Supernatural fic: City of Lost Things 1/3 (R, gen)
Kinda decided that if I don't start posting this is going to languish on my computer until the snow caps melt and the sun explodes.
Title: City of Lost Things
Author: Krisomniac
Rating, Warning, pairing: R, reference to aired S2 episodes, gen
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit or copyright infringement intended.
Author's Note: Many thanks to the beta-powers of ignipes and amchara. 666 is a real office building on Fifth Avenue; my mother used to work there. This is the first of a three-part story. Two should be up as soon as beta'd, and three sometime in the not too distant future.
Summary: Sam has visions. Dean drives in New York. Demons ride subways, and hell is an office building on Fifth. (~5000 words)
City of Lost Things
Part One: Visions and Dreamscapes
1.
She's tiny but wears four-inch heels that click on the pavement over which she strides like she's six feet tall. Long, red hair curls down over her shoulders and back. Her eyes are small and green, almost piercing, and her skin is dotted by constellations of pinpoint freckles. She smiles in the winter sun, deftly avoiding the puddles of icy water at the curb. There's a steaming cappuccino in her hand and a thick portfolio under her arm.
Turning onto Fifty-Eighth Street, away from the dark-suited press of people on Sixth Avenue, she walks into the shadows of office buildings-- heavy castles of brick and glass that climb towards the sky while stone gargoyles watch the entrances. She steps through the revolving door of Number 524 and says good morning to the security guards inside, waving her ID as she passes.
The elevator bell dings discreetly, and the doors open on the fifty-seventh floor.
"Morning, Shannon," says a man in a grey suit. He's balancing several prints in one hand, a cell phone and coffee in the other and speaks without breaking his stride.
"Morning." Shannon smiles back. "Have you seen the new reports?"
"I have." He shakes his head, laughing at some private joke. "Was I right, or was I right?"
"You were. I owe you a bottle of wine."
"Make it a nice one," he calls over his shoulder as he rounds the corner.
The offices are open and bright, with windows overlooking the park and the roofs of the neighboring buildings. Shannon sits behind her desk, sorting the papers from her inbox into the pile she's seen, the pile that needs dealing with, and the pile destined for recycling. Her nails are neat and manicured. Her hair is shining in the sun from the window. There's something almost beatific about her face as she scans each paper and decides its fate. Perhaps she's remembering the restaurant last night, the taste of each mouthful of perfectly prepared salmon, the liquid heat of the wine, the pleasant music and company. Perhaps she enjoys being in the office when it's quiet and she can do her work in peace.
The buzzer on her desk sounds. She glances briefly at the clock across the room. It's an antique she found at auction several years ago, with a gilded mahogany case and brass pendulum that fills the silence with its steady tick-tock. It chimes nine times.
"Miss Gregory--" The too-cheerful voice of her personal assistant crackles through the intercom. "There's a Mr. Sessions here to see you."
Shannon exhales, and her eyes flash an even brighter green. "Send him in."
Mr. Sessions is tall and thin and looks like he was born in Armani. He straightens the lapels of his coat. "Good morning, Shannon," he says, enunciating every syllable with Harvard polish. He's no more than twenty-four--several years her junior--yet each word commands respect.
"You're one of his, aren't you." It's not a question. She leans back in her chair, legs crossed, and steeples her fingers, tapping them slowly against one another. "You'll pardon me if I don't offer you a seat."
He shrugs. "I have a message for you." His smile is predatory when he tells her, "You're wanted back on our side."
She laughs, loud and sharp and clear. "Really? And if I don't want to come? You can tell Old Yellow that there's a change in the wind."
Mr. Sessions stares at her for a minute that seems to last forever, a lifetime passes with each tick of the clock. Then he winks.
She takes a deep breath, standing to open the window behind her, and looks outside. The sky is clear, and a cold breeze blows the hair from her shoulders. The distant sounds of traffic and life on the street drift up on the crystalline air.
"It's starting" she says. She shivers and lifts one stilettoed foot to the low sill. Her skirt slides up along the length of her milky-white thigh. "Can you feel it?"
He says nothing. The mounting wind tugs at the edges of his suit.
Springing like a cat, she launches herself into the blue.
The image crackles and blinks, focuses on the body of a petite red-head splayed on the roof of a building, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. Her legs twitch once, twice, then fall still as the sun wheels overhead. No one in the offices above or street below has noticed this extra blip on the skyline of New York.
She sits up and stares directly ahead.
"Hurry," she says. "He's coming."
~
Sam's heart is pounding. His lungs feel empty, heavy and thick. He blinks and rubs his eyes with shaking hands, trying to catalogue the things he's seen, to remember where he is: the smell of French fries and day-old pie, fluorescent lights like knives overhead, throbbing temples. Strong hands on his shoulders: Dean. Always Dean. This is how he knows he's back.
Bentley's Burger, Knoxville, Tennessee.
"--gonna be fine." Dean's voice is loud and angry and tight. He's talking to someone Sam can't see. "Really, miss, he's-- Sammy, Sam, you okay?"
Sam steadies himself on Dean's arm, waits for his heart to slow, for the aftershocks of the vision to pass.
"What'd you see?"
Sam takes a shallow breath. "Girl," he manages. "New York." He stands, swaying, and pushes past Dean. "We've got to hurry," he says once he's out of the booth.
"Sam, wait."
"No. Her name is Shannon Gregory, and she dies tomorrow morning." Sam grips the wall, catching his balance for just a moment in this off-kilter world, then he runs outside.
Several minutes pass before Dean meets him in the car. He waves a white paper bag in Sam's face. It smells of grease and hamburgers and ketchup as red as the blood dripping through his vision, and Sam feels more than a little queasy. He waves the food away.
"Way to run out on the bill, dude. Don't you know it's illegal to leave without paying?"
"Right." Sam smiles in spite of himself. "Pay with stolen credit cards to avoid breaking the law."
Dean reaches into the bag for a fry. "Totally different situation."
He starts the car, and the engine bursts to life with a familiar roar. They peal out of the lot. Within minutes they're back on a narrow, winding highway.
Except for the Impala's headlights, the road is dark and empty. The only sound is from the tires cruising over the frozen asphalt, and Sam is grateful for the rare moment of silence. For a while he stares out the window, watching the trees fly backwards. A half-moon hangs bright in the sky, and his headache begins to recede.
"You didn't put the radio on," he finally says.
Dean shrugs and speaks through a mouthful of hamburger. "Forgot." But he stares ahead without meeting Sam's eyes.
Sam rubs the last of the pain from his temple. "Well, thanks anyway." He looks over at the speedometer; Dean's driving almost twice the limit, but it doesn't feel fast enough. They've got nearly thirteen hours; New York City might as well be a continent away.
"We'll make it in time," Dean says, and he turns the radio on.
"Hey." Sam lets himself believe they will and feels the knot of fear in his throat begin to unwind. "Pass the fries over here."
~
"I think she might be one. Him, too."
"One of the kids? That the demon came after?"
"I dunno, Dean, but my visions usually have something to do with them. He said she'd left his side, and I think the 'he' was the demon. Then she laughed. He stared at her. She jumped."
"So you think there was something telepathic going on?"
"Could be. Like Andy or his brother."
"Then she spoke? To you? After she died?"
"Yeah."
"That ever happen before?"
"No. Dean--"
"We'll figure this out."
"That's not what I--"
"About an hour. Just passed the Jersey border."
They cross the Hudson River as the sun rises over the city.
~
2.
~
Parked outside a Starbucks on the upper west side, Sam finds her address online.
"There had better be liquid gold in this peppermint mocha stuff," Dean says, passing a cup over and climbing into the car. "The prices they charge for your girly drinks, I swear… Any luck?"
"I found her address, but there's no criminal record or anything else about her."
"So where to, Captain Drinks-Like-a-Girl?" Dean points at his upper lip, barely hiding his smile. "I think you've got a little whipped cream. Just there."
Sam paws at his face and finds it dry. "What-- Shut up. Just a few blocks away." He points Dean in the right direction and continues to sort through page after page of Miss Gregory's old histories and official files.
"Any luck with the guy?"
"Nothing."
"What'd you say his name was?"
"Sessions."
"Sessions…" Dean drives for a few minutes, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He weaves in and out of the slow-moving traffic, skirting busses and cursing under his breath at the taxi cabs.
Sam knows better than to ask him what he's thinking--probably of twelve different ways to stop this Sessions guy with only a hot coffee and a screwdriver, or how many bullets it would take to clear the street of traffic. He knows Dean will tell him eventually, and in the meantime they pass another Starbucks, three corner markets, video stores and electronics shops; people getting on with their lives. Bike messengers nearly scratch the car as they speed down Broadway. An old lady pushes her walker slowly across the street, jay-walking at two miles an hour.
"Got it!" Dean says, slapping the wheel. "Sessions. I knew it sounded familiar. I don't think that's his real name."
"Right-- What? How do you know?"
"Chinatown."
"Chinatown?" Sam waits for an explanation.
"Ida Sessions--the woman hired to drag Nicholson into the case. It's-- Sam, don't you remember Chinatown?"
Sam remembers staying up late, blankets tucked up around his chin, watching old movies he never quite understood. He remembers Dean cleaning weapons by feel, hands working effortlessly with oil and a rub rag while his eyes never left the screen, both of their ears perked for the sound of tires pulling into the driveway outside. He remembers the slick sheen of blood in black and white, pouring from Nicholson's nose, wondering where Dad was, whether he ever met a mobster, when he was going to come home. Forget it, Jake, it's Chinatown.
Sam scratches his head. "Guess not."
"How much farther?"
"Uh--" Sam peers at the numbers on the buildings passing by. "Here. This is it." He checks his notes and tucks the computer into his bag. "Shannon Gregory, apartment thirteen F."
The large apartment building has a deep blue awning and imposing white limestone façade. Neatly trimmed hedges line the sidewalk. The buttons are shining on the doorman's coat, his red vest just visible and shoes newly polished, expression surprised as Sam comes charging towards him. He tips his hat while regretfully informing Sam that Miss Gregory has already left for the day.
Sam thanks him and runs outside, yelling to Dean, "Downtown. Now!" He slides into the passenger seat, and Dean pulls away from the curb before the door is completely closed.
Several gridlocked blocks later, they know they're not going to make it.
"When did you say this happens?" Dean's words are clipped as he cuts in front of a cab.
"Nine o'clock"
"Nine exactly?" It's quarter to, and they're still more than a mile away. "Shit." Dean hits the wheel as the light they've finally reached turns red again. "We'll think of something."
"Dean, she's going to die. Let me out here. I can run."
"You don't even know where you're going."
Sam points at a street sign. "The numbers go in order. I'll figure it out."
"Stay." He grabs Sam's coat with furious desperation. "You're not going down there alone. I said, we'll think of something."
~
"You've seen Die Hard one too many times." Sam exhales, listening to the idling engine over the excited and often upset chatter of the people milling outside the building like a herd of sheep in designer clothing. They pull to the side of the road when the bomb squad arrives. "I can't believe that worked."
"You're telling me. See her anywhere?"
Sam scans the crowd, but there are too many people. "I can't see anything from the car," he says, getting out. "And you'd better get moving." The cops are making their way down the block; Dean doesn’t need telling twice.
Nearly ten minutes later, Sam is still looking. The people outside have broken into small clusters of coworkers, and their earlier excitement has evolved into frustration and foot-stomping cold. He peers over shoulders and weaves between the groups. Trying to stay inconspicuous, he hunches his shoulders into his jacket and pulls his hat low over his face, but Shannon is nowhere in the crowd.
"Find her yet?"
"Argh-- Dean! Don't do that." Sam jumps and whirls, knocking Dean's hand away.
Dean is grinning like he couldn't imagine a better way to spend the morning after a sleepless night than speeding down the streets of New York, calling in a fake bomb threat, dodging cops, upsetting countless people's schedules, and possibly saving a young woman he's never even seen.
"How'd you find me so fast?"
Dean just looks up and raises an eyebrow. "You're kidding, right? Sam, losing you in a crowd hasn't been a problem since you were about fourteen."
They work slowly through the mob. The bomb sniffing dogs leave the lobby, and some of the general tension eases. There are people on cell phones, tourists taking pictures, emergency lights flashing, and harried policemen trying to keep everyone calm. They reach the far edge of the crowd.
"There." Sam points. He recognizes her the moment she steps out of the throng. She's walking quickly away from them, red ringlets bobbing. His head aches dully with the memory of her body spread on the roof of a building high above.
"You sure?"
She's disappearing down a subway entrance. Sam rubs his head and tries to ignore the passing worry on Dean's face. "Yeah."
"Is she going back home?"
"I dunno, probably." Sam stares at her retreating form, and tries to focus. White light stabs through his vision. He sees the building, the doorman doffing his cap. He grabs his head, but he can't control it or see any more. "Yeah. I think so."
"Alright. Meet me at her place." Dean springs into action like he's been stung by a particularly determined bee. He tosses Sam the Impala's keys. "She's parked on fifty-fifth… and take care of that freaky brain of yours." And he bolts, disappearing down into the tunnels under the city.
~
3.
~
Dean considers jumping the turnstile for a moment before catching the eye of the security guard on duty. Instead, he buys a card and takes the more discreet and legal route. Getting wise in your old age, he thinks--surprised how much the voice in his head sounds like Sam--as he searches for Shannon Gregory amongst the people waiting impatiently on the crowded platform.
He's been on subways a handful of times, usually hunting the things that hide in the tunnels, in the dark. The smell is universal, he thinks, rats and decaying trash, stagnant water and sizzling electricity off the third rail. He flinches as a train pulls in on the other side. Despite the screeching breaks and grinding gears, the other people on the platform don't seem to notice a thing. They read their newspapers and mystery novels, oblivious as weaves between and around them. He can't find Shannon anywhere.
Then he spots her at the far end of the station, where the crowd is thinner. She's standing alone, wearing a short skirt and tailored coat, long earrings, high heels. With the eye of a connoisseur, Dean hangs back to study the curve of her calf until it disappears under her coat, arc of her neck adorned by a simple gold chain, her ethereally pale skin under a spray of freckles. Trust Sam not to mention that the girl they're after is not only in danger, but unbearably hot. She's looking into the distance down the track, but Dean gets the uncanny feeling that she is listening, waiting, for him. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he approaches her cautiously. A rat scurries down the rails, and headlights appear in the distance down the tunnel.
He picks up a newspaper someone has left behind and slips onto the train after her, into the last car, taking a seat where he can see her but keep his face hidden behind the paper. She's reading the advertisements posted around the car as it bumps and rattles down the track, and her eyes pass over Dean as though he's not there. He wonders if he was imagining her wariness before.
The conductor announces their next stop, and the train comes to a screaming halt.
The doors open. Some people get off; new ones get on. Shannon is perched at the edge of her seat, but now Dean can hardly see her past the fat man seated between them. The doors close, and the train moves on again. They're heading downtown, away from Sam, and Dean is acutely aware of every passing block. He checks his phone: no signal.
The subway stops; more people get on, change places, shuffle around, and block Dean's view. He stands to see her better, pretending to read a map, but when he glances down the car, she's gone. The doors close just as he sees her back disappearing into the crowd.
"Shit."
Without pausing to think, Dean runs to the back of the car and pulls the door open. There's a small, unsteady platform fixed to the back of the train. In the sudden, sweltering heat of the tunnel, Dean climbs onto the safety rail. The train is already moving, but it's still slow enough he thinks he can land without hitting one of the large steel columns that line the station. He takes a deep breath--
And Jumps.
Lands, tucks, rolls.
"Are you all right?"
"Mom, did you see tha--"
Dean is curled in a ball on the platform, winded but whole, listening to the gasps of the gathering crowd. Somebody's stooped and meddling grandmother starts to scold him as he slowly winces and climbs to his feet.
"--ever do that again, young man. Do you know what could've--"
"I'm fine." He smiles at their concerned and curious faces and braces himself on his knees while he catches his breath. "Just a dare. Next show at noon."
Someone tosses a quarter on the ground in front of him. The others turn and begin to disperse, even the angry old woman. Sometimes, Dean loves New York. He jogs in the direction he last saw Shannon.
~
She hasn't gone far. He spots her waiting for the A train one level up. This time, he hangs back while she walks to the very end.
She steps to the edge of the platform, exquisite legs only inches away from the dark. White hands hold the wall as she leans over slowly, looking for an incoming train. Dean watches the arc of her back while she stares down the tunnel. There isn't a single headlight in sight, only black disappearing under the city. Satisfied, she turns, winks at him, and drops down into the track.
"--the fuck?" Dean looks around quickly; no one else seems to have noticed that she was even there.
He bolts down to spot where she was standing, his heart racing as he plunges into the tunnel after her. Dean only regrets his lack of a flashlight for a moment before the lights from the station fade and, careful to avoid the third rail, he is swallowed by the dark.
He pauses. The only sounds are the click of her heels ahead, his ragged breath, the distant drip of water, and scurrying of tiny rat feet. He hears her turn left and feels blindly along the dank walls for some kind of opening. It appears under his fingers just as a train comes around a bend in the track: the edge of a door. It's heavy and steel, probably leading to an old engineering room. It's also, mercifully, unlocked. Cocking his gun and taking a deep breath, Dean edges inside.
If possible, it's even darker in here. Dean steps on something soft and squishy, refuses to wonder what it is. The sound of Shannon's footsteps disappears beneath the roar of the train passing by. Dean freezes, but in the sudden light he catches a glimpse of red hair, notes the layout of the room. There are pipes running along the ceiling and up the walls. Some are huge, others small. There are valves and levers and wheels and, at the far end, another door. As the engine fades, he hears this far door slam.
Dean feels his way over. The room is achingly empty, and he wishes Sam had his back right about now. But Sam is half a city away, waiting for him in the car, and his phone still has no signal.
Step after step, the darkness only deepens and the far end of the room doesn't seem to come any closer. His fingers twitch on the trigger and he forces them still. Step. If a person were to die down here in the dark, he wonders, how long would it take to find the body. Step. He wonders how a girl like Shannon even knows this place exists. Step. Why Sam had a vision about her. Step. Whether this isn't all a trap.
He reaches the wall, finds the door, and makes quick work of the lock. The he readies his weapon and opens it.
At first the light on the other side of the door is blinding. Dean blinks in the incandescence of the sixty-watt bulb hanging over a short staircase. He bolts up the stairs and tries the door at the top. It springs open.
Dean only has a moment to register that they're in another control room-- more of a control closet-- there's barely enough space for the two of them. Beyond this room is the bustle and noise of the station. Shannon's arms are crossed over her chest, as though she's been waiting. But it's her eyes that grab his attention.
They burn intense and green, lit by a familiar swirling and roiling fire.
"Wow," Dean says. "You guys come in every flavor of the rainbow." He levels his gun at her; it won't do much good, but might buy him a moment to escape and he doesn't have any holy water on him. A litany of Latin rises to his lips, and he wonders whether he can recite the exorcism before she attacks.
"You're not the one I called," she hisses, and he doesn't even have time to pull the trigger before she steps forward and the back of her hand makes contact with his face.
Dean hears a dull thwack as his head hits the door and his world turns upside down. He tumbles back through it and down the stairs, crumpling in a heap at the bottom.
He doesn't know how long he's lain there, stunned and barely holding on to consciousness. He stares at the swinging bare bulb overhead. It may be minutes, may be longer. He inhales. Ribs feel bruised, not broken. Turning his head slowly, neck seems okay, skull pounding. Leaning heavily against the wall for support, he catalogues the various aches and pains, then ignores them as he stands. It's a moment before he's caught his breath enough to climb back out to the street, call Sam, and find out what the hell is going on.
Shannon, whoever--whatever--she is, is long gone.
~
"He wouldn't let you in? You sure you flashed that puppydog smile?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "I thought he was going to shoot me for loitering."
"Yeah, never underestimate a doorman." Dean takes the towel of ice Sam offers, and touches it gingerly to his cheek.
"At least I didn't get beat up by five feet of girl."
"She's a redhead. And nearly five six in those heels."
"Right. Never underestimate a redhead."
"Or a demon."
Sam stops smiling and looks thoughtfully out the window. It has a spectacular view of the building next door. Their room is on the sixth floor of the cheapest hotel they could find, and a pair of pigeons is roosting on the fire escape. "It does explain one thing, though-- why she spoke to me after she died."
"Yeah, you're not getting messages from beyond the grave. The demon inside her kept her alive"
Sam only looks marginally relieved. "But it just means--"
"More questions, I know." Dean stands and stretches despite the knotty muscles protesting along the length of his back. He pats Sam on the shoulder. "But right now it's late and you haven't slept, and thinking in circles until you drop isn't going to help anyone." He closes the blinds and checks his guns. "I say we make an appointment to see Miss Shannon Gregory and get our answers in the morning."
"Right." Sam doesn't sound entirely convinced. "Okay."
~
Dean startles awake and glances at the clock. "It's four in the morning," he mumbles through sleep-addled thoughts.
Sam is sitting against the headboard of the other bed, knees tucked up to his chest, staring straight ahead as though he's seen a ghost-- as though he's a normal kid who's just seen a ghost, that is.
Dean shakes off the last vestiges of sleep and pushes himself up, noticing with a certain satisfaction that just a few hours' rest have eased the worst of the aches in his muscles. "You okay?"
Sam nods without looking over.
"Trying to burn a hole through that wall, Superman?" No response. He tries again. "Bad dream?"
"What do you think?"
"That someone woke up on the sarcastic side of the bed."
Sam deflates a little and finally turns away from the wall. Mission accomplished. "Same one," he says. "She falls out of the window. Only, this time there was more."
"What more?" Dean pulls on a T-shirt and sets the coffee machine; it doesn't look like he's going to get any more sleep tonight.
"I-- I can't--" Sam looks up at him, and suddenly he's five years old again, shaking like a leaf and frightened of the dark under his bed. Even back then, they'd stay up for hours before Sam would say what was on his mind, scared of the monsters or of losing Dad, or simply of knowing, with freaky intuition, that things weren't okay… no matter how many times Dean told him they were.
Dean knows they're too old for childish platitudes anymore, and he doesn't bother to pretend it's alright. "Hey, you don't have to say… You figured out how we're going to get into that office yet?"
"No," he murmurs. "Dean?"
"Mmm?"
"Do you ever dream?"
Dean hesitates, deciding how to answer. He's never been one for talking, not like Sam, and he doesn't like the direction this conversation is moving. He fiddles with the coffee pot for a few seconds before answering. "Yeah, I guess. Don't remember them, most of the time."
"Do you have nightmares?"
"Like being chased by zombies or walking into class naked? Nah." He forces a smile.
"No," Sam says. "Like the kind when you wake up and look surprised to be here."
Dean's breath catches in his throat, and he fights back the treacherous wish to lie to Sam. Again. He didn't think it had gotten so bad Sam would notice.
"I see you, in the mornings," Sam says slowly. "It's happening more and more. You don't look frightened, just… surprised. Like that morning when--"
"Stop." Dean is afraid he's going to crack the mug in his hand, and he sets it down by the coffee pot. "Shut up. Now."
"It's been worse since that job in Mississippi. Look, I don't know what that demon told you…."
Dean only breathes.
"I just… I guess I want to know that I'm not the only one. What do you dream about, Dean?"
"This, from the guy who won't tell me why he got me up at four in the morning."
"I didn't mean--" Sam pauses. "Fine. I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."
And damned if he doesn't have a fair point. Dean takes a deep breath and lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling so he doesn't have to see the expression on Sam's face. "It's always the same, and it's stupid and doesn't mean anything, okay?" He feels Sam nod. "I'm in an empty room, and there's this girl there. There aren't any lights, but it doesn't matter; we can still see. She's unusual, pretty, dark hair and eyes, and she's asking me if I'm ready to go. I don't know why, but I don't want to leave. Then she touches me, and it's warm and quiet like nothing I've ever-- like the deepest sleep you've ever had but you're aware enough to enjoy it--" He pauses. "So I tell her 'yes.'"
"And then?"
"And then nothing. I wake up." Dean shrugs and makes light of it. He doesn't say that waking up is the most terrifying part of the nightmare, or that he recognizes the hospital bed in the empty room.
"That's it?"
"Yeah." Dean risks a glance at the other bed and is relieved to see no pity in Sam's face, just baffled acceptance.
"Lame."
He throws his pillow blindly at Sam. "But true. Your turn. "
Sam runs a tired hand over his face. "It's probably nothing." He pauses for a moment, then goes on. "Instead of telling me to hurry, she turned and said 'I can take you to him, set him free.'"
"Okay. So what?"
"Don't ask me how, because I don't know but, Dean, I know she was talking about Dad."
~
Part two
Title: City of Lost Things
Author: Krisomniac
Rating, Warning, pairing: R, reference to aired S2 episodes, gen
Disclaimer: Not mine. No profit or copyright infringement intended.
Author's Note: Many thanks to the beta-powers of ignipes and amchara. 666 is a real office building on Fifth Avenue; my mother used to work there. This is the first of a three-part story. Two should be up as soon as beta'd, and three sometime in the not too distant future.
Summary: Sam has visions. Dean drives in New York. Demons ride subways, and hell is an office building on Fifth. (~5000 words)
City of Lost Things
Part One: Visions and Dreamscapes
1.
She's tiny but wears four-inch heels that click on the pavement over which she strides like she's six feet tall. Long, red hair curls down over her shoulders and back. Her eyes are small and green, almost piercing, and her skin is dotted by constellations of pinpoint freckles. She smiles in the winter sun, deftly avoiding the puddles of icy water at the curb. There's a steaming cappuccino in her hand and a thick portfolio under her arm.
Turning onto Fifty-Eighth Street, away from the dark-suited press of people on Sixth Avenue, she walks into the shadows of office buildings-- heavy castles of brick and glass that climb towards the sky while stone gargoyles watch the entrances. She steps through the revolving door of Number 524 and says good morning to the security guards inside, waving her ID as she passes.
The elevator bell dings discreetly, and the doors open on the fifty-seventh floor.
"Morning, Shannon," says a man in a grey suit. He's balancing several prints in one hand, a cell phone and coffee in the other and speaks without breaking his stride.
"Morning." Shannon smiles back. "Have you seen the new reports?"
"I have." He shakes his head, laughing at some private joke. "Was I right, or was I right?"
"You were. I owe you a bottle of wine."
"Make it a nice one," he calls over his shoulder as he rounds the corner.
The offices are open and bright, with windows overlooking the park and the roofs of the neighboring buildings. Shannon sits behind her desk, sorting the papers from her inbox into the pile she's seen, the pile that needs dealing with, and the pile destined for recycling. Her nails are neat and manicured. Her hair is shining in the sun from the window. There's something almost beatific about her face as she scans each paper and decides its fate. Perhaps she's remembering the restaurant last night, the taste of each mouthful of perfectly prepared salmon, the liquid heat of the wine, the pleasant music and company. Perhaps she enjoys being in the office when it's quiet and she can do her work in peace.
The buzzer on her desk sounds. She glances briefly at the clock across the room. It's an antique she found at auction several years ago, with a gilded mahogany case and brass pendulum that fills the silence with its steady tick-tock. It chimes nine times.
"Miss Gregory--" The too-cheerful voice of her personal assistant crackles through the intercom. "There's a Mr. Sessions here to see you."
Shannon exhales, and her eyes flash an even brighter green. "Send him in."
Mr. Sessions is tall and thin and looks like he was born in Armani. He straightens the lapels of his coat. "Good morning, Shannon," he says, enunciating every syllable with Harvard polish. He's no more than twenty-four--several years her junior--yet each word commands respect.
"You're one of his, aren't you." It's not a question. She leans back in her chair, legs crossed, and steeples her fingers, tapping them slowly against one another. "You'll pardon me if I don't offer you a seat."
He shrugs. "I have a message for you." His smile is predatory when he tells her, "You're wanted back on our side."
She laughs, loud and sharp and clear. "Really? And if I don't want to come? You can tell Old Yellow that there's a change in the wind."
Mr. Sessions stares at her for a minute that seems to last forever, a lifetime passes with each tick of the clock. Then he winks.
She takes a deep breath, standing to open the window behind her, and looks outside. The sky is clear, and a cold breeze blows the hair from her shoulders. The distant sounds of traffic and life on the street drift up on the crystalline air.
"It's starting" she says. She shivers and lifts one stilettoed foot to the low sill. Her skirt slides up along the length of her milky-white thigh. "Can you feel it?"
He says nothing. The mounting wind tugs at the edges of his suit.
Springing like a cat, she launches herself into the blue.
The image crackles and blinks, focuses on the body of a petite red-head splayed on the roof of a building, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. Her legs twitch once, twice, then fall still as the sun wheels overhead. No one in the offices above or street below has noticed this extra blip on the skyline of New York.
She sits up and stares directly ahead.
"Hurry," she says. "He's coming."
~
Sam's heart is pounding. His lungs feel empty, heavy and thick. He blinks and rubs his eyes with shaking hands, trying to catalogue the things he's seen, to remember where he is: the smell of French fries and day-old pie, fluorescent lights like knives overhead, throbbing temples. Strong hands on his shoulders: Dean. Always Dean. This is how he knows he's back.
Bentley's Burger, Knoxville, Tennessee.
"--gonna be fine." Dean's voice is loud and angry and tight. He's talking to someone Sam can't see. "Really, miss, he's-- Sammy, Sam, you okay?"
Sam steadies himself on Dean's arm, waits for his heart to slow, for the aftershocks of the vision to pass.
"What'd you see?"
Sam takes a shallow breath. "Girl," he manages. "New York." He stands, swaying, and pushes past Dean. "We've got to hurry," he says once he's out of the booth.
"Sam, wait."
"No. Her name is Shannon Gregory, and she dies tomorrow morning." Sam grips the wall, catching his balance for just a moment in this off-kilter world, then he runs outside.
Several minutes pass before Dean meets him in the car. He waves a white paper bag in Sam's face. It smells of grease and hamburgers and ketchup as red as the blood dripping through his vision, and Sam feels more than a little queasy. He waves the food away.
"Way to run out on the bill, dude. Don't you know it's illegal to leave without paying?"
"Right." Sam smiles in spite of himself. "Pay with stolen credit cards to avoid breaking the law."
Dean reaches into the bag for a fry. "Totally different situation."
He starts the car, and the engine bursts to life with a familiar roar. They peal out of the lot. Within minutes they're back on a narrow, winding highway.
Except for the Impala's headlights, the road is dark and empty. The only sound is from the tires cruising over the frozen asphalt, and Sam is grateful for the rare moment of silence. For a while he stares out the window, watching the trees fly backwards. A half-moon hangs bright in the sky, and his headache begins to recede.
"You didn't put the radio on," he finally says.
Dean shrugs and speaks through a mouthful of hamburger. "Forgot." But he stares ahead without meeting Sam's eyes.
Sam rubs the last of the pain from his temple. "Well, thanks anyway." He looks over at the speedometer; Dean's driving almost twice the limit, but it doesn't feel fast enough. They've got nearly thirteen hours; New York City might as well be a continent away.
"We'll make it in time," Dean says, and he turns the radio on.
"Hey." Sam lets himself believe they will and feels the knot of fear in his throat begin to unwind. "Pass the fries over here."
~
"I think she might be one. Him, too."
"One of the kids? That the demon came after?"
"I dunno, Dean, but my visions usually have something to do with them. He said she'd left his side, and I think the 'he' was the demon. Then she laughed. He stared at her. She jumped."
"So you think there was something telepathic going on?"
"Could be. Like Andy or his brother."
"Then she spoke? To you? After she died?"
"Yeah."
"That ever happen before?"
"No. Dean--"
"We'll figure this out."
"That's not what I--"
"About an hour. Just passed the Jersey border."
They cross the Hudson River as the sun rises over the city.
~
2.
~
Parked outside a Starbucks on the upper west side, Sam finds her address online.
"There had better be liquid gold in this peppermint mocha stuff," Dean says, passing a cup over and climbing into the car. "The prices they charge for your girly drinks, I swear… Any luck?"
"I found her address, but there's no criminal record or anything else about her."
"So where to, Captain Drinks-Like-a-Girl?" Dean points at his upper lip, barely hiding his smile. "I think you've got a little whipped cream. Just there."
Sam paws at his face and finds it dry. "What-- Shut up. Just a few blocks away." He points Dean in the right direction and continues to sort through page after page of Miss Gregory's old histories and official files.
"Any luck with the guy?"
"Nothing."
"What'd you say his name was?"
"Sessions."
"Sessions…" Dean drives for a few minutes, drumming his fingers on the wheel. He weaves in and out of the slow-moving traffic, skirting busses and cursing under his breath at the taxi cabs.
Sam knows better than to ask him what he's thinking--probably of twelve different ways to stop this Sessions guy with only a hot coffee and a screwdriver, or how many bullets it would take to clear the street of traffic. He knows Dean will tell him eventually, and in the meantime they pass another Starbucks, three corner markets, video stores and electronics shops; people getting on with their lives. Bike messengers nearly scratch the car as they speed down Broadway. An old lady pushes her walker slowly across the street, jay-walking at two miles an hour.
"Got it!" Dean says, slapping the wheel. "Sessions. I knew it sounded familiar. I don't think that's his real name."
"Right-- What? How do you know?"
"Chinatown."
"Chinatown?" Sam waits for an explanation.
"Ida Sessions--the woman hired to drag Nicholson into the case. It's-- Sam, don't you remember Chinatown?"
Sam remembers staying up late, blankets tucked up around his chin, watching old movies he never quite understood. He remembers Dean cleaning weapons by feel, hands working effortlessly with oil and a rub rag while his eyes never left the screen, both of their ears perked for the sound of tires pulling into the driveway outside. He remembers the slick sheen of blood in black and white, pouring from Nicholson's nose, wondering where Dad was, whether he ever met a mobster, when he was going to come home. Forget it, Jake, it's Chinatown.
Sam scratches his head. "Guess not."
"How much farther?"
"Uh--" Sam peers at the numbers on the buildings passing by. "Here. This is it." He checks his notes and tucks the computer into his bag. "Shannon Gregory, apartment thirteen F."
The large apartment building has a deep blue awning and imposing white limestone façade. Neatly trimmed hedges line the sidewalk. The buttons are shining on the doorman's coat, his red vest just visible and shoes newly polished, expression surprised as Sam comes charging towards him. He tips his hat while regretfully informing Sam that Miss Gregory has already left for the day.
Sam thanks him and runs outside, yelling to Dean, "Downtown. Now!" He slides into the passenger seat, and Dean pulls away from the curb before the door is completely closed.
Several gridlocked blocks later, they know they're not going to make it.
"When did you say this happens?" Dean's words are clipped as he cuts in front of a cab.
"Nine o'clock"
"Nine exactly?" It's quarter to, and they're still more than a mile away. "Shit." Dean hits the wheel as the light they've finally reached turns red again. "We'll think of something."
"Dean, she's going to die. Let me out here. I can run."
"You don't even know where you're going."
Sam points at a street sign. "The numbers go in order. I'll figure it out."
"Stay." He grabs Sam's coat with furious desperation. "You're not going down there alone. I said, we'll think of something."
~
"You've seen Die Hard one too many times." Sam exhales, listening to the idling engine over the excited and often upset chatter of the people milling outside the building like a herd of sheep in designer clothing. They pull to the side of the road when the bomb squad arrives. "I can't believe that worked."
"You're telling me. See her anywhere?"
Sam scans the crowd, but there are too many people. "I can't see anything from the car," he says, getting out. "And you'd better get moving." The cops are making their way down the block; Dean doesn’t need telling twice.
Nearly ten minutes later, Sam is still looking. The people outside have broken into small clusters of coworkers, and their earlier excitement has evolved into frustration and foot-stomping cold. He peers over shoulders and weaves between the groups. Trying to stay inconspicuous, he hunches his shoulders into his jacket and pulls his hat low over his face, but Shannon is nowhere in the crowd.
"Find her yet?"
"Argh-- Dean! Don't do that." Sam jumps and whirls, knocking Dean's hand away.
Dean is grinning like he couldn't imagine a better way to spend the morning after a sleepless night than speeding down the streets of New York, calling in a fake bomb threat, dodging cops, upsetting countless people's schedules, and possibly saving a young woman he's never even seen.
"How'd you find me so fast?"
Dean just looks up and raises an eyebrow. "You're kidding, right? Sam, losing you in a crowd hasn't been a problem since you were about fourteen."
They work slowly through the mob. The bomb sniffing dogs leave the lobby, and some of the general tension eases. There are people on cell phones, tourists taking pictures, emergency lights flashing, and harried policemen trying to keep everyone calm. They reach the far edge of the crowd.
"There." Sam points. He recognizes her the moment she steps out of the throng. She's walking quickly away from them, red ringlets bobbing. His head aches dully with the memory of her body spread on the roof of a building high above.
"You sure?"
She's disappearing down a subway entrance. Sam rubs his head and tries to ignore the passing worry on Dean's face. "Yeah."
"Is she going back home?"
"I dunno, probably." Sam stares at her retreating form, and tries to focus. White light stabs through his vision. He sees the building, the doorman doffing his cap. He grabs his head, but he can't control it or see any more. "Yeah. I think so."
"Alright. Meet me at her place." Dean springs into action like he's been stung by a particularly determined bee. He tosses Sam the Impala's keys. "She's parked on fifty-fifth… and take care of that freaky brain of yours." And he bolts, disappearing down into the tunnels under the city.
~
3.
~
Dean considers jumping the turnstile for a moment before catching the eye of the security guard on duty. Instead, he buys a card and takes the more discreet and legal route. Getting wise in your old age, he thinks--surprised how much the voice in his head sounds like Sam--as he searches for Shannon Gregory amongst the people waiting impatiently on the crowded platform.
He's been on subways a handful of times, usually hunting the things that hide in the tunnels, in the dark. The smell is universal, he thinks, rats and decaying trash, stagnant water and sizzling electricity off the third rail. He flinches as a train pulls in on the other side. Despite the screeching breaks and grinding gears, the other people on the platform don't seem to notice a thing. They read their newspapers and mystery novels, oblivious as weaves between and around them. He can't find Shannon anywhere.
Then he spots her at the far end of the station, where the crowd is thinner. She's standing alone, wearing a short skirt and tailored coat, long earrings, high heels. With the eye of a connoisseur, Dean hangs back to study the curve of her calf until it disappears under her coat, arc of her neck adorned by a simple gold chain, her ethereally pale skin under a spray of freckles. Trust Sam not to mention that the girl they're after is not only in danger, but unbearably hot. She's looking into the distance down the track, but Dean gets the uncanny feeling that she is listening, waiting, for him. The hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, and he approaches her cautiously. A rat scurries down the rails, and headlights appear in the distance down the tunnel.
He picks up a newspaper someone has left behind and slips onto the train after her, into the last car, taking a seat where he can see her but keep his face hidden behind the paper. She's reading the advertisements posted around the car as it bumps and rattles down the track, and her eyes pass over Dean as though he's not there. He wonders if he was imagining her wariness before.
The conductor announces their next stop, and the train comes to a screaming halt.
The doors open. Some people get off; new ones get on. Shannon is perched at the edge of her seat, but now Dean can hardly see her past the fat man seated between them. The doors close, and the train moves on again. They're heading downtown, away from Sam, and Dean is acutely aware of every passing block. He checks his phone: no signal.
The subway stops; more people get on, change places, shuffle around, and block Dean's view. He stands to see her better, pretending to read a map, but when he glances down the car, she's gone. The doors close just as he sees her back disappearing into the crowd.
"Shit."
Without pausing to think, Dean runs to the back of the car and pulls the door open. There's a small, unsteady platform fixed to the back of the train. In the sudden, sweltering heat of the tunnel, Dean climbs onto the safety rail. The train is already moving, but it's still slow enough he thinks he can land without hitting one of the large steel columns that line the station. He takes a deep breath--
And Jumps.
Lands, tucks, rolls.
"Are you all right?"
"Mom, did you see tha--"
Dean is curled in a ball on the platform, winded but whole, listening to the gasps of the gathering crowd. Somebody's stooped and meddling grandmother starts to scold him as he slowly winces and climbs to his feet.
"--ever do that again, young man. Do you know what could've--"
"I'm fine." He smiles at their concerned and curious faces and braces himself on his knees while he catches his breath. "Just a dare. Next show at noon."
Someone tosses a quarter on the ground in front of him. The others turn and begin to disperse, even the angry old woman. Sometimes, Dean loves New York. He jogs in the direction he last saw Shannon.
~
She hasn't gone far. He spots her waiting for the A train one level up. This time, he hangs back while she walks to the very end.
She steps to the edge of the platform, exquisite legs only inches away from the dark. White hands hold the wall as she leans over slowly, looking for an incoming train. Dean watches the arc of her back while she stares down the tunnel. There isn't a single headlight in sight, only black disappearing under the city. Satisfied, she turns, winks at him, and drops down into the track.
"--the fuck?" Dean looks around quickly; no one else seems to have noticed that she was even there.
He bolts down to spot where she was standing, his heart racing as he plunges into the tunnel after her. Dean only regrets his lack of a flashlight for a moment before the lights from the station fade and, careful to avoid the third rail, he is swallowed by the dark.
He pauses. The only sounds are the click of her heels ahead, his ragged breath, the distant drip of water, and scurrying of tiny rat feet. He hears her turn left and feels blindly along the dank walls for some kind of opening. It appears under his fingers just as a train comes around a bend in the track: the edge of a door. It's heavy and steel, probably leading to an old engineering room. It's also, mercifully, unlocked. Cocking his gun and taking a deep breath, Dean edges inside.
If possible, it's even darker in here. Dean steps on something soft and squishy, refuses to wonder what it is. The sound of Shannon's footsteps disappears beneath the roar of the train passing by. Dean freezes, but in the sudden light he catches a glimpse of red hair, notes the layout of the room. There are pipes running along the ceiling and up the walls. Some are huge, others small. There are valves and levers and wheels and, at the far end, another door. As the engine fades, he hears this far door slam.
Dean feels his way over. The room is achingly empty, and he wishes Sam had his back right about now. But Sam is half a city away, waiting for him in the car, and his phone still has no signal.
Step after step, the darkness only deepens and the far end of the room doesn't seem to come any closer. His fingers twitch on the trigger and he forces them still. Step. If a person were to die down here in the dark, he wonders, how long would it take to find the body. Step. He wonders how a girl like Shannon even knows this place exists. Step. Why Sam had a vision about her. Step. Whether this isn't all a trap.
He reaches the wall, finds the door, and makes quick work of the lock. The he readies his weapon and opens it.
At first the light on the other side of the door is blinding. Dean blinks in the incandescence of the sixty-watt bulb hanging over a short staircase. He bolts up the stairs and tries the door at the top. It springs open.
Dean only has a moment to register that they're in another control room-- more of a control closet-- there's barely enough space for the two of them. Beyond this room is the bustle and noise of the station. Shannon's arms are crossed over her chest, as though she's been waiting. But it's her eyes that grab his attention.
They burn intense and green, lit by a familiar swirling and roiling fire.
"Wow," Dean says. "You guys come in every flavor of the rainbow." He levels his gun at her; it won't do much good, but might buy him a moment to escape and he doesn't have any holy water on him. A litany of Latin rises to his lips, and he wonders whether he can recite the exorcism before she attacks.
"You're not the one I called," she hisses, and he doesn't even have time to pull the trigger before she steps forward and the back of her hand makes contact with his face.
Dean hears a dull thwack as his head hits the door and his world turns upside down. He tumbles back through it and down the stairs, crumpling in a heap at the bottom.
He doesn't know how long he's lain there, stunned and barely holding on to consciousness. He stares at the swinging bare bulb overhead. It may be minutes, may be longer. He inhales. Ribs feel bruised, not broken. Turning his head slowly, neck seems okay, skull pounding. Leaning heavily against the wall for support, he catalogues the various aches and pains, then ignores them as he stands. It's a moment before he's caught his breath enough to climb back out to the street, call Sam, and find out what the hell is going on.
Shannon, whoever--whatever--she is, is long gone.
~
"He wouldn't let you in? You sure you flashed that puppydog smile?"
Sam rolls his eyes. "I thought he was going to shoot me for loitering."
"Yeah, never underestimate a doorman." Dean takes the towel of ice Sam offers, and touches it gingerly to his cheek.
"At least I didn't get beat up by five feet of girl."
"She's a redhead. And nearly five six in those heels."
"Right. Never underestimate a redhead."
"Or a demon."
Sam stops smiling and looks thoughtfully out the window. It has a spectacular view of the building next door. Their room is on the sixth floor of the cheapest hotel they could find, and a pair of pigeons is roosting on the fire escape. "It does explain one thing, though-- why she spoke to me after she died."
"Yeah, you're not getting messages from beyond the grave. The demon inside her kept her alive"
Sam only looks marginally relieved. "But it just means--"
"More questions, I know." Dean stands and stretches despite the knotty muscles protesting along the length of his back. He pats Sam on the shoulder. "But right now it's late and you haven't slept, and thinking in circles until you drop isn't going to help anyone." He closes the blinds and checks his guns. "I say we make an appointment to see Miss Shannon Gregory and get our answers in the morning."
"Right." Sam doesn't sound entirely convinced. "Okay."
~
Dean startles awake and glances at the clock. "It's four in the morning," he mumbles through sleep-addled thoughts.
Sam is sitting against the headboard of the other bed, knees tucked up to his chest, staring straight ahead as though he's seen a ghost-- as though he's a normal kid who's just seen a ghost, that is.
Dean shakes off the last vestiges of sleep and pushes himself up, noticing with a certain satisfaction that just a few hours' rest have eased the worst of the aches in his muscles. "You okay?"
Sam nods without looking over.
"Trying to burn a hole through that wall, Superman?" No response. He tries again. "Bad dream?"
"What do you think?"
"That someone woke up on the sarcastic side of the bed."
Sam deflates a little and finally turns away from the wall. Mission accomplished. "Same one," he says. "She falls out of the window. Only, this time there was more."
"What more?" Dean pulls on a T-shirt and sets the coffee machine; it doesn't look like he's going to get any more sleep tonight.
"I-- I can't--" Sam looks up at him, and suddenly he's five years old again, shaking like a leaf and frightened of the dark under his bed. Even back then, they'd stay up for hours before Sam would say what was on his mind, scared of the monsters or of losing Dad, or simply of knowing, with freaky intuition, that things weren't okay… no matter how many times Dean told him they were.
Dean knows they're too old for childish platitudes anymore, and he doesn't bother to pretend it's alright. "Hey, you don't have to say… You figured out how we're going to get into that office yet?"
"No," he murmurs. "Dean?"
"Mmm?"
"Do you ever dream?"
Dean hesitates, deciding how to answer. He's never been one for talking, not like Sam, and he doesn't like the direction this conversation is moving. He fiddles with the coffee pot for a few seconds before answering. "Yeah, I guess. Don't remember them, most of the time."
"Do you have nightmares?"
"Like being chased by zombies or walking into class naked? Nah." He forces a smile.
"No," Sam says. "Like the kind when you wake up and look surprised to be here."
Dean's breath catches in his throat, and he fights back the treacherous wish to lie to Sam. Again. He didn't think it had gotten so bad Sam would notice.
"I see you, in the mornings," Sam says slowly. "It's happening more and more. You don't look frightened, just… surprised. Like that morning when--"
"Stop." Dean is afraid he's going to crack the mug in his hand, and he sets it down by the coffee pot. "Shut up. Now."
"It's been worse since that job in Mississippi. Look, I don't know what that demon told you…."
Dean only breathes.
"I just… I guess I want to know that I'm not the only one. What do you dream about, Dean?"
"This, from the guy who won't tell me why he got me up at four in the morning."
"I didn't mean--" Sam pauses. "Fine. I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours."
And damned if he doesn't have a fair point. Dean takes a deep breath and lies back on the bed, staring at the ceiling so he doesn't have to see the expression on Sam's face. "It's always the same, and it's stupid and doesn't mean anything, okay?" He feels Sam nod. "I'm in an empty room, and there's this girl there. There aren't any lights, but it doesn't matter; we can still see. She's unusual, pretty, dark hair and eyes, and she's asking me if I'm ready to go. I don't know why, but I don't want to leave. Then she touches me, and it's warm and quiet like nothing I've ever-- like the deepest sleep you've ever had but you're aware enough to enjoy it--" He pauses. "So I tell her 'yes.'"
"And then?"
"And then nothing. I wake up." Dean shrugs and makes light of it. He doesn't say that waking up is the most terrifying part of the nightmare, or that he recognizes the hospital bed in the empty room.
"That's it?"
"Yeah." Dean risks a glance at the other bed and is relieved to see no pity in Sam's face, just baffled acceptance.
"Lame."
He throws his pillow blindly at Sam. "But true. Your turn. "
Sam runs a tired hand over his face. "It's probably nothing." He pauses for a moment, then goes on. "Instead of telling me to hurry, she turned and said 'I can take you to him, set him free.'"
"Okay. So what?"
"Don't ask me how, because I don't know but, Dean, I know she was talking about Dad."
~
Part two