FIC: Supernatural: Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap 2/??
Title: Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: ghanistarkiller @ mrs_peel_fanfic
Disclaimer: Not mine, Kripke owns it all, including my soul
Rating: Death, sex and New Orleans. Yeah, NC-17
Characters: Dean with a cameo by John
Warnings: Sex, lots of it. And violence, but sex and death just go together so well, don't they?
Summary: Dean's on his own in New Orleans, feeling confident about just solving a little voodoo problem the locals were having when a case falls into his lap. The Ripper-like murders of prostitutes draws him into a century old feud, and his closest ally might in fact turn out to be his worst enemy.
A/N: This story has been unofficially dubbed "Dirty Deans Done Dirt Cheap" by my sister who misread my lips when I was telling her about it, heh.
Graphic by jadeblood
So now Dean had a name, an obviously fraudulent one to entice the kind of tourists who wanted to experience the flavor, literally and figuratively in this case, of New Orleans’ rich history. So, he had a call girl’s working name, Posey St. Laurent; a vague idea of where she could be walking the street, which turned out to be a busy intersection bustling with prostitutes all competing for a new customer’s attention; and absolutely no physical description of the woman. In other words, he had nothing.
Except one thing, an investigator’s ace in the hole: The location of the motel the murder occurred in and the name of the deskman, the sole witness, and all laid out for him in Pamela’s article without having to coax, cajole or otherwise seduce the information from her.
Dean’s phone rang as he strolled purposefully down a street tourists didn’t usually walk. He pulled his cell out of his pocket and snapped to attention when he heard his name barked like an order, placing the receiver to his ear. “Yes, sir,” he responded to his father immediately.
“You still in New Orleans?” John inquired briskly.
“Yes, sir,” repeated Dean dutifully.
“Good, you stay there,” replied John. “At least for a little bit. I’m, um, I’m in California. I caught wind of a case ‘round Jericho; I’m gonna check it out, have a few leads. And there might be other things I have to follow up on.” He was being deliberately vague, Dean knew, and it ticked him off. You’d think after the years Dean had followed orders without question that his father would find it in himself to confide in his son, even on the little things. “How’d that voodoo case go? You still working it?” He was changing the subject.
“It was nothing I couldn’t handle,” Dean bristled a little, before he remembered to add, “sir. After I rooted out the corrupt Mambo-she’d gone all dark side-taking down the cult was a cinch. Well, except that I then had to deal with the Houngan, but it was like he lost half of his power without his priestess. A little napalm did the trick for the Loa-possessed zombies once I’d tracked their den down, and I took extra precautions with their remains; they were salted but I also left a binding gris-gris at each of the corners of their tombs.”
Though there was pride in his voice as he reported his actions like an eager boy showing his father the good marks on his report card, Dean hadn’t really expected praise. He wasn’t disappointed. “You remembered to use sea salt specifically?” questioned John.
“Yes, sir,” Dean said flatly. “Distilled with the freshwater in the marshes, which, by the way, is a lot harder than it sounds. There’s all this environmental stuff, and the marshes are being overrun with saltwater from the Gulf; it’s a whole big thing. Don’t ever let anyone say your boys don’t learn nothing.”
John chuckled gently, “No, I never let anyone say that. And you’re laying low there for a bit?”
“Yeah,” Dean replied, “I think I might be on to something else. I’m looking into it; it might not even be our kind of problem but I’ve just got this feeling about it.”
“No, that’s good,” John said a little too quickly. “You keep busy. And watch your back.”
“Dad,” Dean frowned, not even noticing as the pedestrians pushed passed him, annoyed at his sudden stop in the middle of the sidewalk, “is something wrong?”
“Wrong? No,” John said evenly, but Dean could hear it, that tiny, almost inaudible change in his father’s tone. Worry. “I’ll keep in touch,” he promised, and hung up. Dammit, Dad, Dean thought, raising his hand as if to throw his phone into the street; if John had some sort of trouble, and with their family it was usually about nine kinds of mess, why the hell wasn’t he just coming out and telling him about it. He looked up, realizing he’d reached his destination.
It was the kind of seedy place one would imagine such goings on happening within, the kind that had to specify that, if you didn’t use the room for the full hour you paid for, you weren’t entitled to a refund. The lobby, as it was, was a narrow little room; a sliding glass door on the far side opened into a courtyard where the rooms where arranged in a square around a dry, grown-over fountain and broken brick patio.
An old man sat behind the check-in counter, filling out a crossword puzzle in a newspaper from, as far as Dean could tell, last year; a truly ancient looking computer sat to his left alongside a seasonal jack o’lantern. He looked up as Dean entered, adjusting the thick lenses of his glasses, pushing them higher on the bridge of his nose.
He shrugged his bony shoulders as if there wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen in his many years working there, “Don’t usually see your kind come in here alone, but whatever floats your boat, son. Fifteen bucks an hour for a room, cash in advance; twenty if you’re gonna use the shower.”
Charming. “Actually, sir,” Dean said, giving the man his most persuasive grin, “I was hoping to talk with you about what happened to that girl. The paper said you were the only witness.”
The old man wheezed a scoff. “So, what are you? One of them serial killer groupies or does this kind of thing just get you off?”
“Um,” Dean hid a startled chuckle behind an incredulous smile, “that’s not something I’m usually asked. No, sir. See, I belong to one of those internet groups,” he glanced around, gleaning what he could from what he saw. The computer sported an X-Files screensaver; the man wore not only a gothic silver cross, but also an ankh and pentagram; he spotted a worn-out copy of a Stephen King novel set aside carefully for future use; and, best of all, when the desk wobbled and the screensaver flickered off from the motion, Dean could see that he’d been surfing sites of supernatural porn. “We’re enthusiasts for the paranormal and I feel like there’s definitely some action going on here.”
The man looked genuinely interested now. “Really? Because the Motel 6 by the highway, they said they had ghosts and their business nearly tripled in a month! You have questions, sonny? Ask away!”
“The man that the woman entered with,” Dean began, removing a small tape recorder and placing it on the desk between them. The old man looked impressed, like that made it official. “Did you notice anything odd about him? Anything out of the ordinary that struck you right off?”
“That guy? Nah,” the man waved his hand dismissively. “He comes in here all the time, with a different girl, I might add. He’s a brown-skinned gent, but light-like, little cream in his coffee, iffin you know what I mean; curly dark hair; tall-ish, good build. But the thing, the thing you notice about him is his eyes; a pale hazel, they are. He goes in,” the oldster made a sweeping motion towards the rooms as if to follow the mystery man’s movements, “he don’t come out again. His hour runs out, I go to knock on the door to gently remind him of our policy. No answer, so I opened the door. You don’t forget a sight like that, son.”
“And he couldn’t have just…gone out the window?” Dean asked.
“Mesh on all of ‘em,” he answered solemnly, shaking his head slowly. “Enforcing the policy; we’ve had one too many a fella try to leg it. Checked all the windows, the cops did; not a mark on any of ‘em. No one come in or out the rest of the night, ‘cept’n the one gal-Posey, I’ve heard her called. They were friends, this Dawnette chick and Posey; real regulars around here.”
“Posey, right!” Dean said clicking his fingers as if it had just occurred to him. “She must have been the source quoted in the paper. She was at the crime scene?”
The oldster nodded. “Real sweet girl, that one, and classy, too. With girls like her, I just don’t understand it, you know? She’s brown-skinned too, looks like she could be old Creole gentry, that beauty.” Dean nodded with a humorless chuckle; he knew all about the Creole gentry of old. He’d recently met some of them face to face, though they hadn’t been quite as pretty as they had been in their heyday. Smelled worse, too. “She’s got long, straight dark brown hair, and the eyes. She’s got them pale hazel eyes, too. Say, you don’t think they could be related, do you?”
“They look alike?” questioned Dean, and the old man nodded. “Have you ever seen them together?”
“Hm,” considered the oldster. “Now that you mention it, don’t think I ever have, though they come and go around the same time.”
“And you’ve seen him before?” Dean persisted. “With other girls.”
“Yes, sir. I dunno why he’d just…snap the way the cops say he did. I mean, to do the things that were done to that pretty little filly, you don’t just suddenly go all funny like that.”
“And Posey,” Dean cleared his throat, steering the conversation back in a direction he needed it to go. “You don’t happen to know where I can find her? I don’t want to bug her or anything,” Dean explained, mentally praying that the man’s scruples were about as loose as those of the websites he surfed. “It’s just that a few comments from her should really spice the story up.”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” the oldster sighed and Dean was scared for a moment that he wouldn’t come through, “but I let her pay with a check, just the once, mind, when she was really down on her luck.” He searched through a stack of dusty papers, browning at the edges from age and neglect. “Never did cash it,” he said fondly as he pulled a slip from the pile. “Now, I’m not guaranteeing that’s genuine, but signature says her name is Teeta Freemont, has an address up there in the corner; whether it’s actually hers or not,” he shrugged. “You can take this, son,” he shoved the paper into Dean’s hand.
“I appreciate it,” Dean grinned, snatching the tape recorder from the desk and stuffing the check in his pocket. “You’ve been a big help! You just keep checking the web; your story will be heard! The truth is out there, and all that,” he babbled as he exited quickly.
*~*~*~*
John Winchester sat on the edge of the bed in his motel room, staring down at the phone in his hand. It wasn’t fair to keep something like this from the boys, he knew it. Maybe he wanted to convince himself that all the signs weren’t pointing to trouble, that nothing was certain yet, but it would be a lie. It wouldn’t be the first time he lied to himself. It wouldn’t be the first time he lied to the boys.
He’d driven by Sammy’s on his way to Jericho; maybe he’d intended to warn him, maybe not; maybe he wanted to see him one last time before that innocence was just ripped away from him. He envied that innocence, wished to God that he could uphold it for Sammy, protect him; that’s all he ever wanted to do for his boys. Something went wrong along the way.
The signs spoke to him; it wouldn’t be long now. He just had to focus on this case, focus and let things play out as they were meant to.
*~*~*~*
Fandom: Supernatural
Author: ghanistarkiller @ mrs_peel_fanfic
Disclaimer: Not mine, Kripke owns it all, including my soul
Rating: Death, sex and New Orleans. Yeah, NC-17
Characters: Dean with a cameo by John
Warnings: Sex, lots of it. And violence, but sex and death just go together so well, don't they?
Summary: Dean's on his own in New Orleans, feeling confident about just solving a little voodoo problem the locals were having when a case falls into his lap. The Ripper-like murders of prostitutes draws him into a century old feud, and his closest ally might in fact turn out to be his worst enemy.
A/N: This story has been unofficially dubbed "Dirty Deans Done Dirt Cheap" by my sister who misread my lips when I was telling her about it, heh.
Graphic by jadeblood
So now Dean had a name, an obviously fraudulent one to entice the kind of tourists who wanted to experience the flavor, literally and figuratively in this case, of New Orleans’ rich history. So, he had a call girl’s working name, Posey St. Laurent; a vague idea of where she could be walking the street, which turned out to be a busy intersection bustling with prostitutes all competing for a new customer’s attention; and absolutely no physical description of the woman. In other words, he had nothing.
Except one thing, an investigator’s ace in the hole: The location of the motel the murder occurred in and the name of the deskman, the sole witness, and all laid out for him in Pamela’s article without having to coax, cajole or otherwise seduce the information from her.
Dean’s phone rang as he strolled purposefully down a street tourists didn’t usually walk. He pulled his cell out of his pocket and snapped to attention when he heard his name barked like an order, placing the receiver to his ear. “Yes, sir,” he responded to his father immediately.
“You still in New Orleans?” John inquired briskly.
“Yes, sir,” repeated Dean dutifully.
“Good, you stay there,” replied John. “At least for a little bit. I’m, um, I’m in California. I caught wind of a case ‘round Jericho; I’m gonna check it out, have a few leads. And there might be other things I have to follow up on.” He was being deliberately vague, Dean knew, and it ticked him off. You’d think after the years Dean had followed orders without question that his father would find it in himself to confide in his son, even on the little things. “How’d that voodoo case go? You still working it?” He was changing the subject.
“It was nothing I couldn’t handle,” Dean bristled a little, before he remembered to add, “sir. After I rooted out the corrupt Mambo-she’d gone all dark side-taking down the cult was a cinch. Well, except that I then had to deal with the Houngan, but it was like he lost half of his power without his priestess. A little napalm did the trick for the Loa-possessed zombies once I’d tracked their den down, and I took extra precautions with their remains; they were salted but I also left a binding gris-gris at each of the corners of their tombs.”
Though there was pride in his voice as he reported his actions like an eager boy showing his father the good marks on his report card, Dean hadn’t really expected praise. He wasn’t disappointed. “You remembered to use sea salt specifically?” questioned John.
“Yes, sir,” Dean said flatly. “Distilled with the freshwater in the marshes, which, by the way, is a lot harder than it sounds. There’s all this environmental stuff, and the marshes are being overrun with saltwater from the Gulf; it’s a whole big thing. Don’t ever let anyone say your boys don’t learn nothing.”
John chuckled gently, “No, I never let anyone say that. And you’re laying low there for a bit?”
“Yeah,” Dean replied, “I think I might be on to something else. I’m looking into it; it might not even be our kind of problem but I’ve just got this feeling about it.”
“No, that’s good,” John said a little too quickly. “You keep busy. And watch your back.”
“Dad,” Dean frowned, not even noticing as the pedestrians pushed passed him, annoyed at his sudden stop in the middle of the sidewalk, “is something wrong?”
“Wrong? No,” John said evenly, but Dean could hear it, that tiny, almost inaudible change in his father’s tone. Worry. “I’ll keep in touch,” he promised, and hung up. Dammit, Dad, Dean thought, raising his hand as if to throw his phone into the street; if John had some sort of trouble, and with their family it was usually about nine kinds of mess, why the hell wasn’t he just coming out and telling him about it. He looked up, realizing he’d reached his destination.
It was the kind of seedy place one would imagine such goings on happening within, the kind that had to specify that, if you didn’t use the room for the full hour you paid for, you weren’t entitled to a refund. The lobby, as it was, was a narrow little room; a sliding glass door on the far side opened into a courtyard where the rooms where arranged in a square around a dry, grown-over fountain and broken brick patio.
An old man sat behind the check-in counter, filling out a crossword puzzle in a newspaper from, as far as Dean could tell, last year; a truly ancient looking computer sat to his left alongside a seasonal jack o’lantern. He looked up as Dean entered, adjusting the thick lenses of his glasses, pushing them higher on the bridge of his nose.
He shrugged his bony shoulders as if there wasn’t anything he hadn’t seen in his many years working there, “Don’t usually see your kind come in here alone, but whatever floats your boat, son. Fifteen bucks an hour for a room, cash in advance; twenty if you’re gonna use the shower.”
Charming. “Actually, sir,” Dean said, giving the man his most persuasive grin, “I was hoping to talk with you about what happened to that girl. The paper said you were the only witness.”
The old man wheezed a scoff. “So, what are you? One of them serial killer groupies or does this kind of thing just get you off?”
“Um,” Dean hid a startled chuckle behind an incredulous smile, “that’s not something I’m usually asked. No, sir. See, I belong to one of those internet groups,” he glanced around, gleaning what he could from what he saw. The computer sported an X-Files screensaver; the man wore not only a gothic silver cross, but also an ankh and pentagram; he spotted a worn-out copy of a Stephen King novel set aside carefully for future use; and, best of all, when the desk wobbled and the screensaver flickered off from the motion, Dean could see that he’d been surfing sites of supernatural porn. “We’re enthusiasts for the paranormal and I feel like there’s definitely some action going on here.”
The man looked genuinely interested now. “Really? Because the Motel 6 by the highway, they said they had ghosts and their business nearly tripled in a month! You have questions, sonny? Ask away!”
“The man that the woman entered with,” Dean began, removing a small tape recorder and placing it on the desk between them. The old man looked impressed, like that made it official. “Did you notice anything odd about him? Anything out of the ordinary that struck you right off?”
“That guy? Nah,” the man waved his hand dismissively. “He comes in here all the time, with a different girl, I might add. He’s a brown-skinned gent, but light-like, little cream in his coffee, iffin you know what I mean; curly dark hair; tall-ish, good build. But the thing, the thing you notice about him is his eyes; a pale hazel, they are. He goes in,” the oldster made a sweeping motion towards the rooms as if to follow the mystery man’s movements, “he don’t come out again. His hour runs out, I go to knock on the door to gently remind him of our policy. No answer, so I opened the door. You don’t forget a sight like that, son.”
“And he couldn’t have just…gone out the window?” Dean asked.
“Mesh on all of ‘em,” he answered solemnly, shaking his head slowly. “Enforcing the policy; we’ve had one too many a fella try to leg it. Checked all the windows, the cops did; not a mark on any of ‘em. No one come in or out the rest of the night, ‘cept’n the one gal-Posey, I’ve heard her called. They were friends, this Dawnette chick and Posey; real regulars around here.”
“Posey, right!” Dean said clicking his fingers as if it had just occurred to him. “She must have been the source quoted in the paper. She was at the crime scene?”
The oldster nodded. “Real sweet girl, that one, and classy, too. With girls like her, I just don’t understand it, you know? She’s brown-skinned too, looks like she could be old Creole gentry, that beauty.” Dean nodded with a humorless chuckle; he knew all about the Creole gentry of old. He’d recently met some of them face to face, though they hadn’t been quite as pretty as they had been in their heyday. Smelled worse, too. “She’s got long, straight dark brown hair, and the eyes. She’s got them pale hazel eyes, too. Say, you don’t think they could be related, do you?”
“They look alike?” questioned Dean, and the old man nodded. “Have you ever seen them together?”
“Hm,” considered the oldster. “Now that you mention it, don’t think I ever have, though they come and go around the same time.”
“And you’ve seen him before?” Dean persisted. “With other girls.”
“Yes, sir. I dunno why he’d just…snap the way the cops say he did. I mean, to do the things that were done to that pretty little filly, you don’t just suddenly go all funny like that.”
“And Posey,” Dean cleared his throat, steering the conversation back in a direction he needed it to go. “You don’t happen to know where I can find her? I don’t want to bug her or anything,” Dean explained, mentally praying that the man’s scruples were about as loose as those of the websites he surfed. “It’s just that a few comments from her should really spice the story up.”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this,” the oldster sighed and Dean was scared for a moment that he wouldn’t come through, “but I let her pay with a check, just the once, mind, when she was really down on her luck.” He searched through a stack of dusty papers, browning at the edges from age and neglect. “Never did cash it,” he said fondly as he pulled a slip from the pile. “Now, I’m not guaranteeing that’s genuine, but signature says her name is Teeta Freemont, has an address up there in the corner; whether it’s actually hers or not,” he shrugged. “You can take this, son,” he shoved the paper into Dean’s hand.
“I appreciate it,” Dean grinned, snatching the tape recorder from the desk and stuffing the check in his pocket. “You’ve been a big help! You just keep checking the web; your story will be heard! The truth is out there, and all that,” he babbled as he exited quickly.
*~*~*~*
John Winchester sat on the edge of the bed in his motel room, staring down at the phone in his hand. It wasn’t fair to keep something like this from the boys, he knew it. Maybe he wanted to convince himself that all the signs weren’t pointing to trouble, that nothing was certain yet, but it would be a lie. It wouldn’t be the first time he lied to himself. It wouldn’t be the first time he lied to the boys.
He’d driven by Sammy’s on his way to Jericho; maybe he’d intended to warn him, maybe not; maybe he wanted to see him one last time before that innocence was just ripped away from him. He envied that innocence, wished to God that he could uphold it for Sammy, protect him; that’s all he ever wanted to do for his boys. Something went wrong along the way.
The signs spoke to him; it wouldn’t be long now. He just had to focus on this case, focus and let things play out as they were meant to.
*~*~*~*