Challenge Response: Dean and Sam get day jobs.
I was meant to post this yesterday, but my sister said my second half needed work, so I worked on it. Then, two hours ago, I got hit with a better idea and re-wrote the whole ending, lol. Still not completely happy with the last third, but you have to take the bad with the good, I s'pose. Writing office!Dean is *so* much fun! I recommend everyone give it a go, lol.
This response was meant to be a one shot, but it's super long so I've turned it into a two shot, though I'll post Part 2 straight after this one.
Title: Paper Jam
Summary: Response to the
spn_challenges challenge: Sam and/or Dean get day jobs. Dean in an office? Sam in a warehouse? There's going to be trouble.
Rating: PG, for some language and a bit of gore.
A/N: Don't ask what sort of office Dean works in, lol, 'cause I don't know. It's a generic one :P
Paper Jam: Part 1
“Paper Jam! I’ll paper jam you…” Dean’s finger clutched the sides of the photocopying machine as he glared at the blinking words - Paper Jam, Paper Jam, Paper Jam - and tried not to growl or, you know, chuck the thing across the room. The photocopying machine was big, but Dean had no doubt he could take it. Instead, Dean took a deep breath to calm himself and unclenched his fist, jabbing a few buttons at random to try and fix the damn problem.
Paper Jam, Paper Jam, Paper Jam.
Dean yanked at his tie, loosening it and growling under his breath. “How do people wear these frickin’ nooses.” He jabbed some more buttons.
Paper Jam, Paper Jam, Paper Jam.
Losing patience, Dean balled up his fist and pounded the machine, making it rattle and causing a few startled gasps around him.
“Having trouble?”
Dean whipped around to find Gus standing there, rocking on his feet calmly, belly straining against his pressed shirt and a steaming coffee mug in one hand. He was watching Dean with something between smugness and mild curiosity.
“No, I get off on beating up photocopying machines.” Dean was not in the mood to play polite. He was wearing a frickin’ suit and arguing with a photocopier, for crying out loud. He was not happy.
Gus smiled. “These pesky machines can be a mite challenging, they take some getting use to. You’ll get there. Eventually. One day. After practice.”
“Gee, Gus, is that how you got your nifty desk job? Years of practice refining your photocopying skills?”
“And the right attitude,” Gus responded in his calm voice, taking a sip of his coffee.
Dean rolled his eyes. “The thing’s broken, fix it would ya.” He glanced at Gus and reluctantly stepped back to give him access. “Please,” he added, spitting the word out through clenched teeth.
“Okay dokay.” Gus leaned forward and read the flashing screen. “It has a paper jam.”
“Gee, that’s some deductive skills you got there, Gus-y. What’s that mean?”
“That the paper is jammed.”
“How do I fix it?”
“Not by jabbing the buttons,” Gus chuckled. “That’d be like yelling at a ticket inspector to prevent a fine.”
“What?” Dean scowled and loosened his tie further.
Gus lightly tapped the side of the machine with his foot. “You have to unjam the paper manually.”
“Do you know how?”
“Yeppers.”
Dean stared at Gus, raising his eyebrows and expecting him to fix it. Instead, Gus smiled again, took another sip of his coffee and strolled away.
Dean clenched his fists until they turned white. He’s not a demon, Dean. You can’t cut off someone’s head just because they’re annoying… No matter how much you want to. Dean sighed and hitched up his slacks, kneeling in front of the panel on the side of the photocopier. “No wonder all those suits plunge out of windows: paper jams, noose ties, pants that collect dust… Guses.” Dean pulled at the panel door, trying to open it, not caring that he must appear like a mad man to anyone paying the slightest attention. “Hell, I’m aboutready to jump out a window.” Using more force than he’d intended, the machine’s panel suddenly broke loose and came off in Dean’s hands, small screws shooting in all directions. Startled, Dean looked from the square, metal door in his hand to the gaping hole in the machine’s side.
He could see the jammed paper, at least.
“Mr. Barry.”
Dean reached in to grab the tangled piece of paper.
“Mr. BARRY.”
“Huh? Oh right, that’s me.” Dean whipped around and abruptly stood up, clanging his head against one of the photocopier’s protruding parts. “Son of a b - ” Dean realised it was his boss who’d called him. “B….” For the life of him Dean couldn’t think of another word starting with ‘b’. “Bi…noculars?”
His boss sighed, his eyes traveling from the broken bit of machine in Dean’s hands to the stack of papers yet to be photocopied. “I thought you said you had years experience as an office clerk.”
“I do,” Dean defended, rubbing his sore head. “It’s just…” he glanced back at the photocopier. “These newfangled things, you know how it is, give ‘em the lightest tap and they just…fall apart…” his chuckle died out. “I’ll pay for it.” Ha! His brain shouted.
The man standing in front of Dean sighed again. “Look, I’ll get someone else to finish up here. You can get me a coffee, can you do that Mr. Barry?”
Dean smiled tightly, biting back a retort. “Sure can, boss.”
“Make it a latte.”
Dean turned to go before realizing he was still holding the broken-off door. He looked around; seeing nowhere to place it he offered it to his boss, who took it incredulously, then abruptly turned and headed for the staff kitchen. “Make it a latte,” Dean grumbled under his breath. “Yeah, I’ll make it a latte and then pour it over your shiny head…”
Dean pushed open the door and strode into the little kitchen, ignoring the looks we was receiving from the few people already in there. He jumped into a sitting position on the counter and used one hand to dig his phone from his pocket while the other reached for the cupboards next to his head, searching for some food. He found a box of flavoured crackers and pulled them out. Balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder, Dean opened the box and dug his hand in, pulling out a handful of crackers and shoving them into his mouth.
“Dean?” Sam answered, finally picking up.
“I think my suit’s possessed,” Dean said, mouth full.
“Why do you think your suit’s possessed, Dean?” Sam’s voice came back through the line with a smile in the words, playing along.
“Pick a reason. It’s trying to strangle me, it won’t let me bend properly, it’s cold when it’s cold, stuffy when it’s hot, and it chaffs in places that should not be chaffing.”
Sam chuckled. “I told you, Dean, you should’ve let me take that gig. How’s thing’s going with that secretary, anyway? Still worth it?”
Dean craned his neck and peeked through the doorway longingly, just able to see the side of the receptionist’s face as she smiled, talking on the phone. He sighed. “It’d be going better if she wasn’t always on the phone and I wasn’t being forced to photocopy and file shit all the time.”
“You file?” Sam out right laughed, obviously not trying to mask his amusement anymore.
Dean scowled, putting aside the box of crackers and searching through the cupboards again. He grabbed whatever it was his hand had just passed over and crinkled. Score. It was a packet of cookies. “Yeah, I file,” Dean defended, ripping the packet open and biting into one. “And it’s boring as hell: no one leads any interesting lives these days, it’s all work this, career that. Where the hell’s all the, you know, soap opera stuff. The affairs, the dirt. See what I put up with for the hunt?”
“If by hunt, you mean to get into some girl’s pants, I’m not surprised, and - ” Sam paused. “Dean, you read the files you were filing?”
“Yeah,” Dean shrugged.
Sam spluttered for a second. “You can’t do that.”
“Why? It’s not your file.” Dean brushed off his hands and tossed the packet into the nearest bin.
“That’s not the point.”
“Funny. Who was it you were impersonating last month? And I seem to recall you in a priest outfit once…huh, didn’t know you’d taken the vows, Sammy.”
Dean grinned, hearing his brother sigh.
“I swear Dean, talking to you is like trying to knock sense into a brick wall…a stubborn, annoying brick wall.”
“You forgot ‘good-looking’. How’re things on your end? Any sign of the…” Dean glanced at the few people mingling in the small room, well within earshot “…taxman?”
“Not yet. But I rechecked, just to make sure we’re on the right track, and all the victims definitely worked at the building your ‘working’ in. And I’m using that term lightly. They were all slaughtered in one of the five warehouses the company owns. No order, just whichever warehouse was free at the time, I guess.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t need a recap. Found anything yet so we can kill this…taxman…and I can leave this godforsaken hell hole?” Dean glanced at the small group of people who weren’t even trying to hide their shock. “No offence guys. I’m sure you find this hell hole real cozy.” He shifted on the bench so that his back was turned to them. “And before my kind colleagues rip me to pieces,” he said more quietly.
“You can’t last one week without pissing someone off, can you? Okay, well I’ve checked out two of the warehouses and didn’t find anything, so I’m about to check the third now. Any suspects on your end?”
“Gus.”
“Gus?”
Dean frowned for a second, thinking. “And my boss.”
Another audible sigh hit his ear. “It’s been two weeks since this thing last fed. It’s going to attack again; you have to get serious.”
“And I am serious. Seriously annoyed. They could be the bad guys, why not just chop off their heads and see if green stuff starts squirting out?”
“Dean.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. ‘There’s no time for jokes in Sam land’”
“You keep digging around, I’ll call you if I find anything.”
“Wait, wait,” Dean said, hopping off the counter.
“What?”
“How do I make a latte?”
Sam pocketed his phone and tried to wipe the smile off his face. What he wouldn’t pay to see his brother working at an office. The thought alone gave him the incentive to figure out what was committing these murders as quickly as possible so that he could catch Dean in office-clerk-mode. He chuckled and strode up to the next warehouse on his list of five.
Sam stopped at the entrance to look up at the building, trying to ‘read’ something from it. But nothing struck him as off; it looked just like any other warehouse - big and bland. The windows stood high, near the roof, and were coated black from years of neglect and dust, and the pavement beneath his feet was worn down by tire marks and heavy loads. But all this was nothing out of the ordinary. Were you expecting a big arrow painted in blood?
Sam fished a tag out of his pocket and clipped it to his overalls’ pocket. It read: Sam Menzies. He then pushed open the side door and walked in. A group of workers sat in a lazy circle on some upturned crates and they all turned and squinted at Sam through the sunlight his entry let tumble in.
“Uh, hi,” Sam said, walking up to them with a smile and extending his hand. No one extended his greeting or offered any indication that he was welcome. They just stared, chewing on tobacco and taking an occasional drag of their cigarettes. The cigarette smoke floated around their heads so heavily that Sam could barely gauge their reactions - was that suspicion or menace being fired at him? Though he could see their tussled hair and the large tattoos peeking out from a few of the men’s rolled up sleeves.
“Okay,” Sam said, lowering his hand and shoving it into his pocket. You fight ghosts and demons, Sam, what’s a few surly workers? “Well, I’m Sam. I’m…new. Just hired.”
“What you do?” one of the men asked, before chomping on his cigar and frowning up at Sam.
“What do I do?”
“What dumbass means is what’s your qual-i-fi-cations and such?” another asked. He was tall and lanky with scrunched up features, like he was perpetually watching for something.
“Uh,” Sam glanced around the warehouse. “Forklifts,” he blurted, his eyes falling on the closest machine. “I drive forklifts.”
“Bert drives forklifts.”
Bert - or who Sam assumed was Bert - stood up. He was barrel-chested with long curly hair, and was one of the few people Sam had seen tower over him. Sam gulped.
“You one of the bosses’ kids? Here to tell me I’m fired? Replace me? One of their moles?”
“Who’s moles?”
“There’s.”
A collective snarl emitted from the group and they all feigned spitting. Okay, strange…
“Them. The bour..ges..ie…”
“The bourgeoisie?” Sam offered, raising his eyebrow.
“Yeah, them. The white collar clowns up there,” he pointed up and then frowned. “No, there,” he said, pointing instead in the direction of the building Dean was working in - the company that ran this warehouse.
“Seriously, guys.” Sam said held up his hands. “I’m not a mole, or a spy, and I can honestly say I’m living out of my car most days. I’m not one of…them. I’m just the new guy. Promise.”
Bert squinted at Sam and gave him a once over before striding up to him and locking his arm around Sam’s neck. Sam tensed, ready to slip through the hold and fight back. But then Bert tussled Sam’s hair and laughed. “He’s one of us, fellas!” He pulled Sam into the group and offered him an upturned crate.
Sam sat down and smiled weakly, watching as the group abruptly stopped eyeing him and continued to deal cards and shove fast food into their mouths.
“Want?” Bert asked, offering his cigarette.
Sam got a whiff of the smell. Okay, not a cigarette. “Explaining a lot,” he muttered.
“Hah?”
“Nothing. No, I’m okay. I don’t…smoke.” Sam looked around at the small group as they played cards between themselves. They all looked a bit unkempt and tired. “So, uh, do you always interrogate the newcomers like that?”
Bert shrugged. “Pretty much,” he said, tossing a few cards onto the makeshift table.
Sam nodded, rubbing his hands together and looking around at the dark warehouse. “Why?” he asked, turning back to the group.
“Can’t be too careful, you know?” answered the tall and lanky one, looking at Sam earnestly. “Today’s society, man. It’s corrupt. The government, and shit, you know? The bosses don’t like us ‘coz we’re union, they can’t control us like their other lab rats. Big brother and all that, he’s watching you, you know.” Tall and lanky cocked his head. “Not you specifically, the royale you.”
“Royal,” another worker corrected.
Sam’s frown deepened and he rubbed his forehead. “So, the government is corrupt, which we all knew, but they’re using the company you work for who, in turn, are hiring spies to infiltrate this warehouse?” Sam tried to keep the smile from his face, but then he shrugged. “I guess stranger things have happened. Like moving wardrobes with minds.”
“Yeah, man, they infiltrate, you know? Trying to find reason to fire us. Prove that we’re slackers.” He slapped some cards onto the table. “Three,” he asked the card dealer.
“So, you guys must really hate the people who work up there in that building?” Sam tried to sound nonchalant as his suspicion began to form.
“Ignore Chad,” replied the man who’d corrected Chad. “He’s a conspiracy nut. These break times don’t help that, you know?” he gestured towards the smoke in Chad’s hand. “We just like giving the newbies a hard time. We knew you were one of us the second you walked in. You have our hair.”
Sam automatically touched his hair, insulted and glad to hell Dean wasn’t around to hear that. He chose to ignore that comment. “It’s tragic about all those deaths round here lately, isn’t it?” Again he tried to sound nonchalant, but he watched the group closely and was startled when, almost as one, they froze and glanced up at Sam.
“What you know about it?” Bert asked, crossing his arms and leaning back.
Sam cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably, finding himself under scrutiny again. “Just what I’ve heard in the news. Over the past few months, bodies have been found slaughtered. One every few weeks. Always in one of these, uh, five warehouses.” He tugged at his overalls, clearing his throat again. “Just wondering how safe it is round here, that’s all.”
Bert’s face relaxed and he wrapped at arm around Sam’s shoulders, drawing him closer in a move Sam was sure hadn’t meant to nearly topple him. “Don’t worry, little buddy. You’re safe with us. You’re part of the team now. The team looks out for each other.”
Sam smiled tightly, glancing at the hairy hand squeezing his shoulder. “I feel safer already.”
“But, still…something fishy there, you know? It doesn’t add up,” Chad said, leaning in closer to Sam and talking in a hushed tone.
“What do you mean?” Sam whispered back.
“A serial killer, maybe a disgruntled ex-employee killing colleagues, that’s what they’re saying, right? But the bodies are all teared up. Have you ever met an office personnel type that can lift a rock, let lone tear someone up? And the warehouses are never broken into. No picked lock, no shattered glass. It’s a conspiracy, man. Something fishy here. I can smell it.”
“That’s your breath, Chad,” Bert said, standing up, laughing nervously. “Break’s over.”
The group stood up one by one, stretching and collecting their rubbish, turning the crates back around and stacking them neatly. Sam stood and moved back reluctantly. He wanted to keep digging, but didn’t know how to keep the topic going without creating suspicion himself.
“You use the forklift today,” Bert said, slapping Sam’s shoulder and making him lurch a little “You can move that stuff over there.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “Wha…no, really, you’re the forklift guy, I don’t want to mess with that. Really.”
Bret shrugged, already walking away. “We’ll take turns. I’ll use it tomorrow.”
Sam’s mouth hung open a little as he turned to look at the forklift sitting there, gleaming in the dust. Waiting. “Ah, crap.”
“Yeah, exactly, like dungeons and dragons.” Dean ignored the urge to roll his eyes. He was sitting at the small table in the staff kitchen, fiddling with a mug of untouched coffee. “Of course I didn’t mean I’m really trying to kill a tax man. It’s just…role playing. To pass the time.”
“So you pretend to be a taxman hunter?” one of his colleagues sneered, dumping a packet of sugar into his coffee.
“…Yeah.” Dean clenched his teeth. Seriously, he couldn’t have thought of something better to explain the overheard conversation?
“And what’s the deal with the squirting green blood thing,” a woman asked, looking genuinely curious.
“Uh…points. Yeah…If they squirt out - imaginary, of course - green blood, we get points.”
“That makes no sense,” the colleague, Brad, sneered again.
“…Yeah it does.”
“In geek land, maybe.”
Dean glowered. “You’re going to be in pummeled land in a second,” he muttered. “So,” he said more loudly. “All these deaths lately. Who does everyone suspect? It’s Gus, right? He looks like the serial-killer type.” Being subtle was Sam’s card, Dean had no patience for it.
“Nah, it’s definitely a brawd,” Brad said.
“Would you like us to refer to you as a mongrel?” Jan snapped.
“Why do you think it’s a female doing the deadly deeds?” Dean asked.
“All the victims were male,” Brad shrugged.
“That’s true…”
“I’m not saying I condone murder or anything,” Jan interrupted. “But they all deserved to die.”
Dean frowned at this, watching Jan carefully. “Yeah?”
“They were pigs, the lot of them. Always hitting on anything with boobs; rude, inconsiderate - ”
“Selfish,” another colleague added, walking into the room and pulling up a chair.
“ -womanizing players.”
“Nothing like a scorned women.” Brad turned to Dean. “You think we deserve to be killed just for having a bit of fun?”
“Hell no,” Dean scoffed without thinking. He suddenly found himself the target of some very pissed-off glares. “Uh, and by that I mean…hell…is the place where…sinners…the male type?…will…uh…end…You know, I bet my boss is waiting for that coffee.” Dean sprung up and grabbed the mug sitting forgotten, until now, on the counter.
“Hey, where’d all the food go?” The group at the table turned to glare at Dean.
“I’ll pay for it!” Ha! his brain shouted again as he hurried from the kitchen, shaking his head and further loosening his tie. “Worst hunt ever,” he muttered. Yeah, including the time he was almost electrocuted to death.
“Talking to yourself?”
Dean turned to find the receptionist watching him. He grinned. Finally, all this may just be worth it. He sauntered up to the reception desk and leaned against it, smiling at her. “Well I keep seeing you on these phones here and you made talking to no-one look so tempting, I just had to try it myself.”
She giggled. “But, in my case, there are people on the other end of the line.”
Dean raised his eyebrows playfully. “Huh, you don’t say? I like your necklace,” he said, using it as an excuse to lean closer, but his attempts were cut short by a shriek coming from the office block behind them.
“Spider! Kill it, kill it!”
Dean clenched his jaw, annoyed that her attention had been stolen from him. “I’ll be back in a second,” he said, starting to walk towards the source of the commotion but popping back a second later. “Don’t go anywhere. Seriously.”
Dean grabbed the latte and marched into the office space to find people backed up on chairs and watching, eyes wide, as a huge tarantula scuttled over desks, having somehow found its way into the terrain of the office folk.
“Guys!” Dean yelled. “Would you keep it down? You’re making it very hard for me to hit on the receptionist!”
The shrieks continued. Growling and grumbling, Dean grabbed a pen from one of the desks and strode up to the spider, impaling it to the desk in one swift move.
The shrieks stopped and everyone gaped at Dean. He lifted his arms in exasperation. “Was that so hard?” He turned to leave when someone called him back. Dean swiveled around to find Gus sitting in his desk chair, arms raised away from his desk in disgust. He glanced from the impaled spider to Dean.
“What?”
Gus pointed at the dead spider. “Uh, aren’t you going to clean that up?”
Dean breathed in deeply, clenching the fist not holding the cup of coffee. “Do it yourself, Barney.” He turned quickly to avoid an argument, and smacked right into an office helper, spilling half the coffee and almost pushing her over. Dean’s arm sprung out to steady her. “Woah, hey, you okay?”
She glanced down at her sopping wet feet. “These are new shoes! And my toes are all wet.”
Dean frowned. “Well that’s what you get for not wearing appropriate footwear.” He skirted around her and yanked open his boss’s door with more force than he’d intended.
His boss looked up, startled. Dean slammed down the mug on his paperwork, ignoring that a ring of coffee was seeping into the papers, and turned to leave.
“This is cold,” his boss protested.
“We were out of hot water,” Dean retorted, slamming the door closed behind him. He leaned against it, feeling a headache forming.
“Mr. Barry,” Gus called in that lilting voice of his and Dean turned to find people still staring at him.
“Eat the damn spider! I don’t care! I killed it, clean up duty is not my problem.” Dean threw his hands up in exasperation and stalked out of there. “I’m in hell,” he muttered. “This is hell, and I am in it.”
Returning to the reception hall, he found the secretary preoccupied with a customer. Dean hung his head, resigned - Fate hates me.
TBC
Go to Part 2
This response was meant to be a one shot, but it's super long so I've turned it into a two shot, though I'll post Part 2 straight after this one.
Title: Paper Jam
Summary: Response to the
spn_challenges challenge: Sam and/or Dean get day jobs. Dean in an office? Sam in a warehouse? There's going to be trouble.
Rating: PG, for some language and a bit of gore.
A/N: Don't ask what sort of office Dean works in, lol, 'cause I don't know. It's a generic one :P
Paper Jam: Part 1
“Paper Jam! I’ll paper jam you…” Dean’s finger clutched the sides of the photocopying machine as he glared at the blinking words - Paper Jam, Paper Jam, Paper Jam - and tried not to growl or, you know, chuck the thing across the room. The photocopying machine was big, but Dean had no doubt he could take it. Instead, Dean took a deep breath to calm himself and unclenched his fist, jabbing a few buttons at random to try and fix the damn problem.
Paper Jam, Paper Jam, Paper Jam.
Dean yanked at his tie, loosening it and growling under his breath. “How do people wear these frickin’ nooses.” He jabbed some more buttons.
Paper Jam, Paper Jam, Paper Jam.
Losing patience, Dean balled up his fist and pounded the machine, making it rattle and causing a few startled gasps around him.
“Having trouble?”
Dean whipped around to find Gus standing there, rocking on his feet calmly, belly straining against his pressed shirt and a steaming coffee mug in one hand. He was watching Dean with something between smugness and mild curiosity.
“No, I get off on beating up photocopying machines.” Dean was not in the mood to play polite. He was wearing a frickin’ suit and arguing with a photocopier, for crying out loud. He was not happy.
Gus smiled. “These pesky machines can be a mite challenging, they take some getting use to. You’ll get there. Eventually. One day. After practice.”
“Gee, Gus, is that how you got your nifty desk job? Years of practice refining your photocopying skills?”
“And the right attitude,” Gus responded in his calm voice, taking a sip of his coffee.
Dean rolled his eyes. “The thing’s broken, fix it would ya.” He glanced at Gus and reluctantly stepped back to give him access. “Please,” he added, spitting the word out through clenched teeth.
“Okay dokay.” Gus leaned forward and read the flashing screen. “It has a paper jam.”
“Gee, that’s some deductive skills you got there, Gus-y. What’s that mean?”
“That the paper is jammed.”
“How do I fix it?”
“Not by jabbing the buttons,” Gus chuckled. “That’d be like yelling at a ticket inspector to prevent a fine.”
“What?” Dean scowled and loosened his tie further.
Gus lightly tapped the side of the machine with his foot. “You have to unjam the paper manually.”
“Do you know how?”
“Yeppers.”
Dean stared at Gus, raising his eyebrows and expecting him to fix it. Instead, Gus smiled again, took another sip of his coffee and strolled away.
Dean clenched his fists until they turned white. He’s not a demon, Dean. You can’t cut off someone’s head just because they’re annoying… No matter how much you want to. Dean sighed and hitched up his slacks, kneeling in front of the panel on the side of the photocopier. “No wonder all those suits plunge out of windows: paper jams, noose ties, pants that collect dust… Guses.” Dean pulled at the panel door, trying to open it, not caring that he must appear like a mad man to anyone paying the slightest attention. “Hell, I’m aboutready to jump out a window.” Using more force than he’d intended, the machine’s panel suddenly broke loose and came off in Dean’s hands, small screws shooting in all directions. Startled, Dean looked from the square, metal door in his hand to the gaping hole in the machine’s side.
He could see the jammed paper, at least.
“Mr. Barry.”
Dean reached in to grab the tangled piece of paper.
“Mr. BARRY.”
“Huh? Oh right, that’s me.” Dean whipped around and abruptly stood up, clanging his head against one of the photocopier’s protruding parts. “Son of a b - ” Dean realised it was his boss who’d called him. “B….” For the life of him Dean couldn’t think of another word starting with ‘b’. “Bi…noculars?”
His boss sighed, his eyes traveling from the broken bit of machine in Dean’s hands to the stack of papers yet to be photocopied. “I thought you said you had years experience as an office clerk.”
“I do,” Dean defended, rubbing his sore head. “It’s just…” he glanced back at the photocopier. “These newfangled things, you know how it is, give ‘em the lightest tap and they just…fall apart…” his chuckle died out. “I’ll pay for it.” Ha! His brain shouted.
The man standing in front of Dean sighed again. “Look, I’ll get someone else to finish up here. You can get me a coffee, can you do that Mr. Barry?”
Dean smiled tightly, biting back a retort. “Sure can, boss.”
“Make it a latte.”
Dean turned to go before realizing he was still holding the broken-off door. He looked around; seeing nowhere to place it he offered it to his boss, who took it incredulously, then abruptly turned and headed for the staff kitchen. “Make it a latte,” Dean grumbled under his breath. “Yeah, I’ll make it a latte and then pour it over your shiny head…”
Dean pushed open the door and strode into the little kitchen, ignoring the looks we was receiving from the few people already in there. He jumped into a sitting position on the counter and used one hand to dig his phone from his pocket while the other reached for the cupboards next to his head, searching for some food. He found a box of flavoured crackers and pulled them out. Balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder, Dean opened the box and dug his hand in, pulling out a handful of crackers and shoving them into his mouth.
“Dean?” Sam answered, finally picking up.
“I think my suit’s possessed,” Dean said, mouth full.
“Why do you think your suit’s possessed, Dean?” Sam’s voice came back through the line with a smile in the words, playing along.
“Pick a reason. It’s trying to strangle me, it won’t let me bend properly, it’s cold when it’s cold, stuffy when it’s hot, and it chaffs in places that should not be chaffing.”
Sam chuckled. “I told you, Dean, you should’ve let me take that gig. How’s thing’s going with that secretary, anyway? Still worth it?”
Dean craned his neck and peeked through the doorway longingly, just able to see the side of the receptionist’s face as she smiled, talking on the phone. He sighed. “It’d be going better if she wasn’t always on the phone and I wasn’t being forced to photocopy and file shit all the time.”
“You file?” Sam out right laughed, obviously not trying to mask his amusement anymore.
Dean scowled, putting aside the box of crackers and searching through the cupboards again. He grabbed whatever it was his hand had just passed over and crinkled. Score. It was a packet of cookies. “Yeah, I file,” Dean defended, ripping the packet open and biting into one. “And it’s boring as hell: no one leads any interesting lives these days, it’s all work this, career that. Where the hell’s all the, you know, soap opera stuff. The affairs, the dirt. See what I put up with for the hunt?”
“If by hunt, you mean to get into some girl’s pants, I’m not surprised, and - ” Sam paused. “Dean, you read the files you were filing?”
“Yeah,” Dean shrugged.
Sam spluttered for a second. “You can’t do that.”
“Why? It’s not your file.” Dean brushed off his hands and tossed the packet into the nearest bin.
“That’s not the point.”
“Funny. Who was it you were impersonating last month? And I seem to recall you in a priest outfit once…huh, didn’t know you’d taken the vows, Sammy.”
Dean grinned, hearing his brother sigh.
“I swear Dean, talking to you is like trying to knock sense into a brick wall…a stubborn, annoying brick wall.”
“You forgot ‘good-looking’. How’re things on your end? Any sign of the…” Dean glanced at the few people mingling in the small room, well within earshot “…taxman?”
“Not yet. But I rechecked, just to make sure we’re on the right track, and all the victims definitely worked at the building your ‘working’ in. And I’m using that term lightly. They were all slaughtered in one of the five warehouses the company owns. No order, just whichever warehouse was free at the time, I guess.”
“Yeah, yeah, don’t need a recap. Found anything yet so we can kill this…taxman…and I can leave this godforsaken hell hole?” Dean glanced at the small group of people who weren’t even trying to hide their shock. “No offence guys. I’m sure you find this hell hole real cozy.” He shifted on the bench so that his back was turned to them. “And before my kind colleagues rip me to pieces,” he said more quietly.
“You can’t last one week without pissing someone off, can you? Okay, well I’ve checked out two of the warehouses and didn’t find anything, so I’m about to check the third now. Any suspects on your end?”
“Gus.”
“Gus?”
Dean frowned for a second, thinking. “And my boss.”
Another audible sigh hit his ear. “It’s been two weeks since this thing last fed. It’s going to attack again; you have to get serious.”
“And I am serious. Seriously annoyed. They could be the bad guys, why not just chop off their heads and see if green stuff starts squirting out?”
“Dean.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. ‘There’s no time for jokes in Sam land’”
“You keep digging around, I’ll call you if I find anything.”
“Wait, wait,” Dean said, hopping off the counter.
“What?”
“How do I make a latte?”
Sam pocketed his phone and tried to wipe the smile off his face. What he wouldn’t pay to see his brother working at an office. The thought alone gave him the incentive to figure out what was committing these murders as quickly as possible so that he could catch Dean in office-clerk-mode. He chuckled and strode up to the next warehouse on his list of five.
Sam stopped at the entrance to look up at the building, trying to ‘read’ something from it. But nothing struck him as off; it looked just like any other warehouse - big and bland. The windows stood high, near the roof, and were coated black from years of neglect and dust, and the pavement beneath his feet was worn down by tire marks and heavy loads. But all this was nothing out of the ordinary. Were you expecting a big arrow painted in blood?
Sam fished a tag out of his pocket and clipped it to his overalls’ pocket. It read: Sam Menzies. He then pushed open the side door and walked in. A group of workers sat in a lazy circle on some upturned crates and they all turned and squinted at Sam through the sunlight his entry let tumble in.
“Uh, hi,” Sam said, walking up to them with a smile and extending his hand. No one extended his greeting or offered any indication that he was welcome. They just stared, chewing on tobacco and taking an occasional drag of their cigarettes. The cigarette smoke floated around their heads so heavily that Sam could barely gauge their reactions - was that suspicion or menace being fired at him? Though he could see their tussled hair and the large tattoos peeking out from a few of the men’s rolled up sleeves.
“Okay,” Sam said, lowering his hand and shoving it into his pocket. You fight ghosts and demons, Sam, what’s a few surly workers? “Well, I’m Sam. I’m…new. Just hired.”
“What you do?” one of the men asked, before chomping on his cigar and frowning up at Sam.
“What do I do?”
“What dumbass means is what’s your qual-i-fi-cations and such?” another asked. He was tall and lanky with scrunched up features, like he was perpetually watching for something.
“Uh,” Sam glanced around the warehouse. “Forklifts,” he blurted, his eyes falling on the closest machine. “I drive forklifts.”
“Bert drives forklifts.”
Bert - or who Sam assumed was Bert - stood up. He was barrel-chested with long curly hair, and was one of the few people Sam had seen tower over him. Sam gulped.
“You one of the bosses’ kids? Here to tell me I’m fired? Replace me? One of their moles?”
“Who’s moles?”
“There’s.”
A collective snarl emitted from the group and they all feigned spitting. Okay, strange…
“Them. The bour..ges..ie…”
“The bourgeoisie?” Sam offered, raising his eyebrow.
“Yeah, them. The white collar clowns up there,” he pointed up and then frowned. “No, there,” he said, pointing instead in the direction of the building Dean was working in - the company that ran this warehouse.
“Seriously, guys.” Sam said held up his hands. “I’m not a mole, or a spy, and I can honestly say I’m living out of my car most days. I’m not one of…them. I’m just the new guy. Promise.”
Bert squinted at Sam and gave him a once over before striding up to him and locking his arm around Sam’s neck. Sam tensed, ready to slip through the hold and fight back. But then Bert tussled Sam’s hair and laughed. “He’s one of us, fellas!” He pulled Sam into the group and offered him an upturned crate.
Sam sat down and smiled weakly, watching as the group abruptly stopped eyeing him and continued to deal cards and shove fast food into their mouths.
“Want?” Bert asked, offering his cigarette.
Sam got a whiff of the smell. Okay, not a cigarette. “Explaining a lot,” he muttered.
“Hah?”
“Nothing. No, I’m okay. I don’t…smoke.” Sam looked around at the small group as they played cards between themselves. They all looked a bit unkempt and tired. “So, uh, do you always interrogate the newcomers like that?”
Bert shrugged. “Pretty much,” he said, tossing a few cards onto the makeshift table.
Sam nodded, rubbing his hands together and looking around at the dark warehouse. “Why?” he asked, turning back to the group.
“Can’t be too careful, you know?” answered the tall and lanky one, looking at Sam earnestly. “Today’s society, man. It’s corrupt. The government, and shit, you know? The bosses don’t like us ‘coz we’re union, they can’t control us like their other lab rats. Big brother and all that, he’s watching you, you know.” Tall and lanky cocked his head. “Not you specifically, the royale you.”
“Royal,” another worker corrected.
Sam’s frown deepened and he rubbed his forehead. “So, the government is corrupt, which we all knew, but they’re using the company you work for who, in turn, are hiring spies to infiltrate this warehouse?” Sam tried to keep the smile from his face, but then he shrugged. “I guess stranger things have happened. Like moving wardrobes with minds.”
“Yeah, man, they infiltrate, you know? Trying to find reason to fire us. Prove that we’re slackers.” He slapped some cards onto the table. “Three,” he asked the card dealer.
“So, you guys must really hate the people who work up there in that building?” Sam tried to sound nonchalant as his suspicion began to form.
“Ignore Chad,” replied the man who’d corrected Chad. “He’s a conspiracy nut. These break times don’t help that, you know?” he gestured towards the smoke in Chad’s hand. “We just like giving the newbies a hard time. We knew you were one of us the second you walked in. You have our hair.”
Sam automatically touched his hair, insulted and glad to hell Dean wasn’t around to hear that. He chose to ignore that comment. “It’s tragic about all those deaths round here lately, isn’t it?” Again he tried to sound nonchalant, but he watched the group closely and was startled when, almost as one, they froze and glanced up at Sam.
“What you know about it?” Bert asked, crossing his arms and leaning back.
Sam cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably, finding himself under scrutiny again. “Just what I’ve heard in the news. Over the past few months, bodies have been found slaughtered. One every few weeks. Always in one of these, uh, five warehouses.” He tugged at his overalls, clearing his throat again. “Just wondering how safe it is round here, that’s all.”
Bert’s face relaxed and he wrapped at arm around Sam’s shoulders, drawing him closer in a move Sam was sure hadn’t meant to nearly topple him. “Don’t worry, little buddy. You’re safe with us. You’re part of the team now. The team looks out for each other.”
Sam smiled tightly, glancing at the hairy hand squeezing his shoulder. “I feel safer already.”
“But, still…something fishy there, you know? It doesn’t add up,” Chad said, leaning in closer to Sam and talking in a hushed tone.
“What do you mean?” Sam whispered back.
“A serial killer, maybe a disgruntled ex-employee killing colleagues, that’s what they’re saying, right? But the bodies are all teared up. Have you ever met an office personnel type that can lift a rock, let lone tear someone up? And the warehouses are never broken into. No picked lock, no shattered glass. It’s a conspiracy, man. Something fishy here. I can smell it.”
“That’s your breath, Chad,” Bert said, standing up, laughing nervously. “Break’s over.”
The group stood up one by one, stretching and collecting their rubbish, turning the crates back around and stacking them neatly. Sam stood and moved back reluctantly. He wanted to keep digging, but didn’t know how to keep the topic going without creating suspicion himself.
“You use the forklift today,” Bert said, slapping Sam’s shoulder and making him lurch a little “You can move that stuff over there.”
Sam’s eyes widened. “Wha…no, really, you’re the forklift guy, I don’t want to mess with that. Really.”
Bret shrugged, already walking away. “We’ll take turns. I’ll use it tomorrow.”
Sam’s mouth hung open a little as he turned to look at the forklift sitting there, gleaming in the dust. Waiting. “Ah, crap.”
“Yeah, exactly, like dungeons and dragons.” Dean ignored the urge to roll his eyes. He was sitting at the small table in the staff kitchen, fiddling with a mug of untouched coffee. “Of course I didn’t mean I’m really trying to kill a tax man. It’s just…role playing. To pass the time.”
“So you pretend to be a taxman hunter?” one of his colleagues sneered, dumping a packet of sugar into his coffee.
“…Yeah.” Dean clenched his teeth. Seriously, he couldn’t have thought of something better to explain the overheard conversation?
“And what’s the deal with the squirting green blood thing,” a woman asked, looking genuinely curious.
“Uh…points. Yeah…If they squirt out - imaginary, of course - green blood, we get points.”
“That makes no sense,” the colleague, Brad, sneered again.
“…Yeah it does.”
“In geek land, maybe.”
Dean glowered. “You’re going to be in pummeled land in a second,” he muttered. “So,” he said more loudly. “All these deaths lately. Who does everyone suspect? It’s Gus, right? He looks like the serial-killer type.” Being subtle was Sam’s card, Dean had no patience for it.
“Nah, it’s definitely a brawd,” Brad said.
“Would you like us to refer to you as a mongrel?” Jan snapped.
“Why do you think it’s a female doing the deadly deeds?” Dean asked.
“All the victims were male,” Brad shrugged.
“That’s true…”
“I’m not saying I condone murder or anything,” Jan interrupted. “But they all deserved to die.”
Dean frowned at this, watching Jan carefully. “Yeah?”
“They were pigs, the lot of them. Always hitting on anything with boobs; rude, inconsiderate - ”
“Selfish,” another colleague added, walking into the room and pulling up a chair.
“ -womanizing players.”
“Nothing like a scorned women.” Brad turned to Dean. “You think we deserve to be killed just for having a bit of fun?”
“Hell no,” Dean scoffed without thinking. He suddenly found himself the target of some very pissed-off glares. “Uh, and by that I mean…hell…is the place where…sinners…the male type?…will…uh…end…You know, I bet my boss is waiting for that coffee.” Dean sprung up and grabbed the mug sitting forgotten, until now, on the counter.
“Hey, where’d all the food go?” The group at the table turned to glare at Dean.
“I’ll pay for it!” Ha! his brain shouted again as he hurried from the kitchen, shaking his head and further loosening his tie. “Worst hunt ever,” he muttered. Yeah, including the time he was almost electrocuted to death.
“Talking to yourself?”
Dean turned to find the receptionist watching him. He grinned. Finally, all this may just be worth it. He sauntered up to the reception desk and leaned against it, smiling at her. “Well I keep seeing you on these phones here and you made talking to no-one look so tempting, I just had to try it myself.”
She giggled. “But, in my case, there are people on the other end of the line.”
Dean raised his eyebrows playfully. “Huh, you don’t say? I like your necklace,” he said, using it as an excuse to lean closer, but his attempts were cut short by a shriek coming from the office block behind them.
“Spider! Kill it, kill it!”
Dean clenched his jaw, annoyed that her attention had been stolen from him. “I’ll be back in a second,” he said, starting to walk towards the source of the commotion but popping back a second later. “Don’t go anywhere. Seriously.”
Dean grabbed the latte and marched into the office space to find people backed up on chairs and watching, eyes wide, as a huge tarantula scuttled over desks, having somehow found its way into the terrain of the office folk.
“Guys!” Dean yelled. “Would you keep it down? You’re making it very hard for me to hit on the receptionist!”
The shrieks continued. Growling and grumbling, Dean grabbed a pen from one of the desks and strode up to the spider, impaling it to the desk in one swift move.
The shrieks stopped and everyone gaped at Dean. He lifted his arms in exasperation. “Was that so hard?” He turned to leave when someone called him back. Dean swiveled around to find Gus sitting in his desk chair, arms raised away from his desk in disgust. He glanced from the impaled spider to Dean.
“What?”
Gus pointed at the dead spider. “Uh, aren’t you going to clean that up?”
Dean breathed in deeply, clenching the fist not holding the cup of coffee. “Do it yourself, Barney.” He turned quickly to avoid an argument, and smacked right into an office helper, spilling half the coffee and almost pushing her over. Dean’s arm sprung out to steady her. “Woah, hey, you okay?”
She glanced down at her sopping wet feet. “These are new shoes! And my toes are all wet.”
Dean frowned. “Well that’s what you get for not wearing appropriate footwear.” He skirted around her and yanked open his boss’s door with more force than he’d intended.
His boss looked up, startled. Dean slammed down the mug on his paperwork, ignoring that a ring of coffee was seeping into the papers, and turned to leave.
“This is cold,” his boss protested.
“We were out of hot water,” Dean retorted, slamming the door closed behind him. He leaned against it, feeling a headache forming.
“Mr. Barry,” Gus called in that lilting voice of his and Dean turned to find people still staring at him.
“Eat the damn spider! I don’t care! I killed it, clean up duty is not my problem.” Dean threw his hands up in exasperation and stalked out of there. “I’m in hell,” he muttered. “This is hell, and I am in it.”
Returning to the reception hall, he found the secretary preoccupied with a customer. Dean hung his head, resigned - Fate hates me.
TBC
Go to Part 2