Sam thinks. “I woke up fucking a ghost,” is what he says instead, and Michael turns his head to glare.
“I know, you said that already.” He grabs the glass he’d apparently brought with him, and tosses it down his throat before Sam can stop him. “What the hell happened to me? How did I get here?”
Sam shrugs. “I can’t find Dean,” he admits. “Didn’t think I was going to be able to find you, at this point.”
Michael’s staring at him openly now, his blush fading. “Why aren’t you falling for this, man? Why’s this place letting you run loose and turning us into -” He waves a hand, searching for words. “How do you wake us up?”
Sam shifts in his chair. Their knees are still touching and he shifts away, slowly. Michael tenses, almost imperceptibly, but his expression doesn’t change. “It’s, um. It’s not something we tell a lot of people about.”
“Why not?”
“It … got us into a lot of trouble, a few years ago. A lot of trouble.” Sam drums his fingers restlessly. “Michael -”
“Hey, can we leave?” Michael interrupts. “Is this anything like the nice, easy, quiet salt and burn that I know you guys had in mind? Unless you, like, actually talk to me, you’re stuck babysitting me. And I know you hate babysitting, Sam, so make this easy on both of us and just fill me in, please?”
“I’m psychic,” Sam says. “I was chosen by a demon to lead an army from Hell and after we killed the demon, a whole lot of people thought I was still going to become the Antichrist, and tried really hard to hunt Dean and I down and kill us both. Mostly me. Because of the whole Antichrist thing. And then there was this whole war thing, and Dean died and went to Hell and the apocalypse almost happened and … anyway. We just try to keep the whole special powers thing on the down low. It’s a lot easier that way.”
“Oh,” Michael says slowly. “Yeah, I could see that it would be.”
“Yeah.”
Michael stares at the bar top. “So you’re … immune to whatever mind control deal is going on?”
“Yeah,” Sam says. They both stare into middle ground. “None of that sort of thing affects me.”
“That’s … gotta come in handy,” Michael says cautiously.
Sam tries not to roll his eyes. “Yeah, it’s terrific.”
Michael makes a thoughtful little noise, and then turns and smirks up at Sam. “So, Ron Jeremy?”
“Dean picked them out,” Sam mumbles to the table. “Like a post-hypnotic suggestion. We, uh, we did it when you were asleep.”
Michael bangs his head back down on the bar top. “Wow. Nice. That’s, uh … respectful of my personal space. Anything else you guys put in my brain that I should know about?”
“No,” Sam says. “As empty in there as it always is.”
“Thanks a lot.” He’s quiet for a minute, staring across the bar. There are shadows sitting at a few of the tables, hazy shapes sitting in front of plates piled high with food, as if they could eat it. “So … what now?”
Sam can hear music in the background, maybe Donna Summer, moaning and groaning. He can barely think through all the noise and weariness, much less come up with some sort of workable plan. Dean’s always been better at improvisation, but Dean isn’t here. Sam’s stuck with the Robin to his brother’s Batman.
“Find Dean,” he says, at last.
He’s a little surprised when Michael leans back, his expression skeptical. “What was the plan, before we disappeared? There was a plan, right?”
“Things have changed since then,” Sam says slowly.
“Not that much,” Michael says. He leans forward into Sam’s space to make his point. It could be unconscious. “We might not have any better luck together. We could get stuck wandering around until this stupid place sees fit to give him back to us or I disappear again. We should be getting stuff done while we still can. Right? Isn’t that what Dean would do?”
Sam gropes for an answer to that. Something that’s not, have you ever had an opinion of your own?
“Bobby says, know everything before you do anything,” Michael continues. “So I bet the first thing he’d say to do is to do reconnaissance. And you did that when you were looking for us, right? You’ve got that little map thing right there. So we and go back and look for weapons, hiding places, exits - and then we can save the norms and go hunt this fucker down. Right?”
Sam stares at Michael. “You want to put these people above Dean’s safety?”
“Unless we know Dean’s in danger, then - yeah. Yes. Dean can take care of himself, and these - these people can’t.” He hesitates. “Is that the wrong answer?”
“No,” Sam says. “Just … an unexpected one.”
Michael pushes to his feet, his face red. “Hey, I thought we were gonna quit it with the babysitting - are you gonna hold my hand or are you gonna treat me like a real hunter?”
“You’re not a real hunter,” Sam growls, standing, “that’s the whole point. Our first priority should be getting you the hell out of here so that Dean and I can take care of this mess.” He towers over Michael, who grew up to be nearly Dean’s height, square in the shoulders, still filling out. Michael just stares up at him, chin jutted out.
“You know I’m right,” he says, steady. “Don’t shut me down just because you’re jealous.”
Sam jerks as if Michael struck him, rearing back and then stepping forward, closing the gap between them until he’s crowding Michael against the bar, pinning him back against the Formica surface. “Jealous of what?” he asks, his voice low.
All that Michael says is, “You know I’m right.” He gives to Sam, but only a little bit. Holding himself still, the bare knobs of his shoulders jutting backwards. His hands braced on the bar top. He’s blushing again.
They stare each other down for long moments. Sam breaks the silence first. “Okay,” he says flatly. “What do you want to do.”
Michael breathes out slowly as Sam backs off and sits back down. He follows Sam’s lead, tucking his elbows close to his body. “Wake them up,” he says. He shifts his weight, glancing up and then away from Sam. “You can do it, right? The same way you woke me up. We can’t try to fight the hotel all by ourselves. Maybe the guys here could help us - they’ve been here longer, they’d know the way around and maybe they’d be able to help us find Bones. And Dean. They’re nice guys,” he adds shyly.
“How do you know?” Sam asks. Michael just shrugs, not looking at him.
Sam has to admit, Michael has a point, at least about them being short on options for the moment. Robin’s got his uses after all. “Fine. How do you want to do this?”
Michael looks at him. “What, like, how do we pick who to save? Let’s start with someone solid, I guess.” He jerks his head towards the shadows at the table, shoveling empty air into their mouths.
Michael stays tense as they leave the bar, walking side by side. He glances up at Sam every few minutes, his eyes narrowed.
Jealous, Sam thinks. Dean could bang whoever the fuck he wanted, as far as Sam was concerned. Even if that meant some snot-nosed wannabe punk who had no idea what the Winchesters had been through since they breezed through his hometown six years ago. It wasn’t any of Sam’s business, even if the kid had hitched a ride on their hunt on the strength of it. And if Dean didn’t want to talk to Sam about it, didn’t want to admit to Sam what was going on between him and some kid practically half his age - that was his own goddamn business.
It didn't matter, anyway. It wasn't going to take Mikey long to figure out that hunting was a hell of a lot harder than he thought it was going to be. He'd be gone soon enough, and then everything would go back to the way it should be.
They find their mark in the party room. It’s a dismal place, sadder than most that Sam’s found in the Red Room. It’s the ballroom of every Midwestern crap motel that Sam’s ever seen. He remembers hiding out under tables with Dean as a kid, watching shabby brides whirl around on laminated flooring while their fat relatives attacked the buffet. They’d count themselves lucky if a wedding coincided with their stay, and stuff themselves on free food and cake until Dad figured out where they were. Dean always wanted to see the first dance, no matter what the girl looked like or how bad the food was.
Compared to the rest of the hotel, though, the party room is a relief. White ceilings, red paneled walls, the ubiquitous laminated dance floor cornering a tiny upright piano. There’s no shag carpeting anywhere Sam can see; only a handful of drinkers spaced out along the bar, a few couples scattered around the tables.
“Good a place as any to start,” Michael says, and leads the way forward. He falters as they hit the first row of tables, glancing over his shoulder at Sam. “Which - who should we pick?”
This was your idea, Sam wants to say. Maybe it’s what he should say. Coddling Michael is what’s gotten them to this place. The kid’s right - Sam fucking hates babysitting, hates getting stuck with the civilians and the sooner he can pass Michael off to Dean, the better. They shouldn’t even be down here. The more people they rescue, the bigger Sam’s babysitting job is going to get.
“That guy,” Sam says, because Michael’s waiting for an answer. “Let’s do him.”
Sam points at random, singling out a man sitting at the far end of the bar. He’s solid, as far as they can see: feathered hair, tight suit, a long knitted vest setting off the pink shirt underneath. He’s by himself, elbows back on the bar, a martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “All right,” Michael says. “Let’s go.”
It’s been a while since Sam’s done this. The last one was probably - he has to think - possession by a minor demon. Amarillo, Texas. A twelve-year-old girl who killed three people before they could get to her. Before that, he can’t remember. Dean would know. People and hunts blur for Sam in a way that they’ve never done for Dean, who maintains a fairly encyclopedic recollection of their careers.
God, he wishes Dean were here.
The man looks over at them as they approach, which is encouraging. Half the people that Sam’s seen don’t even seem to know he’s there, locked in their own individual worlds, slowly turning to shadows. The man looks straight at them, a welcoming grin on his face. “Hey,” he says. “You guys catch that action upstairs? Wild, man.”
“No,” Sam says. “Must’ve missed it.” The man only looks at him as Sam reaches out. His wide brown eyes are lazy, probably with drink; there are no empty glasses behind him, but there’s no bartender either. He doesn’t pull away as Sam touches him, fingertips against the man’s temple. His hand is big enough that he cradles the man’s face.
The man takes a drag off his cigarette and cocks an eye at Michael, his eyebrows raised as if to say, what a weirdo, huh?
“We’re here to help,” Michael says, and Sam’s about to tell him to shut the hell up when everything disappears.
He’s tried to tell Dean what it feels like, jumping into someone else’s skin and untangling everything that’s gone wrong inside it. The first thing he feels is the man’s drunk, the warmth on his face from the lights overhead. The room blurs for both of them and when it straightens again, Sam has to close his eyes - it’s his own face that stares back at him through the man’s - David’s - gaze. It’s never happened before and he feels sick for the long moment before he can manage to force David’s face away from himself.
He calls David’s name. It’s not David, not really - it’s a secret buried under a worn track of years, buried under David, who is an ugly shadow that Sam can almost see, twisted around the glimmering core of memory. He wraps his fingers around it, only barely conscious of his real fingers still on David’s face, digging in hard enough that the skin underneath his hand is white - and pulls.
They both stagger as the shadow stretches, clinging to Sam’s mind long enough to see everything - the endless repetition of David’s life, clinging to the bar and surveying his domain, moving through the Red Room like a dream, moving on a single prescribed orbit. And underneath, a quiet so complete that it takes Sam’s breath away.
The martini drops out of David’s hand. It lands anticlimactically on the carpet, throwing the stink of gin and vermouth into their noses. The cigarette falls from his fingers, glancing off the inside of Sam’s wrist. David sags when Sam flinches away, and the contact is broken. They stare at each other, eyes wide, Michael’s voice a whine in Sam’s ear: Sam, are you okay? What happened? Sam? Sam?
“Chris,” Sam says, and David gasps like it’s his first breath.
“We’re here to help you,” Michael says again, stepping close. Chris doesn’t even look at him. He pulls away from them slowly, tucking his body close as he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and shakes one out. They’re quiet as he goes through the ritual of lighting it. His hands are shaking.
“Chris,” Sam says finally. “What year is it?”
He glances up at Sam, no real surprise in his face. “2001,” he says. Chris’ voice is different than David’s in the same way that Dean’s voice had changed; it’s rougher, less confident. He meets Sam’s eyes and then glances away, his gaze roaming over the party room, the shadows at the tables. “I don’t know where I am.”
Sam glances over his shoulder. All he finds is Michael, staring up at him. “That’s … hard to explain. Do you remember how you got here?”
Chris shakes his head, hesitantly, but says, “I was … I went out. To the field, the one off of I-94. Used to go there sometimes as a kid. Needed to think.” He shakes his head again, takes a long drag off his cigarette. “I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. Had the gun and everything.”
They stare at him. “Um,” Michael says. “What?”
Chris laughs, a little awkwardly. He smiles at them, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. It’s genuine enough that Sam could almost believe they just misunderstood. “Nothing, nothing. I got kids, man. Where are my kids? Where the fuck am I? Why do I - I remember all this stuff -”
“This is going to sound really, really stupid,” Michael says, “but you’ve been kidnapped by a hotel that burned down almost thirty years ago and brainwashed into believing you’re a disco swinger. Which explains the clothes and the memories and the fact that you’re standing in a really ugly basement bar. We’re here to put a stop to all of this. We’re going to take you home.”
Chris is silent for a long moment. He looks to Sam. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“No.” He says it simply, still smiling. He shakes his head. “Nope. I get it now. See, I dreamed about that. About going to the field with the gun and staring up at the moon until it turned to smoke. But that’s the nightmare, and this is the real thing. Not Cathy. Not the kids. I dreamed all that. I dreamed that I fucked everything up so bad - the cops were coming any day, they already took Brian down and the shop’s already been seized, it was only a matter of time, you know? So that’s why I went to the field. Why I dreamed I went to the field. Why I was gonna do it. But I couldn’t. I dropped the gun into this big drainage pipe and sat down on the ground and just looked up into the moon until I woke up. And now I’m gonna wake up again and be back in my real life, right here.”
“Dude, that - doesn’t make any sense,” Michael says. “This is what’s real, you’re awake now. We’re saving -”
Chris grabs a fistful of Michael’s shirt and yanks him close, snarling, “It’s not, this is the fucking dream,” and Michael’s hands come up, closing around Chris’ wrists, and when he just says again that it’s real, it’s all real, Chris draws a fist back to hit him. Sam catches it before it goes anywhere, pushing himself between Chris and Michael. Michael goes stumbling, and somewhere in the back of his brain, Sam thinks that whenever they get out of here, he’s gonna teach the damn kid to fight properly.
Chris lands hard on top of the bar, his arm pinned behind his back, face crushed against the Formica. Sam puts his elbow between Chris’ shoulder blades and presses. Not hard enough to really hurt the guy. Just hard enough to tell him to stay where he is.
He expects Chris to fight him. He braces for it, something somebody really should’ve shown Michael how to do before sending him to the front lines. When Chris sags underneath him, Sam only tenses, tightening his grip on Chris’ arm.
“Put me back,” Chris moans into the Formica. “Put me back, man. Please, I don’t wanna -”
His shoulders shake. Sam releases him slowly, warily, but when he steps back, Chris stays where he was put, face down on the Formica, one hand flopping at his side. “Chris?” Michael asks. “Chris?” He reaches for Chris, turns him over with one soft hand on each shoulder, and Sam frowns, watching the movement. He bounces on the balls of his feet, waiting for Chris to grab the kid again. Michael’s still got a hand on Chris’ shoulder, as close as if he didn’t almost get punched a second ago.
Sam wants to let them be. He wants to let Michael comfort Chris; it’s usually Sam offering up dewy eyes and a broad shoulder to cry on, always has been. It’s an important job - important just to do, when he’s feeling optimistic. He knows that. And the only thing arguing against that is the itch under his skin and knowing that Dean’s somewhere and they can’t find him.
“Michael,” he calls. Michael looks up, hesitates.
“Hold tight, dude,” he tells Chris. He tugs awkwardly on his pants when he stands up. “What’s up?”
“Do you think he knows anything?” Sam asks, taking them out of earshot. Michael’s forehead wrinkles, and he shrugs.
“Hard to tell,” he says. “He’s sorta been through the wringer, you know?” Sam looks over Michael’s head; Chris is sitting in the same position that Michael left him in.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Sam says. “And I think he’s just made our job a lot harder. Finding Dean - and finding a way to kill Bones, wherever he is, if he’s even really a part of this - is going to be impossible if we have to worry about this guy, or anybody else that we pick up along the way.”
Chris dropped his cigarette on the bar when he grabbed Michael - thank heaven for small favors; Michael’s shirt looks flammable and that would be all they’d have needed - and after a moment, Chris reaches for it, sucking the end to make sure it’s still lit. He looks over towards them, eyes unfocused, then turns and puts a knee up on the stool, reaching over the bar to grab himself a bottle of vodka.
Michael leans back, jaw set. “You always go into hunts with totally stable norms? Maybe I remember things a little differently, Sam - or maybe you put up a big stink about using a little kid as bait for a big scary monster, how would I know?”
“Sometimes you do what you have to,” Sam grits out.
“Yeah, exactly - which is what we’re doing, aren’t we? Look, okay - maybe we should’ve waited for Dean, but we didn’t and now we’ve got Chris. Who could still totally be a big help, if you’ll let him. And hey,” he adds brightly, the corner of his mouth lifting, “maybe we just picked the wrong guy. You wanna go do a couple more, see if maybe we can get one that’s a little less psycho? Since you’re still babysitting and all.”
“You are such a pain in the ass,” is what Sam wants to say. It’s falling out of his mouth even as he sees Chris tip the full bottle of vodka over his head, his brain too stupid to realize what he’s seeing. Michael’s nose wrinkles as the smell of the alcohol hits it, and that’s what Sam is looking at when Chris takes one last drag of his cigarette and touches it to his clothes.
He lights up like a torch, the fire arching up and down his body where the alcohol has soaked in. His clothing goes first, melting over the shape of his arms, and by the time his hair catches, his whole body is on fire. He staggers three paces and then goes down on his knees and the carpet goes up behind him in clear footprints. It happens so fast. Sam can still smell the vodka through the black smoke that pours out of the collars and sleeves and hems of Chris’ clothing, the mildewed stink of the carpet. He grabs Michael by instinct, one hand around his bicep and the other around his shoulders, whatever he can grab and keep hold of when Michael fights him, as Sam, distantly, knows he will.
It was too late by the time they turned around, by the time Michael started screaming. Chris doesn’t even look human anymore, on his knees only because the fat on his body is melting and fusing his muscles together. And still Michael fights.
The ghosts around them don’t even move when Chris finally falls, crumpling and crumbling to the ground, the motion of it sickening to see. And Sam turns away. Closes his eyes and turns his face away, turns Michael away, and that’s when he feels it. Thudding against his brain like a disco drum, or a diseased heartbeat. It slides over the back of his neck and he pushes away instinctively with everything he has. He feels the force come out of him, physical in the way it used to be, before they put a harness over his powers and locked them away - and Michael sags against Sam so abruptly that for a moment he thinks he’s actually killed the kid.
Michael’s hair is tickling Sam’s nose and through the smell of shampoo and teenager, he realizes that he can’t smell fire anymore. All he hears is the clinking of glasses and Michael’s panicked breathing. The fire’s out.
Chris is a pile of charred meat, laid out almost neatly on a platter of melted carpeting. He’s charcoal colored where his suit didn’t fuse with his skin, patches of flaky black pulled up to reveal the pink, ropey muscles underneath.
“Oh god,” Michael says, “Oh god oh god oh god -”
“Stop it,” Sam whispers. He unhooks Michael from him and they stand in silence, staring at the body. It’s still smoking. The petroleum smell of the polyester burns the inside of his nose.
“Great,” Sam says. “Just fucking great.” He says it under his breath, without thinking about it or even meaning anything in particular.
Michael turns around abruptly. He gets two steps away before he sinks slowly to his knees and vomits onto the carpet. He’s trying to hold it in - Sam can hear him choking on it, hands braced on his knees.
“Great,” Sam says again, under his breath. “Awesome.”
“What the fuck,” Michael gasps. “What the - what the fuck - why would he -?”
Sam hunkers by the body. It smells even worse up close. He pats his pockets automatically, looking for some kind of tool. They’re empty, of course, which has sort of been the theme of things lately. He reaches out with his palm flat, feeling for heat, waiting to get burned. The body is cooler than it should be, lukewarm to the touch, uncomfortably slick. It doesn’t look human when he turns it over. The lips are pulled back so tightly that Chris’ teeth are all he sees, at first. They’re still white. His eyes are gone, his face unrecognizable as a face except for those gleaming white teeth.
“Sam,” Michael says, “what the fuck are you doing?”
“Checking,” Sam says.
“Checking what? He’s fucking dead, leave him alone.”
“It doesn’t feel right,” Sam says softly. “It doesn’t feel real.”
“Smells real enough,” Michael says. His voice is thin. Sam’s expecting to see a smile on his face when he looks over his shoulder, but Michael’s sitting hunched and quiet, his hair in his face.
Pity flickers, bright and surprising. Michael’s shuffled far enough away that he’s not sitting next to the mess he’s made, but he makes a pretty pathetic sight. Sam watches him for a long moment. Keeps his hands to himself even though he just wants to pull Michael’s hair back from his face, talk him through it. It’s probably what Dean would do.
He sighs. Stiffens up his spine. “We’re not doing this again,” he says.
“Yeah, okay, Captain Obvious,” Michael says. “I figured.”
“Look,” Sam says. He tries for patience, for whatever Dean sees in this kid. This kind of thing is rough. His first time wasn’t much fun either. “You can’t save everyone, Michael. We made the wrong move, but there are still - ”
“Who’re you calling ‘we?’” Michael snarls. His head jerks up. “I know what you mean, Sam, so just say it.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Sam says, and Michael interrupts him again.
“You didn’t have to.”
“All right,” Sam says, “Is this what you wanna hear? You happy now? I knew you weren’t ready to come on a real hunt but Dean said hey, what the hell, let the kid tag along. So here you are, and guess what? It was the wrong decision. It happens. So you got what you wanted and that was the wrong goddamn decision too. It happens.”
Michael’s up on his feet, and Sam follows suit, slowly. He steps forward and Michael takes a step back. They circle each other for a few steps, and distantly, Sam realizes that the drums are back, low and insistent. “You knew he wasn’t okay,” Michael hisses, “and you didn’t even give me five minutes to talk to him. Don’t you ever talk to these people? Aren’t they the priority?”
“A few months with Bobby and you think you’re an expert? There are no fucking rules for hunting. This job doesn’t come with a manual. You know how old I was, the first time I burned a dead body?”
“Oh good, another tragic childhood story,” Michael says, “I love those.”
“I was twelve,” Sam says, “I was a year older than you were when your brother got sick. I held the shotgun and kept watch while my dad and my brother dug the grave, and they handed the matches to me. I felt like they were finally treating me like a grownup.”
“Keep going,” Michael says. “Tell me the one about how you grew up in motels and got weapons for Christmas.”
“That’s not the fucking point,” Sam hisses, “The fucking point is that people shouldn’t have to do this, that hunting, it’s - it’s unnatural. You’re throwing your guts up, but to Dean and me, that might as well be the smell of … of apple pie. You’re not a hunter, Michael. Most people aren’t. It’s not a black mark against you or something.”
He’s lying. The smell of hair and polyester burns his nose and throat. It’s sickening. He wants to rub his face, make sure there aren’t ashes all over his skin, in his mouth.
“Oh my god,” Michael moans, “don’t bring up apple pie.” And Sam laughs, despite everything. He smothers it in his hand and wipes his face without thinking about it. His fingertips come back smudged.
Michael collapses into the nearest chair, his elbows on his knees. Sam moves closer, but Michael’s eyes stay fixed on the body. “Look,” Sam says, “I know we haven’t really - gotten along -” Michael snorts. “- but don’t shut me down just because you have a crush.”
Michael’s mouth twitches. “Sam,” he says, “fuck you.”
Sam restrains himself from rolling his eyes. “Look, you’re young - go home, Michael. Finish high school. Go to college. Get a degree. Plenty of people make stupid decisions because they - think they’re in love or whatever. You’re not the first.”
“Really?” Michael says. “Really? That’s what you think this is about?” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Man, you give me, like, even less credit than I thought you did. Man. Look. You’re just, you’re so fucking far off-base that I should totally be insulted. You guys - do you guys even ever think about what you do to people? You guys changed my life, Sam. Blew into town and saved my family and blew right back out again and I’m supposed to just, what? Keep on keepin’ on? Fuck you, Sam. I’m big enough to make my own decisions.”
“Your decisions,” Sam says, “put you in danger. They put us in danger. This isn’t a vacation, Mikey. It’s not a job. It’s a crusade and it’s not -”
“I know that!” Michael shouts. “Jesus Christ, do you even listen to yourself? You’re so fucking obvious that if Dean’s not seeing it, then he’s gotta be choosing not to!”
Sam sputters, but Michael keeps going as if he doesn’t even hear. “See, I think this is a job to you,” he accuses. “You talk about saving people’s lives like it’s some kind of chore when it’s - you don’t even know - I saved my brother’s life - and it was like every Christmas present rolled into one. You guys gave me a gift and you think it’s all about Dean - and don’t get me wrong, I would hit that in a heartbeat if he’d let me - but seriously, Sam. Fuck you. You were never even gonna give me a chance to fuck up.”
Michael’s crying, swiping angrily at his face as his voice gets wilder. Sam feels sick - from the smell or from what Michael’s saying - his stomach lurching. He wipes his shaking hands on his pants, and what comes out his mouth - stupidly, like he can’t even help himself, is “You haven’t - you and my brother haven’t -?”
Michael stops mid-rant, his hands thrown up in the air, and stares at Sam. “No,” he says. “Dude. No, we haven’t. I mean, not really anything. Don’t you guys talk at all? What the fuck.” His face is red and blotchy but he looks at Sam as if Sam’s the crazy one here. “You spend days driving around together, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Led Zeppelin,” Sam says, after a moment. “Other stuff.”
Michael drops his hand into his hands. “Jesus. Good to know, I guess. Fuck.” He looks up at Sam, tries for a smile. “All of that, and the only thing you wanna hear is that I haven’t done your brother. That’s kinda messed up, you know that?”
Sam flushes. “Michael,” he warns, “whatever you think about what’s - ”
Michael cuts him off, waving a hand. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever. For real, I don’t even care. I just wanted you to know, okay? That’s what I’m trying to say, that I just - I’m not trying to be Superman, I just … you guys saved me and Asher and there’s gotta be a reason for it. I just want to make what you did worth it. Okay? That’s all.” He sighs and says softly, low enough that Sam thinks he wasn’t meant to hear it, “I already knew this was all my fault.”
Sam can’t think of anything to say. He stares down at his feet, at the bar, anywhere but at Michael. He doesn’t really want to hear the kid. His stomach rumbles painfully. His whole body is so heavy that all he wants to do is sit down next to Michael and put his head down for a while. What a stupid fucking mess, Sam thinks. His eyes slip closed and he forces them back open. That’d be all he’d need, for Michael to disappear again.
Michael’s staring at the ground, kicking one foot back and forth. For a second he looks eleven again, slumped outside of his mother’s motel, and Sam opens his mouth to tell Michael he’s sorry.
He feels it even before he sees Michael’s face change, his flushed face go white so quickly it hardly looks real - the ugly thud of disco drums in Sam’s brain, colors spasming against the backs of his eyelids. Michael scrambles to his feet, hands pinwheeling behind himself, and Sam turns.
The burned man’s skin splits apart as he slowly, carefully levers himself to his feet. It’s a meaty sound, like ripping apart ribs at a barbeque, ashy flakes sifting down onto the carpet, falling from his hands, his face. It peels as he moves, stripping away from the oily, fused mass of his suit. His lips peel back from what was his face and reveal two rows of perfect teeth and when he speaks the drums in Sam’s ears grow louder and louder, drowning out Michael whispering Sam Sam Sam, because Chris’ voice sounds just the same.
“Hey,” he says. “You guys catch the action upstairs? Wild, man.”
Chapter 1 ** Chapter 3
Authors: hansbekhart & essenceofmeanin
Artist: ladyvyola
Rating: NC-17 (Sam/Dean, Michael/Dean, Sam/Michael, Sam/Dean/Michael, Sam/OC)
Summary: There are only two kinds of secrets: the ones you keep, and the ones you shouldn't have at all. When Sam and Dean take Michel on his first hunt (that doesn't involve a shtriga), they end up on the psychedelic dance floor of a long-vanished motel where disco never died and no one is quite who they appear to be. What was supposed to be an easy salt and burn descends rapidly into a morass of temptation and gold lame, bell bottoms and lies. No one gets to choose what secrets stay buried.
Unless they don't mind checking in ... forever.
Nothing. No one. The hotel is huge and seems deserted in every way possible. He hunkers down for a while - finds a quiet corner and sends out his mental fingertips. The hotel feels sticky and devoid of all things, like he’s playing blind man’s bluff in an empty room. The only benefit Sam’s powers have ever given him is the unerring ability to find his brother - miles away, lost in the woods, buried alive, in Hell - and now Dean is gone.
He wants to let himself panic. The impulse is there, and Sam buries it alongside everything else he’s feeling. If the job is fucked, then he just has to work a little harder. He remembers folding military corners into his bed sheets, a hundred meals eaten by himself. Doing what he had to.
Psychically, the Red Room is a wash-out. So he switches to a more hands-on approach. He starts with the public places, the hallways, the dining room. Fifty-four people seemed like a lot when they were doing the research but the place is huge and is almost as physically deserted as it is psychically. There’s a constant buzz of noise, faint enough that he’s not sure whether it’s inside his head or out. It almost sounds like a drum beat. The few people he sees are scattered, small knots here and there, indistinct conversations about nothing. They’re as hazy as the faded postcard view he saw from the lobby, the same colors as the clothing they’ve got on. He doesn’t reach out to them. He feels like he’d pass right through them if he tried.
He feels like a ghost himself, moving through a world where no one looks at him, as insubstantial as the smell of sex and cigarette smoke that teases the edge of his awareness. The smell is in every room; it wears on him as he searches for what feels like days. No way to tell; he hasn’t found a clock in the entire place. His eyes ache from color saturation, each room brighter than the last: avocado and harvest gold and tangerine.
It’s the smell of food that really does him in. His stomach is sick, roiling with old alcohol and nothing else. When he steps into the dining room, the scent of food hits him like a dream. He very nearly staggers. He stops dead and lifts his nose up, his eyes closing; he knows that smell. He can’t place it and then suddenly he does, like a lock turning. Meatloaf. And not just meatloaf, but Dean’s meatloaf. Been years since he’s smelled it, maybe decades. It was an end of the week, money’s running out meal, where Dean would pulverize anything left in their fridge and throw it in with some ground chuck and some closely guarded secret ingredients. They’d eat meatloaf sandwiches for days afterwards, slathered with mayonnaise and ketchup and spoiled lettuce rescued from the dumpster.
He feels a completely new kind of fucked.
The kitchens smell like Jess’ favorite potluck contribution: green beans and bacon. It fills the dirty room the same way the smell used to fill their little apartment, that crisp, slightly burned bacon overpowering the watery beans. It’s a low blow and he feels it sick and heavy in his gut.
He feels like he’s being watched. It’s a familiar feeling for him, a prickle on the back of his skull like someone’s fingers are back there, ghosting over his skin. He’s used to being watched. There’s only been a handful of years that Dean hasn’t kept a close eye on Sam, and Sam has had a long time to get used to looking over his shoulder and finding his brother there. This feels different. Sometimes, when he little, he’d wake up and find Dad watching him instead, and the strangeness of it always scared him a little. It was never anything he could put a finger on; Dad got him a glass of water the same as Dean did, tucked him back in, left the door open only a hair wider than Dean did, but it always felt different. Like being in the forest, not knowing what was looking back at you.
In the end, Michael finds him. Sam’s dragging when he finds the rotating bar and the plush vinyl seats are too hard to resist. There are a couple pens stuck in with the swizzle sticks and he grabs one, drags over some cocktail napkins and starts sketching a layout of the hotel, of the rooms he’s visited so far. It’s not a very good sketch and not really even that proactive, but it makes him feel a little better. Makes him feel better to be sitting down; his feet are pinched in shoes that don’t quite fit and his vision swims. He can feel something scratching at the walls of his mind - Bones, the place itself, if there’s a difference. The smell of cigarettes is making him a little ill. He thinks he’d kill someone for a drink of water, much less an ice-cold beer. Probably not safe to eat or drink anything in the place; three pomegranate seeds, updated for the modern age in the form of a meatloaf sandwich.
It’s dark in the bar, dark enough that he can close his eyes and let it soothe the pounding in his head. He rests his chin in his hand and thinks, just for a minute.
He startles when a warm body presses up against his. A hand wraps around his face, thumb stroking his cheek. He can feel soft lips against his ear and a familiar voice purrs, “You look lonely, handsome.”
Michael’s on him before Sam can move, sliding one long leg up and over Sam’s lap, settling flush up against him. There’s hardly room for it in the little bar chair and he can feel the muscles of Michael’s thighs, flexing through layers of clothing, holding himself steady. “Michael,” he says, and Michael smiles. No recognition in his eyes.
His mouth is hot and wet against Sam’s, so solid that it makes Sam gasp out loud. It’s the first real thing he’s felt since Dean’s hand on his neck, hours or days or weeks ago. He can feel his brain short-circuiting, already overloaded, blood pooling in his cock as Michael pushes against him, rolling his hips against Sam’s. He fists both hands in Sam’s hair. He fits in Sam’s lap like he was made for it.
Sam sucks in a breath and Michael leans back, runs his tongue along Sam’s bottom lip like a promise, and it’s harder than he thought it’d be to say, “R-Ron Jeremy.”
Michael stills. Sam can feel him breathing, slowly, long exhales against Sam’s skin. When he licks his lips, his tongue flickers over Sam’s mouth and they both flinch backwards. Sam holds still as Michael climbs off him, far less gracefully than he had been climbing on. He takes the stool next to Sam’s without looking at him. “Uh. Hey. Sam. Um. Oh my god.”
“Was it good for you?” Sam deadpans.
Michael drops his head hard onto the bar top. “I want to die. Oh my god. I am so, so sorry, Sam.”
Sam laughs. “Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. It - it happens.”
Michael rolls his eyes. Every bit of exposed skin is the same shade of pink. Sam can sympathize; he’s sure he looks the same. He shifts a little in his seat. “Yeah, sure,” Michael says. “It’s loads of fun to get brainwashed into thinking you’re a young runaway, doing whatever he can to survive, and go molest someone you totally look up to. You should totally try it.”
You look up to me? Sam thinks. “I woke up fucking a ghost,” is what he says instead, and Michael turns his head to glare.
“I know, you said that already.” He grabs the glass he’d apparently brought with him, and tosses it down his throat before Sam can stop him. “What the hell happened to me? How did I get here?”
Sam shrugs. “I can’t find Dean,” he admits. “Didn’t think I was going to be able to find you, at this point.”
Michael’s staring at him openly now, his blush fading. “Why aren’t you falling for this, man? Why’s this place letting you run loose and turning us into -” He waves a hand, searching for words. “How do you wake us up?”
Sam shifts in his chair. Their knees are still touching and he shifts away, slowly. Michael tenses, almost imperceptibly, but his expression doesn’t change. “It’s, um. It’s not something we tell a lot of people about.”
“Why not?”
“It … got us into a lot of trouble, a few years ago. A lot of trouble.” Sam drums his fingers restlessly. “Michael -”
“Hey, can we leave?” Michael interrupts. “Is this anything like the nice, easy, quiet salt and burn that I know you guys had in mind? Unless you, like, actually talk to me, you’re stuck babysitting me. And I know you hate babysitting, Sam, so make this easy on both of us and just fill me in, please?”
“I’m psychic,” Sam says. “I was chosen by a demon to lead an army from Hell and after we killed the demon, a whole lot of people thought I was still going to become the Antichrist, and tried really hard to hunt Dean and I down and kill us both. Mostly me. Because of the whole Antichrist thing. And then there was this whole war thing, and Dean died and went to Hell and the apocalypse almost happened and … anyway. We just try to keep the whole special powers thing on the down low. It’s a lot easier that way.”
“Oh,” Michael says slowly. “Yeah, I could see that it would be.”
“Yeah.”
Michael stares at the bar top. “So you’re … immune to whatever mind control deal is going on?”
“Yeah,” Sam says. They both stare into middle ground. “None of that sort of thing affects me.”
“That’s … gotta come in handy,” Michael says cautiously.
Sam tries not to roll his eyes. “Yeah, it’s terrific.”
Michael makes a thoughtful little noise, and then turns and smirks up at Sam. “So, Ron Jeremy?”
“Dean picked them out,” Sam mumbles to the table. “Like a post-hypnotic suggestion. We, uh, we did it when you were asleep.”
Michael bangs his head back down on the bar top. “Wow. Nice. That’s, uh … respectful of my personal space. Anything else you guys put in my brain that I should know about?”
“No,” Sam says. “As empty in there as it always is.”
“Thanks a lot.” He’s quiet for a minute, staring across the bar. There are shadows sitting at a few of the tables, hazy shapes sitting in front of plates piled high with food, as if they could eat it. “So … what now?”
Sam can hear music in the background, maybe Donna Summer, moaning and groaning. He can barely think through all the noise and weariness, much less come up with some sort of workable plan. Dean’s always been better at improvisation, but Dean isn’t here. Sam’s stuck with the Robin to his brother’s Batman.
“Find Dean,” he says, at last.
He’s a little surprised when Michael leans back, his expression skeptical. “What was the plan, before we disappeared? There was a plan, right?”
“Things have changed since then,” Sam says slowly.
“Not that much,” Michael says. He leans forward into Sam’s space to make his point. It could be unconscious. “We might not have any better luck together. We could get stuck wandering around until this stupid place sees fit to give him back to us or I disappear again. We should be getting stuff done while we still can. Right? Isn’t that what Dean would do?”
Sam gropes for an answer to that. Something that’s not, have you ever had an opinion of your own?
“Bobby says, know everything before you do anything,” Michael continues. “So I bet the first thing he’d say to do is to do reconnaissance. And you did that when you were looking for us, right? You’ve got that little map thing right there. So we and go back and look for weapons, hiding places, exits - and then we can save the norms and go hunt this fucker down. Right?”
Sam stares at Michael. “You want to put these people above Dean’s safety?”
“Unless we know Dean’s in danger, then - yeah. Yes. Dean can take care of himself, and these - these people can’t.” He hesitates. “Is that the wrong answer?”
“No,” Sam says. “Just … an unexpected one.”
Michael pushes to his feet, his face red. “Hey, I thought we were gonna quit it with the babysitting - are you gonna hold my hand or are you gonna treat me like a real hunter?”
“You’re not a real hunter,” Sam growls, standing, “that’s the whole point. Our first priority should be getting you the hell out of here so that Dean and I can take care of this mess.” He towers over Michael, who grew up to be nearly Dean’s height, square in the shoulders, still filling out. Michael just stares up at him, chin jutted out.
“You know I’m right,” he says, steady. “Don’t shut me down just because you’re jealous.”
Sam jerks as if Michael struck him, rearing back and then stepping forward, closing the gap between them until he’s crowding Michael against the bar, pinning him back against the Formica surface. “Jealous of what?” he asks, his voice low.
All that Michael says is, “You know I’m right.” He gives to Sam, but only a little bit. Holding himself still, the bare knobs of his shoulders jutting backwards. His hands braced on the bar top. He’s blushing again.
They stare each other down for long moments. Sam breaks the silence first. “Okay,” he says flatly. “What do you want to do.”
Michael breathes out slowly as Sam backs off and sits back down. He follows Sam’s lead, tucking his elbows close to his body. “Wake them up,” he says. He shifts his weight, glancing up and then away from Sam. “You can do it, right? The same way you woke me up. We can’t try to fight the hotel all by ourselves. Maybe the guys here could help us - they’ve been here longer, they’d know the way around and maybe they’d be able to help us find Bones. And Dean. They’re nice guys,” he adds shyly.
“How do you know?” Sam asks. Michael just shrugs, not looking at him.
Sam has to admit, Michael has a point, at least about them being short on options for the moment. Robin’s got his uses after all. “Fine. How do you want to do this?”
Michael looks at him. “What, like, how do we pick who to save? Let’s start with someone solid, I guess.” He jerks his head towards the shadows at the table, shoveling empty air into their mouths.
Michael stays tense as they leave the bar, walking side by side. He glances up at Sam every few minutes, his eyes narrowed.
Jealous, Sam thinks. Dean could bang whoever the fuck he wanted, as far as Sam was concerned. Even if that meant some snot-nosed wannabe punk who had no idea what the Winchesters had been through since they breezed through his hometown six years ago. It wasn’t any of Sam’s business, even if the kid had hitched a ride on their hunt on the strength of it. And if Dean didn’t want to talk to Sam about it, didn’t want to admit to Sam what was going on between him and some kid practically half his age - that was his own goddamn business.
It didn't matter, anyway. It wasn't going to take Mikey long to figure out that hunting was a hell of a lot harder than he thought it was going to be. He'd be gone soon enough, and then everything would go back to the way it should be.
They find their mark in the party room. It’s a dismal place, sadder than most that Sam’s found in the Red Room. It’s the ballroom of every Midwestern crap motel that Sam’s ever seen. He remembers hiding out under tables with Dean as a kid, watching shabby brides whirl around on laminated flooring while their fat relatives attacked the buffet. They’d count themselves lucky if a wedding coincided with their stay, and stuff themselves on free food and cake until Dad figured out where they were. Dean always wanted to see the first dance, no matter what the girl looked like or how bad the food was.
Compared to the rest of the hotel, though, the party room is a relief. White ceilings, red paneled walls, the ubiquitous laminated dance floor cornering a tiny upright piano. There’s no shag carpeting anywhere Sam can see; only a handful of drinkers spaced out along the bar, a few couples scattered around the tables.
“Good a place as any to start,” Michael says, and leads the way forward. He falters as they hit the first row of tables, glancing over his shoulder at Sam. “Which - who should we pick?”
This was your idea, Sam wants to say. Maybe it’s what he should say. Coddling Michael is what’s gotten them to this place. The kid’s right - Sam fucking hates babysitting, hates getting stuck with the civilians and the sooner he can pass Michael off to Dean, the better. They shouldn’t even be down here. The more people they rescue, the bigger Sam’s babysitting job is going to get.
“That guy,” Sam says, because Michael’s waiting for an answer. “Let’s do him.”
Sam points at random, singling out a man sitting at the far end of the bar. He’s solid, as far as they can see: feathered hair, tight suit, a long knitted vest setting off the pink shirt underneath. He’s by himself, elbows back on the bar, a martini in one hand and a cigarette in the other. “All right,” Michael says. “Let’s go.”
It’s been a while since Sam’s done this. The last one was probably - he has to think - possession by a minor demon. Amarillo, Texas. A twelve-year-old girl who killed three people before they could get to her. Before that, he can’t remember. Dean would know. People and hunts blur for Sam in a way that they’ve never done for Dean, who maintains a fairly encyclopedic recollection of their careers.
God, he wishes Dean were here.
The man looks over at them as they approach, which is encouraging. Half the people that Sam’s seen don’t even seem to know he’s there, locked in their own individual worlds, slowly turning to shadows. The man looks straight at them, a welcoming grin on his face. “Hey,” he says. “You guys catch that action upstairs? Wild, man.”
“No,” Sam says. “Must’ve missed it.” The man only looks at him as Sam reaches out. His wide brown eyes are lazy, probably with drink; there are no empty glasses behind him, but there’s no bartender either. He doesn’t pull away as Sam touches him, fingertips against the man’s temple. His hand is big enough that he cradles the man’s face.
The man takes a drag off his cigarette and cocks an eye at Michael, his eyebrows raised as if to say, what a weirdo, huh?
“We’re here to help,” Michael says, and Sam’s about to tell him to shut the hell up when everything disappears.
He’s tried to tell Dean what it feels like, jumping into someone else’s skin and untangling everything that’s gone wrong inside it. The first thing he feels is the man’s drunk, the warmth on his face from the lights overhead. The room blurs for both of them and when it straightens again, Sam has to close his eyes - it’s his own face that stares back at him through the man’s - David’s - gaze. It’s never happened before and he feels sick for the long moment before he can manage to force David’s face away from himself.
He calls David’s name. It’s not David, not really - it’s a secret buried under a worn track of years, buried under David, who is an ugly shadow that Sam can almost see, twisted around the glimmering core of memory. He wraps his fingers around it, only barely conscious of his real fingers still on David’s face, digging in hard enough that the skin underneath his hand is white - and pulls.
They both stagger as the shadow stretches, clinging to Sam’s mind long enough to see everything - the endless repetition of David’s life, clinging to the bar and surveying his domain, moving through the Red Room like a dream, moving on a single prescribed orbit. And underneath, a quiet so complete that it takes Sam’s breath away.
The martini drops out of David’s hand. It lands anticlimactically on the carpet, throwing the stink of gin and vermouth into their noses. The cigarette falls from his fingers, glancing off the inside of Sam’s wrist. David sags when Sam flinches away, and the contact is broken. They stare at each other, eyes wide, Michael’s voice a whine in Sam’s ear: Sam, are you okay? What happened? Sam? Sam?
“Chris,” Sam says, and David gasps like it’s his first breath.
“We’re here to help you,” Michael says again, stepping close. Chris doesn’t even look at him. He pulls away from them slowly, tucking his body close as he pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and shakes one out. They’re quiet as he goes through the ritual of lighting it. His hands are shaking.
“Chris,” Sam says finally. “What year is it?”
He glances up at Sam, no real surprise in his face. “2001,” he says. Chris’ voice is different than David’s in the same way that Dean’s voice had changed; it’s rougher, less confident. He meets Sam’s eyes and then glances away, his gaze roaming over the party room, the shadows at the tables. “I don’t know where I am.”
Sam glances over his shoulder. All he finds is Michael, staring up at him. “That’s … hard to explain. Do you remember how you got here?”
Chris shakes his head, hesitantly, but says, “I was … I went out. To the field, the one off of I-94. Used to go there sometimes as a kid. Needed to think.” He shakes his head again, takes a long drag off his cigarette. “I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. Had the gun and everything.”
They stare at him. “Um,” Michael says. “What?”
Chris laughs, a little awkwardly. He smiles at them, rubbing the back of his neck with his free hand. It’s genuine enough that Sam could almost believe they just misunderstood. “Nothing, nothing. I got kids, man. Where are my kids? Where the fuck am I? Why do I - I remember all this stuff -”
“This is going to sound really, really stupid,” Michael says, “but you’ve been kidnapped by a hotel that burned down almost thirty years ago and brainwashed into believing you’re a disco swinger. Which explains the clothes and the memories and the fact that you’re standing in a really ugly basement bar. We’re here to put a stop to all of this. We’re going to take you home.”
Chris is silent for a long moment. He looks to Sam. “Really?”
“Yeah.”
“No.” He says it simply, still smiling. He shakes his head. “Nope. I get it now. See, I dreamed about that. About going to the field with the gun and staring up at the moon until it turned to smoke. But that’s the nightmare, and this is the real thing. Not Cathy. Not the kids. I dreamed all that. I dreamed that I fucked everything up so bad - the cops were coming any day, they already took Brian down and the shop’s already been seized, it was only a matter of time, you know? So that’s why I went to the field. Why I dreamed I went to the field. Why I was gonna do it. But I couldn’t. I dropped the gun into this big drainage pipe and sat down on the ground and just looked up into the moon until I woke up. And now I’m gonna wake up again and be back in my real life, right here.”
“Dude, that - doesn’t make any sense,” Michael says. “This is what’s real, you’re awake now. We’re saving -”
Chris grabs a fistful of Michael’s shirt and yanks him close, snarling, “It’s not, this is the fucking dream,” and Michael’s hands come up, closing around Chris’ wrists, and when he just says again that it’s real, it’s all real, Chris draws a fist back to hit him. Sam catches it before it goes anywhere, pushing himself between Chris and Michael. Michael goes stumbling, and somewhere in the back of his brain, Sam thinks that whenever they get out of here, he’s gonna teach the damn kid to fight properly.
Chris lands hard on top of the bar, his arm pinned behind his back, face crushed against the Formica. Sam puts his elbow between Chris’ shoulder blades and presses. Not hard enough to really hurt the guy. Just hard enough to tell him to stay where he is.
He expects Chris to fight him. He braces for it, something somebody really should’ve shown Michael how to do before sending him to the front lines. When Chris sags underneath him, Sam only tenses, tightening his grip on Chris’ arm.
“Put me back,” Chris moans into the Formica. “Put me back, man. Please, I don’t wanna -”
His shoulders shake. Sam releases him slowly, warily, but when he steps back, Chris stays where he was put, face down on the Formica, one hand flopping at his side. “Chris?” Michael asks. “Chris?” He reaches for Chris, turns him over with one soft hand on each shoulder, and Sam frowns, watching the movement. He bounces on the balls of his feet, waiting for Chris to grab the kid again. Michael’s still got a hand on Chris’ shoulder, as close as if he didn’t almost get punched a second ago.
Sam wants to let them be. He wants to let Michael comfort Chris; it’s usually Sam offering up dewy eyes and a broad shoulder to cry on, always has been. It’s an important job - important just to do, when he’s feeling optimistic. He knows that. And the only thing arguing against that is the itch under his skin and knowing that Dean’s somewhere and they can’t find him.
“Michael,” he calls. Michael looks up, hesitates.
“Hold tight, dude,” he tells Chris. He tugs awkwardly on his pants when he stands up. “What’s up?”
“Do you think he knows anything?” Sam asks, taking them out of earshot. Michael’s forehead wrinkles, and he shrugs.
“Hard to tell,” he says. “He’s sorta been through the wringer, you know?” Sam looks over Michael’s head; Chris is sitting in the same position that Michael left him in.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Sam says. “And I think he’s just made our job a lot harder. Finding Dean - and finding a way to kill Bones, wherever he is, if he’s even really a part of this - is going to be impossible if we have to worry about this guy, or anybody else that we pick up along the way.”
Chris dropped his cigarette on the bar when he grabbed Michael - thank heaven for small favors; Michael’s shirt looks flammable and that would be all they’d have needed - and after a moment, Chris reaches for it, sucking the end to make sure it’s still lit. He looks over towards them, eyes unfocused, then turns and puts a knee up on the stool, reaching over the bar to grab himself a bottle of vodka.
Michael leans back, jaw set. “You always go into hunts with totally stable norms? Maybe I remember things a little differently, Sam - or maybe you put up a big stink about using a little kid as bait for a big scary monster, how would I know?”
“Sometimes you do what you have to,” Sam grits out.
“Yeah, exactly - which is what we’re doing, aren’t we? Look, okay - maybe we should’ve waited for Dean, but we didn’t and now we’ve got Chris. Who could still totally be a big help, if you’ll let him. And hey,” he adds brightly, the corner of his mouth lifting, “maybe we just picked the wrong guy. You wanna go do a couple more, see if maybe we can get one that’s a little less psycho? Since you’re still babysitting and all.”
“You are such a pain in the ass,” is what Sam wants to say. It’s falling out of his mouth even as he sees Chris tip the full bottle of vodka over his head, his brain too stupid to realize what he’s seeing. Michael’s nose wrinkles as the smell of the alcohol hits it, and that’s what Sam is looking at when Chris takes one last drag of his cigarette and touches it to his clothes.
He lights up like a torch, the fire arching up and down his body where the alcohol has soaked in. His clothing goes first, melting over the shape of his arms, and by the time his hair catches, his whole body is on fire. He staggers three paces and then goes down on his knees and the carpet goes up behind him in clear footprints. It happens so fast. Sam can still smell the vodka through the black smoke that pours out of the collars and sleeves and hems of Chris’ clothing, the mildewed stink of the carpet. He grabs Michael by instinct, one hand around his bicep and the other around his shoulders, whatever he can grab and keep hold of when Michael fights him, as Sam, distantly, knows he will.
It was too late by the time they turned around, by the time Michael started screaming. Chris doesn’t even look human anymore, on his knees only because the fat on his body is melting and fusing his muscles together. And still Michael fights.
The ghosts around them don’t even move when Chris finally falls, crumpling and crumbling to the ground, the motion of it sickening to see. And Sam turns away. Closes his eyes and turns his face away, turns Michael away, and that’s when he feels it. Thudding against his brain like a disco drum, or a diseased heartbeat. It slides over the back of his neck and he pushes away instinctively with everything he has. He feels the force come out of him, physical in the way it used to be, before they put a harness over his powers and locked them away - and Michael sags against Sam so abruptly that for a moment he thinks he’s actually killed the kid.
Michael’s hair is tickling Sam’s nose and through the smell of shampoo and teenager, he realizes that he can’t smell fire anymore. All he hears is the clinking of glasses and Michael’s panicked breathing. The fire’s out.
Chris is a pile of charred meat, laid out almost neatly on a platter of melted carpeting. He’s charcoal colored where his suit didn’t fuse with his skin, patches of flaky black pulled up to reveal the pink, ropey muscles underneath.
“Oh god,” Michael says, “Oh god oh god oh god -”
“Stop it,” Sam whispers. He unhooks Michael from him and they stand in silence, staring at the body. It’s still smoking. The petroleum smell of the polyester burns the inside of his nose.
“Great,” Sam says. “Just fucking great.” He says it under his breath, without thinking about it or even meaning anything in particular.
Michael turns around abruptly. He gets two steps away before he sinks slowly to his knees and vomits onto the carpet. He’s trying to hold it in - Sam can hear him choking on it, hands braced on his knees.
“Great,” Sam says again, under his breath. “Awesome.”
“What the fuck,” Michael gasps. “What the - what the fuck - why would he -?”
Sam hunkers by the body. It smells even worse up close. He pats his pockets automatically, looking for some kind of tool. They’re empty, of course, which has sort of been the theme of things lately. He reaches out with his palm flat, feeling for heat, waiting to get burned. The body is cooler than it should be, lukewarm to the touch, uncomfortably slick. It doesn’t look human when he turns it over. The lips are pulled back so tightly that Chris’ teeth are all he sees, at first. They’re still white. His eyes are gone, his face unrecognizable as a face except for those gleaming white teeth.
“Sam,” Michael says, “what the fuck are you doing?”
“Checking,” Sam says.
“Checking what? He’s fucking dead, leave him alone.”
“It doesn’t feel right,” Sam says softly. “It doesn’t feel real.”
“Smells real enough,” Michael says. His voice is thin. Sam’s expecting to see a smile on his face when he looks over his shoulder, but Michael’s sitting hunched and quiet, his hair in his face.
Pity flickers, bright and surprising. Michael’s shuffled far enough away that he’s not sitting next to the mess he’s made, but he makes a pretty pathetic sight. Sam watches him for a long moment. Keeps his hands to himself even though he just wants to pull Michael’s hair back from his face, talk him through it. It’s probably what Dean would do.
He sighs. Stiffens up his spine. “We’re not doing this again,” he says.
“Yeah, okay, Captain Obvious,” Michael says. “I figured.”
“Look,” Sam says. He tries for patience, for whatever Dean sees in this kid. This kind of thing is rough. His first time wasn’t much fun either. “You can’t save everyone, Michael. We made the wrong move, but there are still - ”
“Who’re you calling ‘we?’” Michael snarls. His head jerks up. “I know what you mean, Sam, so just say it.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Sam says, and Michael interrupts him again.
“You didn’t have to.”
“All right,” Sam says, “Is this what you wanna hear? You happy now? I knew you weren’t ready to come on a real hunt but Dean said hey, what the hell, let the kid tag along. So here you are, and guess what? It was the wrong decision. It happens. So you got what you wanted and that was the wrong goddamn decision too. It happens.”
Michael’s up on his feet, and Sam follows suit, slowly. He steps forward and Michael takes a step back. They circle each other for a few steps, and distantly, Sam realizes that the drums are back, low and insistent. “You knew he wasn’t okay,” Michael hisses, “and you didn’t even give me five minutes to talk to him. Don’t you ever talk to these people? Aren’t they the priority?”
“A few months with Bobby and you think you’re an expert? There are no fucking rules for hunting. This job doesn’t come with a manual. You know how old I was, the first time I burned a dead body?”
“Oh good, another tragic childhood story,” Michael says, “I love those.”
“I was twelve,” Sam says, “I was a year older than you were when your brother got sick. I held the shotgun and kept watch while my dad and my brother dug the grave, and they handed the matches to me. I felt like they were finally treating me like a grownup.”
“Keep going,” Michael says. “Tell me the one about how you grew up in motels and got weapons for Christmas.”
“That’s not the fucking point,” Sam hisses, “The fucking point is that people shouldn’t have to do this, that hunting, it’s - it’s unnatural. You’re throwing your guts up, but to Dean and me, that might as well be the smell of … of apple pie. You’re not a hunter, Michael. Most people aren’t. It’s not a black mark against you or something.”
He’s lying. The smell of hair and polyester burns his nose and throat. It’s sickening. He wants to rub his face, make sure there aren’t ashes all over his skin, in his mouth.
“Oh my god,” Michael moans, “don’t bring up apple pie.” And Sam laughs, despite everything. He smothers it in his hand and wipes his face without thinking about it. His fingertips come back smudged.
Michael collapses into the nearest chair, his elbows on his knees. Sam moves closer, but Michael’s eyes stay fixed on the body. “Look,” Sam says, “I know we haven’t really - gotten along -” Michael snorts. “- but don’t shut me down just because you have a crush.”
Michael’s mouth twitches. “Sam,” he says, “fuck you.”
Sam restrains himself from rolling his eyes. “Look, you’re young - go home, Michael. Finish high school. Go to college. Get a degree. Plenty of people make stupid decisions because they - think they’re in love or whatever. You’re not the first.”
“Really?” Michael says. “Really? That’s what you think this is about?” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Man, you give me, like, even less credit than I thought you did. Man. Look. You’re just, you’re so fucking far off-base that I should totally be insulted. You guys - do you guys even ever think about what you do to people? You guys changed my life, Sam. Blew into town and saved my family and blew right back out again and I’m supposed to just, what? Keep on keepin’ on? Fuck you, Sam. I’m big enough to make my own decisions.”
“Your decisions,” Sam says, “put you in danger. They put us in danger. This isn’t a vacation, Mikey. It’s not a job. It’s a crusade and it’s not -”
“I know that!” Michael shouts. “Jesus Christ, do you even listen to yourself? You’re so fucking obvious that if Dean’s not seeing it, then he’s gotta be choosing not to!”
Sam sputters, but Michael keeps going as if he doesn’t even hear. “See, I think this is a job to you,” he accuses. “You talk about saving people’s lives like it’s some kind of chore when it’s - you don’t even know - I saved my brother’s life - and it was like every Christmas present rolled into one. You guys gave me a gift and you think it’s all about Dean - and don’t get me wrong, I would hit that in a heartbeat if he’d let me - but seriously, Sam. Fuck you. You were never even gonna give me a chance to fuck up.”
Michael’s crying, swiping angrily at his face as his voice gets wilder. Sam feels sick - from the smell or from what Michael’s saying - his stomach lurching. He wipes his shaking hands on his pants, and what comes out his mouth - stupidly, like he can’t even help himself, is “You haven’t - you and my brother haven’t -?”
Michael stops mid-rant, his hands thrown up in the air, and stares at Sam. “No,” he says. “Dude. No, we haven’t. I mean, not really anything. Don’t you guys talk at all? What the fuck.” His face is red and blotchy but he looks at Sam as if Sam’s the crazy one here. “You spend days driving around together, what the fuck are you talking about?”
“Led Zeppelin,” Sam says, after a moment. “Other stuff.”
Michael drops his hand into his hands. “Jesus. Good to know, I guess. Fuck.” He looks up at Sam, tries for a smile. “All of that, and the only thing you wanna hear is that I haven’t done your brother. That’s kinda messed up, you know that?”
Sam flushes. “Michael,” he warns, “whatever you think about what’s - ”
Michael cuts him off, waving a hand. “It doesn’t matter. Whatever. For real, I don’t even care. I just wanted you to know, okay? That’s what I’m trying to say, that I just - I’m not trying to be Superman, I just … you guys saved me and Asher and there’s gotta be a reason for it. I just want to make what you did worth it. Okay? That’s all.” He sighs and says softly, low enough that Sam thinks he wasn’t meant to hear it, “I already knew this was all my fault.”
Sam can’t think of anything to say. He stares down at his feet, at the bar, anywhere but at Michael. He doesn’t really want to hear the kid. His stomach rumbles painfully. His whole body is so heavy that all he wants to do is sit down next to Michael and put his head down for a while. What a stupid fucking mess, Sam thinks. His eyes slip closed and he forces them back open. That’d be all he’d need, for Michael to disappear again.
Michael’s staring at the ground, kicking one foot back and forth. For a second he looks eleven again, slumped outside of his mother’s motel, and Sam opens his mouth to tell Michael he’s sorry.
He feels it even before he sees Michael’s face change, his flushed face go white so quickly it hardly looks real - the ugly thud of disco drums in Sam’s brain, colors spasming against the backs of his eyelids. Michael scrambles to his feet, hands pinwheeling behind himself, and Sam turns.
The burned man’s skin splits apart as he slowly, carefully levers himself to his feet. It’s a meaty sound, like ripping apart ribs at a barbeque, ashy flakes sifting down onto the carpet, falling from his hands, his face. It peels as he moves, stripping away from the oily, fused mass of his suit. His lips peel back from what was his face and reveal two rows of perfect teeth and when he speaks the drums in Sam’s ears grow louder and louder, drowning out Michael whispering Sam Sam Sam, because Chris’ voice sounds just the same.
“Hey,” he says. “You guys catch the action upstairs? Wild, man.”
Chapter 1 ** Chapter 3