"Yeah, the guy's got a thing for the sweet stuff, doesn't he?"
He mentally checks over the list of weapons he's got hidden on his person and nods. No-business rule be damned, Security can just try throwing him in the cells for this -- as long as Dean's alive and stays that way at the end of it, Sam doesn't care.
Good for him. Coyote, on the other hand, is keeping a careful eye out for anyone who is paying them too much attention. And Security, for that matter. Ending up in the cells is not a part of her plan tonight.
Of course, they'd have to catch her first.
She leads the way up the stairs, and pauses again in the hallway. Up here, things get a little more confused. The halls don't always deign to keep the same layout. Downstairs, the bar, doors, and window are at least always in the same place.
As it happens, he's got reason to know just how flimsy the doors can be up here, and thus he doesn't waste any time with that either. Sam delivers a shattering kick to the doorplate just below the knob, breaking the lock and splintering the wood around it, then slams the door open.
If the smell of sugar wasn't gonna give him away, one look around the room would.
No bland, generic Milliways room for him: this place is downright lavish, starting somewhere around the king-size bed with the silk sheets and ending with the disco ball twinkling cheerily around ceiling level. The carpet's bright red and exceedingly plush. There are a couple of overstuffed velvet armchairs.
And from one of them, a familiar guy scrambles up to his feet, half staring, half glaring at Sam in dismay.
"What, does knocking take too many brain cells? I was using that door!"
"Slither? Seriously?" he demands. "Sam, I was practically setting up neon signs hoping you'd take the bait and show up. Why else would I have...unlocked the..."
Oh.
He cranes his neck to peer around Sam's massive, massive frame, and slowly lifts an eyebrow at what he sees. Casually: "Coyote."
Coyote carefully jimmies the door back into the frame and shuts it with as much dignity as she can muster, considering the reflections of the disco ball.
"Evening," she says. "I believe Sam here has a bone to pick with you. Can we get on with it?"
He doesn't sound entirely surprised; she'd recognized him from the picture, after all. It doesn't really matter, unless Coyote decides suddenly to side with the Trickster, in which case he's probably screwed anyway.
(Not that it'll stop him from trying. Whatever it takes.)
Sam focuses on the man standing in the middle of the garish room and says, levelly,
Well, that's one way to get most of his attention off of Coyote. (Key word is most. No way is he letting that chick all the way out of his sight.) He eyes Sam like he's just started speaking Farsi.
"Uh, didn't my girl send flowers?" He paces a single step to the side. "Dean's dead, Sam. He ain't coming back. His soul's downstairs doing the hellfire rumba as we speak."
"You said you could smell him?" he asks, in an undertone. "How far away, can you tell?"
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It doesn't take her too long to sniff out where he's gone. Even in Milliways, there are very few...beings like him.
"Upstairs."
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"Yeah, the guy's got a thing for the sweet stuff, doesn't he?"
He mentally checks over the list of weapons he's got hidden on his person and nods. No-business rule be damned, Security can just try throwing him in the cells for this -- as long as Dean's alive and stays that way at the end of it, Sam doesn't care.
"Upstairs it is. Lead the way."
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Of course, they'd have to catch her first.
She leads the way up the stairs, and pauses again in the hallway. Up here, things get a little more confused. The halls don't always deign to keep the same layout. Downstairs, the bar, doors, and window are at least always in the same place.
Finally, she picks a direction.
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Sam's getting more and more tense by the second.
"'Cause if we're going in circles--"
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She doesn't bother to let him answer before pointing at a door.
"There. You can open it."
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"Fine."
As it happens, he's got reason to know just how flimsy the doors can be up here, and thus he doesn't waste any time with that either. Sam delivers a shattering kick to the doorplate just below the knob, breaking the lock and splintering the wood around it, then slams the door open.
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No bland, generic Milliways room for him: this place is downright lavish, starting somewhere around the king-size bed with the silk sheets and ending with the disco ball twinkling cheerily around ceiling level. The carpet's bright red and exceedingly plush. There are a couple of overstuffed velvet armchairs.
And from one of them, a familiar guy scrambles up to his feet, half staring, half glaring at Sam in dismay.
"What, does knocking take too many brain cells? I was using that door!"
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"I don't think so."
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Oh.
He cranes his neck to peer around Sam's massive, massive frame, and slowly lifts an eyebrow at what he sees. Casually: "Coyote."
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"Evening," she says. "I believe Sam here has a bone to pick with you. Can we get on with it?"
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He doesn't sound entirely surprised; she'd recognized him from the picture, after all. It doesn't really matter, unless Coyote decides suddenly to side with the Trickster, in which case he's probably screwed anyway.
(Not that it'll stop him from trying. Whatever it takes.)
Sam focuses on the man standing in the middle of the garish room and says, levelly,
"Bring him back."
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Well, that's one way to get most of his attention off of Coyote. (Key word is most. No way is he letting that chick all the way out of his sight.) He eyes Sam like he's just started speaking Farsi.
"Uh, didn't my girl send flowers?" He paces a single step to the side. "Dean's dead, Sam. He ain't coming back. His soul's downstairs doing the hellfire rumba as we speak."
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What have these boys been sticking their noses into? And for that matter, where is Dean, really?
Not that she cares.
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"Bring him back," Sam says again. "You can do it. I know you can."
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