fic: The Uilleann Ululation Undertaking (SPN/Middleman; Sam, Dean, Wendy, the Middleman; gen)
I had a huge amount of fun writing this, and will probably post an annotated version, with commentary, sometime soon. In the meantime, here is the first of my spn_summergen 2009 stories.
The Uilleann Ululation Undertaking
Supernatural/The Middleman; Sam, Dean, Wendy Watson, the Middleman; pg; 4,855 words
"Two weeks ago, the museum received a cache of instruments from Ireland, and among them were a set of Uilleann pipes. We believe the pipes to be dangerous in the wrong hands."
Written for maychorian in the 2009 spn_summergen ficathon. Thanks to luzdeestrellas and angelgazing for betaing, and to mousapelli for handholding.
~*~
The Uilleann Ululation Undertaking
The Come'n'Sleep Motel
3:36 pm Pacific Daylight Time
"Sam Chambers and Dean Malone?" Sam tossed the new badges down onto the desk in disgust. "That doesn't make any sense. Mine should be Sam Malone--since that was his name--and you should be Diane, excuse me, Dean Chambers."
"If the prissy, intellectual shoe fits..." Dean said absently, frowning at the stale doughnut he'd just bitten into. They'd just bought them, too. He decided to dunk it in his coffee. Might taste better that way. "And anyway, your way is too obvious."
"Either way it's obvious, or nobody actually remembers who they are."
"Cheers is a classic," Dean answered, offended, through a mouthful of soggy doughnut, crumbs spraying everywhere. "Where everybody knows your name."
"If everybody knows their names, we probably shouldn't be using them as aliases."
Dean swallowed what was in his mouth and jabbed a finger in Sam's direction. "Just for that, next time, I'm making you Cliff Clavin." He ignored the dirty look Sam shot him and grabbed another of the unfortunately stale doughnuts. "So tell me about this job again."
*
The Moonstruck Diner
at the corner of Norton and Kramden
8:00 pm Eastern Daylight Time
Dean finished the last of his fries and pushed his plate away. "So, Mr. Mooney, you were Mr. Nevins' assistant?"
"Indeed I am. I was, rather." The guy took his glasses off to wipe them clean, and his eyes were red-rimmed and tired-looking. "His death was shocking." His accent made Dean think fondly of Lucky Charms. They'd been his and Sam's favorite cereal as kids.
"He's the third person associated with the McGillicuddy collection to have died since it arrived in the city. Can you think of anything odd that might have happened before it was shipped?" Sam asked.
"Odd? How do you mean?"
"Did he receive any threats?" Dean said.
"Threats? No, of course not. We run a legitimate business."
"I'm sure." Dean sucked the last of his Coke through his straw, making the ice cubes rattle in the bottom of the glass.
Sam threw him an annoyed look. "What about the provenance of the items? Anything unusual there?"
"I've told you, we run a legitimate business. The family engaged the firm many years ago to look after their affairs." The guy's accent got snootier the more annoyed he got.
Dean glanced at Sam. Something was hinky, but until they knew more, they wouldn't know what direction to push him in. Sam gave him a slight nod and said, "No one's saying you don't, Mr. Mooney. But if we could have copies of the provenances, and any other paperwork that was involved in this particular transaction, it would be helpful."
"Where did you say you were from, again?"
"We're private investigators hired by the Vance Conservatory. Our employers are very interested in the disposition of these instruments." Sam always sounded so sincere when he got his fake lawyer on. Even now, Dean still felt a pang of regret that he'd never been able to do it for real. Sam leaned in and gave the guy a confidential, man-to-man nod. "You understand."
Mooney nodded in response. "I'll have the provenances emailed to you this evening," he said, and stood up stiffly. "Now if you'll excuse me."
Dean shrugged and let him go. There wasn't much else they could do.
*
The Mertz Museum of Music
Time to rock
The wailing was loud enough to rattle Dean's bones, and holding his hands over his ears didn't come close to blocking it out. "I thought you said this was a woman in white," he shouted, trying to make himself heard.
"That was the description from the witnesses," Sam shouted back, ducking behind a display of Stratocasters. Dean really hoped the glass didn't shatter.
He said something else Dean couldn't make out, and Dean took his hands away from his ears just in time to hear the boom that accompanied the bright white flash of light.
He blinked and shook his head, ears ringing, and when he turned around to look for Sam, he saw two people dressed in weird uniforms holding very strange looking guns. The man was as tall as he was (maybe a little bit taller, but not as tall as Sam), his hair parted and gelled like a choirboy's on the way to a wedding. The girl with him wasn't very tall, but she was hot and she looked like she knew how to use her weird looking gun. Looked like she wanted to use it. On him, probably. Great.
"Sam?" he said, or tried to, but nothing came out. "Sam?" he tried again, but though his mouth was moving, he couldn't make any sound.
Sam appeared from behind the case of guitars and rushed to his side. "Dean?"
Of course, his voice was still working. Bastard. Dean gestured with his flashlight towards their company.
"I'm Agent Ball and this is Agent Ricardo," the guy said, and they both held up badges.
Dean laughed, but still made no sound. He nudged Sam in the ribs with an elbow, shaking his head, and then held up his own fairly realistic fake badge.
"I'm Agent Malone and this is Agent Chambers," Sam said, and Dean kicked his ankle hard before turning his brightest grin on the pair of fake FBI agents confronting them. "I think what my partner is trying to say is, Lucy, you got some 'splaining to do." Sam didn't carry it off with quite the panache Dean would have, but Dean couldn't complain. He was actually kind of proud Sam had said it at all.
Agent Ricardo rolled her eyes and pursed her lips in a way that would give Sam at his bitchiest a run for his money. "And you have a bar to run. Though your partner is cuter than Diane ever was."
Dean beamed at her astute observation and gave her a little hey, baby, how you doin' head bob; her mouth curved into a half-grin before she pressed her lips together and pretended not to notice. He patted his pockets for a pad and pen, but the only pen he had was out of ink. He gave it to Sam, who pocketed it and didn't give him a new one, despite his outstretched hand. He sighed in annoyance, and Sam shot him a warning look.
"Why don't you tell me what you did to him?" Sam's voice was calm and deadly, and Dean wouldn't have wanted to be on his bad side, even with the funky looking guns the other two were holding.
"We used a silence grenade to quiet the noise," Agent Ball said. "Your partner got caught in the crossfire. It should wear off in a few hours." Thank God, Dean mouthed, and Sam squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. "You should go rest up and leave this to the professionals."
"And you think you know what you're dealing with here?" Sam asked.
He was interrupted by the squawking of Agent Ball's wristwatch. "Ida? What is it?"
Dean looked at Sam and mouthed, Dick Tracy, and was pleased when Sam had to bite back a laugh.
"The two yahoos you've got pinned down there are a couple of walking dead men," Ida (at least, Dean figured it was Ida, since the voice was coming from the dude's watch) said. She sounded like a cranky librarian, the kind who liked to rap people's knuckles with a ruler when they were late returning their copy of Tropic of Cancer.
"Sweet undead Moses, Ida! They don't look like zombies!"
"We're not zombies!" Dean said, but he didn't make any sound. Good thing Sam said it at exactly the same time.
"They're not zombies," Ida said. After so many years of living with Sam, Dean could hear the eyeroll in her voice. "They're wanted criminals who faked their own deaths to get The Man off their backs. Probably a couple of Wendy's hophead friends."
"Hey," said Agent Ricardo, but it seemed more automatic and amused than angry.
"Criminals?" Agent Ball asked.
"I'm using the HEYDAR to cross-reference. They're Sam and Dean Winchester. You met their father once."
Ball nodded once, decisively. Dean had a feeling this guy did most things decisively. He had that look. "I remember, Ida. The kappa influx of October 1996." He shuddered theatrically and then gave Sam and Dean another one of those decisive nods. "Your father was a good man in a kappa fight."
"Thanks," Sam said, giving Dean a confused look. Dean shrugged one shoulder slightly and widened his eyes--just go with it, Sammy. "If you knew our dad, then you know that we know what we're doing."
The approaching wail of sirens cut off the guy's response. "We'd better go before the police arrive," he said instead.
"So you're not actually FBI," Sam said.
Dean snorted and rolled his eyes, because duh. Sam scowled at him.
"No. I'm just the Middleman." Before either Sam or Dean could ask what that meant, he said, "Dubbie, we'll go back to your place."
"I'm not sure I want the undead serial killers to know where I live, boss."
"Nonsense, Dubbie. I'm sure they're perfectly nice young gentlemen."
Sam put on the expression he'd used to con librarians and social workers for most of his life. "We really are."
Wendy still looked skeptical but she didn't argue. She probably agreed with the rest of them that the cops were a bigger threat at the moment.
*
The hallway leading to the illegal sublet Wendy shares with another young, photogenic artist
3:54 am Atlantic Daylight Time
There was a lanky black guy with a guitar sitting in the hallway when they came off the elevator.
"Hey, Wendy Watson."
"Hi, Noser."
"Hello, Mr. Noser."
"Hi, Wendy's boss," Noser said. He gave Sam and Dean a thorough once-over. "You know that women never really faint?"
"And villains always blink their eyes," Dean tried to answer, but of course, he still couldn't talk.
"Children are the only ones who blush," Sam said when the pause had gone on a little too long, once again making Dean proud of him. And then he ruined it by saying, "My brother's more into alt-country, Jeff Tweedy instead of Lou Reed."
Dean stared at the back of Sam's big stupid head and wondered if he could set fire to it with his mind. He didn't even know who Jeff Tweedy was.
"It's cool," Noser said, and Dean cursed silently to himself because he couldn't tell him it wasn't.
As they turned to enter Wendy's apartment, he could see the smirk on Sam's face. Payback, he promised himself, would be a bitch.
*
The illegal sublet Wendy shares with another young, photogenic artist
3:56 am Atlantic Daylight Time
Wendy made a beeline to the coffeepot, and Dean followed her instinctively, hovering while it percolated.
She pulled out four mugs but the Middleman said, "You know my feelings about doing drugs while on duty, Dubbie."
"Drugs?" Sam asked, sharing a confused glance with Dean.
"Caffeine is a drug, Sam."
A sweet, sweet, necessary drug as far as Dean was concerned. He gave the guy an incredulous look and held his mug out for some when Wendy offered the pot in his direction.
The Middleman shook his head. "No, thank you. I'll have a squirt of moo juice instead."
"It's in the fridge," Wendy said.
He took out the container of milk and offered it around. "Builds healthy teeth and strong bones."
"Dean," Sam started, and Dean recognized the mischievous glint in his eye and clutched his mug of coffee close. He gave Sam his most intense don't even think about it glare. Some things were sacred, and Sam seemed to get that, because he paused and shook his head. "I'll take some in my coffee," he said instead, holding his mug out. The Middleman poured a healthy portion of milk into it without splashing. Dean was grudgingly impressed.
Once they were all hooked up with their beverages of choice, Dean nudged Sam, who said, "What were you doing at the museum tonight?"
"Two weeks ago, the museum received a cache of instruments from Ireland--a violin, a viola, an oboe, a clarinet, and a piccolo (the family flute was lost in World War II and never replaced)--and among them were a set of Uilleann pipes. We believe the pipes to be," the Middleman coughed, "dangerous in the wrong hands."
Sam looked intrigued. "Like Cecil Rogers's cursed tuba?"
"How do you know about that?" Wendy asked, surprised.
"Everybody knows about that," Sam said, waving a hand. Dean rolled his eyes. Sam would deny it with his dying breath, but he'd been freaking obsessed with that movie, and had read anything and everything about the Titanic that he'd been able to get his hands on. "And anyway, Dean here is kind of an expert on the Titanic. He was obsessed with that movie when it came out. Saw it, like, seventeen times."
"Liar!" Dean said, but of course, no one could hear him. Sure, he liked to look at naked Kate Winslet as much as the next guy, but he'd only seen it that often because Sam watched it every time it showed up on cable. This was almost worse than being denied coffee.
Sam continued as if he hadn't spoken, because he actually hadn't. "You're hunters?"
"We're consultants," the Middleman replied. "We fix exotic problems." He took a sip of his milk, then set the mug on the table. "I've had occasion to work with hunters in the past. The supernatural is not my area of expertise. I'm much better with aliens."
Sam got there before Dean could even open his mouth. "Aliens?" He packed an amazing amount of skepticism into the word.
"Yes, of course. You don't think we're alone in the universe, do you? That's rather arrogant of you, Mr. Winchester."
Sam frowned. "It's not arrogance," he said. "It's just that, if there are aliens, I don't see why they would bother with us."
"I wish they wouldn't," Wendy said.
Sam looked like he wanted to argue, so Dean tapped the table impatiently. They had a job to work, aliens or no aliens, and Dean didn't think it had anything to do with a cursed set of bagpipes.
"We don't think it's cursed bagpipes," Sam said, and Dean gave a decisive nod of his own.
The Middleman took a deep breath and Dean could feel the lecture coming on, but Wendy said, "Then what do you think it is? Because we've got three dead museum employees, all suffocated, and other than the petechial hemorrhaging, there were no other signs of trauma or violence on the bodies."
"We thought it might be a woman in white--"
Wendy blinked. "La llorona?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah. But it's not. Despite the name, the wailing doesn't fit. That was definitely a banshee."
"So the question is, how do you banish a banshee?" Wendy looked at them hopefully. "Please tell me you know, or we'll be up all night reading Middlelore."
"Banshees are generally attached to families," Sam said, and Dean preened a little at how professional he sounded. "They're a variety of death omen, which means they warn people that death is coming, but don't usually kill people themselves."
"So you think the banshee is separate from whatever is doing the killing. Hmm." The Middleman cupped his chin thoughtfully.
"The banshee is probably attached to the McGillicuddy family," Sam said, "though if the old lady was the last of the line, it shouldn't still be hanging around."
Dean nudged Sam, and when he had his attention, made little flappy batwings with his hands. Sam nodded. "Dean says that some people believe banshees are facets of the Morrigan, so this thing could be our killer. Possibly motivated by revenge?"
"I thought old Mrs. McGillicuddy died of natural causes," said Wendy.
Sam shrugged and shook his head. "In that case, without more research, there's no way to tell."
"Back to headquarters then," said the Middleman.
Wendy sighed. "Middlelore, here we come."
Dean gave her a sympathetic smile.
*
Middleman Headquarters
8:57 am Belfast Time
Ida looked exactly like Dean thought she would, based on her voice. She even had the cat's eye glasses he'd pictured. (Her dress, on the other hand, looked like something out of one of the old Sears catalogues from the 1970s they'd sometimes found in the basements of haunted houses.) She took one look at Sam and said to the Middleman, "What's going on with you, boss? First you hired Smokey McStoner to be your apprentice, and now you're bringing home her long-haired hippie friends?" Dean laughed silently at the insulted look on Sam's face until Ida turned her glare on him. "What are you laughing at, pal? You've got juvenile offender written all over you." She waved a hand. "That bad boy look might work on girls too zonked out on weed to know better, but you won't get very far with me."
Dean lowered his head and scratched the back of his neck awkwardly as Sam snickered, his own embarrassment forgotten.
The Middleman's library gave Bobby's a run for its money, and Dean wondered for a second why their father had never mentioned this guy, but Dad had never really talked about other hunters much, and Dean was pretty sure that's how he'd written off the Middleman. He'd found the entry in Dad's journal, and it wasn't exactly overflowing with information--nothing but some notes on kappas and a phone number for the Jolly Fats Wehawkin Temp Agency.
Sam and the Middleman were totally bonding over the books, so Dean turned his attention to Wendy. He didn't need his voice to flirt, though it made things a lot easier. He'd finally gotten a pen that wrote, and after the first hour of looking stuff up in books, he'd drawn a game of hangman and shoved it over to Wendy, who guessed Metallica pretty quickly, and came back with Gutwrencher. He was pretty sure he was going to be getting into her dorky uniform pants at some point. He thought he'd ask her to keep the tie on, though. And maybe the boots, too.
"The three victims--they weren't related in any way, right?" Sam's voice broke through his daydream.
Dean shook his head and started writing. Baxter was the security guard who'd been on duty the first night after the instruments had been displayed; Morganstern was the curator who'd acquired the instruments; and Nivens was the agent who'd brokered the deal for the museum, acting on behalf of the McGillicuddy estate.
"According to the documents we got from Nivens's assistant, he was selling off the estate after old Mrs. McGillicuddy died. She was the last of the family," Sam said. He stopped and cocked his head, struck by something. When he didn't share with the rest of them, Dean motioned for him to keep going. "There was something off about that guy, Mooney. Didn't you think so, Dean?" Dean nodded. "He wasn't afraid that he would be next, even though three people involved with this collection of stuff have already died. He just seemed annoyed by our questions."
"Zuzu's petals! That is hinky." He tapped his watch and said, "Ida, what do we know about Mr. Fred Mooney?"
"I'm on it, boss."
While they waited, Sam leaned over to Wendy and said, "I hope my brother's not being too much of a tease."
"What?"
"He's a huge flirt, but he doesn't actually believe in casual sex. He thinks it should mean something. He's a big romantic like that. He's waiting for the right girl to come along." Sam shook his head wistfully. "Probably has something to do with all those times he watched Titanic as a teenager."
Dean choked and flung the pen at Sam's stupid face, but Sam used one of his huge, mutant hands to block it.
Wendy looked taken aback. "That's sweet. I guess." She gave Dean a wary look. "I'm gonna go get some more coffee."
Dean grabbed the pen and wrote, I am going to kill you in your sleep.
Sam just laughed.
*
Middleman Headquarters
Time to bait the trap
After some argument, the Middleman said that Ida would make the phone call. "He hasn't heard your voice, and you'll be able to block it if he tries to trace the call," he said when she opened her mouth to argue.
Ida harrumphed, but tapped the bud in her ear. "Mr. Fred Mooney of Nevins, Frawley, and O'Hare?" Dean was surprised at how pleasant she sounded, like a switchboard operator in one of the black and white movies that were always on at three am in places that had no cable. "This is Laura Petrie from the Vance Conservatory. I'm sorry for calling so late. I understand you met with our private investigators earlier this evening, and I wanted to let you know there's been a new development in the case." She paused, then, "It seems there was a branch of the McGillicuddy family of which your firm was not aware, and we've found a surviving heir. We'd like you to meet with investigators MacMurray and Douglas as soon as possible. At the museum? In half an hour. Excellent. I'm texting them now, Mr. Mooney. They're on their way." She tapped her ear again, then turned to the Middleman. "You get all that?"
"Thank you, Ida. That's perfect." The Middleman touched her shoulder briefly and then headed into another room.
Dean smiled at her and she gave him a withering glare. "You think you three dope fiends can manage not to screw this up?" She hit her forehead with the heel of her palm. "What was I thinking? Of course you can't. It's not Opposite Day or anything."
Dean opened his mouth, forgetting yet again that he couldn't talk, but Wendy just shook her head. "Don't even ask about Opposite Day." She walked out the same door the Middleman had.
Dean exchanged puzzled glances with Sam, shrugged, and followed them out.
*
The Middle Garage
10:43 am Dakar Time
Dean stopped on the way to the car to admire the Middleman's 1968 Ford Fairlane 500, but Sam had to be his usual killjoy self. "I can't believe you drive a gas guzzler like that."
"Gas guzzler?" The Middleman sounded offended, and Dean couldn't blame him. "Star and garters, man, she runs clean on biodiesel. I fuel her up with the leftover oil from Yu Mi Wang's Chinese Restaurant."
Dean perked up at that. He and Bobby had discussed converting to biodiesel when he'd rebuilt the Impala, but he hadn't really had the patience to check it out. He tapped the Middleman's elbow and jerked his head at the hood of the car.
The Middleman nodded. "After we've apprehended Mr. Mooney and banished the banshee, I'll show you what I've done with the engine."
Dean clapped him on the shoulder in agreement, and headed to his own car with a smile on his face.
*
The Mertz Museum of Music
Time for Dean to get his voice back
Mooney had beaten them to the museum; he was sitting under a yellow spotlight in front of the glass case where the McGillicuddy family instruments were being displayed, playing the Uillean pipes. He wasn't very good at it, or maybe they just weren't Dean's idea of good music, because he thought he'd rather hear the banshee wailing again instead.
The noise stopped, thankfully, when Mooney realized they were there. "So where is he?"
"Excuse me?" said the Middleman.
"This mythical heir to the McGillicuddy estate, such as it is."
"Why don't you tell us, Mr. Mooney?" Wendy raised her Middle-gun. "Or should I say, Mr. McGillicuddy?"
Mooney McGillicuddy tossed his chair at her and ran.
"Son of a sea cook! That's dirty pool!" McGillicuddy must have seen the Middleman's shot coming, because he dove out of the way and the shot hit the wall of Connie Francis's gold records. "Who's sorry now, Mr. McGillicuddy?"
McGillicuddy had taken the pipes with him, clutched under his arm, and as he crawled behind the glass case holding Django Reinhardt's guitar, he began playing them again.
The droning howl was answered by the banshee's wail, and she appeared, long grey hair and long white winding cloth trailing behind her. She was heading towards Wendy when Dean blasted her full of rock salt. She rematerialized by the framed and autographed poster of Ted Nugent. Dean silently apologized to the Nuge before blasting the banshee again. Both barrels empty, he stopped to reload, the relentless screech of the pipes making his head hurt. He was never going to let Sam complain about his music again.
"I waited years for the pipes to come into my hands," McGillicuddy shouted over the noise. "I finally got tired of waiting and finished the old man off, thinking that with him gone, his harpy of a wife would soon follow. But she was tough as old shoe leather, so I had to help her along to her eternal rest.
"But those thieving lawyers had the estate tied up in probate. They didn't accept my claim as James McGillicuddy's only surviving son, just because he never married my mother. And they started selling my inheritance out from under me. What else could I do?"
"Stop monologuing, for one," Wendy snapped, trying to get a bead on him with her funky gun (she'd said it was a positron collider blaster, when Dean had pointed at it and looked charmingly curious, since he couldn't actually ask).
"So you just decided to kill everyone else who got in your way?" Sam asked.
Dean was glad to hear the incredulity and disgust in his voice, even after everything they'd seen and done, even if Sam was the only person on the planet who would encourage a crazy bad guy in his monologuing. Then he realized Sam was trying to draw McGillicuddy's attention away from Wendy and the Middleman, who were still aiming their weapons at him.
McGillicuddy's face went red and he shouted, "My plan is sheer elegance in its simplicity!"
"Oh, for the love of Mike," the Middleman groused, as if he'd heard that line before.
The pipes moaned and the banshee wailed, heading right for Sam, who had his back to it.
"Sam!" Dean startled himself by actually being able to speak again, his voice a little gravelly from disuse, but loud enough to get the job done. "Sam! He's controlling it with the pipes."
Sam tackled McGillicuddy and the pipes went flying in a high arc, landing right in the Middleman's hands, like a perfect pass from Montana to Rice. He pulled out one of those barbecue lighters and set them on fire, just like they'd discussed.
The banshee, freed from having to kill on command, turned on the last of its family.
In the morning, the police wouldn't find much of Fred Mooney, né James McGillicuddy Junior, in the wreckage of the Pat Boone display.
"And he would have gotten away with it, too," Dean said.
"If it weren't for those meddling kids," Wendy concluded.
They shared a celebratory fist-bump before heading out to the diner for pancakes.
*
The Moonstruck Diner
at the corner of Norton and Kramden
6:43 am Pacific Daylight Time
"Nice tackle, Sammy," Dean said in between bites of really awesome pancakes, "and nice catch, MM."
"Thank you, Dean. I did play a bit of ball back in the day. And I knew there was something unsavory about those pipes."
"Aside from the godawful noise?"
"Nonsense. The mournful skirl of bagpipes is one of the most moving sounds known to humanity."
"It certainly made me want to move right out of the room," Wendy said. Dean couldn't disagree.
"Philistine." The Middleman looked at Sam, who shook his head.
"I'm gonna have to side with Dean and Wendy on this one, MM."
The Middleman grunted, but let the subject drop.
The sun was rising when they left the diner. They exchanged contact information and the Middleman promised to email him the specs to upgrade the Impala's engine to biodiesel. He thought it might be a good project to work on in between apocalypses.
Wendy didn't seem like the hugging type, which Dean thought was a damn shame, but she promised him a few rounds of Gutwrencher 3 on X-box the next time they were in touch, and traded World of Warcraft tips with Sam.
"You know everything Sam said about me was a lie, right?" Dean said, leaning against the open car door.
She laughed. "You don't look like the Celine Dion type, but you could have hidden depths."
"I'd plumb your hidden depths."
Sam groaned from the passenger seat. "Get in the car, Dean."
"Maybe next time," Wendy said, patting his cheek.
"I'm gonna hold you to that," he said, getting into the car. "And to me."
"Dean!" Sam sounded like he was going to have a coronary. Dean grinned at him and started the engine.
*
The Impala
Heading east on CA-94
8:36 am Pacific Daylight Time
Dean sang along with Jim Morrison at the top of his lungs, shouting over the wind, glad to have his voice back.
He finally turned the volume down during "Blue Sunday" and glanced over at Sam, who was half-asleep in the passenger seat.
"The Titanic thing was funny," he said, "and I might even forgive you for the Jeff Tweedy thing. If I ever find out who that is. But the celibacy thing? I'm afraid I can't let that one go. You realize this means war, right?"
Sam gave him a sleepy grin, his hair curling wildly around his ears and over his forehead as the wind whipped through the car. "Bring it on, man."
Dean hit the gas a little harder and grinned back, already making plans.
end
~*~
Notes:
I combined elements from two prompts:
1) Fic: Dean loses the use of his voice for some reason--laryngitis, injury to the throat--and Sam is his voice, knowing his brother so well that he is able to practically read Dean's mind and say what he would say in various situations. Except when he gets it wrong, of course. And if Sam takes advantage of the silence to say something he's been wanting to tell Dean, well, who could blame him?
3) Fic: Casefile crossover with The Middleman, wherein there is much confusion about who exactly is actually in the FBI (or whichever fake ID the two sets of heroes are using).
~*~
Feedback is always appreciated. Thanks so much to the lovely people who've already commented. It really means a lot to me.
~*~
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The Uilleann Ululation Undertaking
Supernatural/The Middleman; Sam, Dean, Wendy Watson, the Middleman; pg; 4,855 words
"Two weeks ago, the museum received a cache of instruments from Ireland, and among them were a set of Uilleann pipes. We believe the pipes to be dangerous in the wrong hands."
Written for maychorian in the 2009 spn_summergen ficathon. Thanks to luzdeestrellas and angelgazing for betaing, and to mousapelli for handholding.
~*~
The Uilleann Ululation Undertaking
The Come'n'Sleep Motel
3:36 pm Pacific Daylight Time
"Sam Chambers and Dean Malone?" Sam tossed the new badges down onto the desk in disgust. "That doesn't make any sense. Mine should be Sam Malone--since that was his name--and you should be Diane, excuse me, Dean Chambers."
"If the prissy, intellectual shoe fits..." Dean said absently, frowning at the stale doughnut he'd just bitten into. They'd just bought them, too. He decided to dunk it in his coffee. Might taste better that way. "And anyway, your way is too obvious."
"Either way it's obvious, or nobody actually remembers who they are."
"Cheers is a classic," Dean answered, offended, through a mouthful of soggy doughnut, crumbs spraying everywhere. "Where everybody knows your name."
"If everybody knows their names, we probably shouldn't be using them as aliases."
Dean swallowed what was in his mouth and jabbed a finger in Sam's direction. "Just for that, next time, I'm making you Cliff Clavin." He ignored the dirty look Sam shot him and grabbed another of the unfortunately stale doughnuts. "So tell me about this job again."
*
The Moonstruck Diner
at the corner of Norton and Kramden
8:00 pm Eastern Daylight Time
Dean finished the last of his fries and pushed his plate away. "So, Mr. Mooney, you were Mr. Nevins' assistant?"
"Indeed I am. I was, rather." The guy took his glasses off to wipe them clean, and his eyes were red-rimmed and tired-looking. "His death was shocking." His accent made Dean think fondly of Lucky Charms. They'd been his and Sam's favorite cereal as kids.
"He's the third person associated with the McGillicuddy collection to have died since it arrived in the city. Can you think of anything odd that might have happened before it was shipped?" Sam asked.
"Odd? How do you mean?"
"Did he receive any threats?" Dean said.
"Threats? No, of course not. We run a legitimate business."
"I'm sure." Dean sucked the last of his Coke through his straw, making the ice cubes rattle in the bottom of the glass.
Sam threw him an annoyed look. "What about the provenance of the items? Anything unusual there?"
"I've told you, we run a legitimate business. The family engaged the firm many years ago to look after their affairs." The guy's accent got snootier the more annoyed he got.
Dean glanced at Sam. Something was hinky, but until they knew more, they wouldn't know what direction to push him in. Sam gave him a slight nod and said, "No one's saying you don't, Mr. Mooney. But if we could have copies of the provenances, and any other paperwork that was involved in this particular transaction, it would be helpful."
"Where did you say you were from, again?"
"We're private investigators hired by the Vance Conservatory. Our employers are very interested in the disposition of these instruments." Sam always sounded so sincere when he got his fake lawyer on. Even now, Dean still felt a pang of regret that he'd never been able to do it for real. Sam leaned in and gave the guy a confidential, man-to-man nod. "You understand."
Mooney nodded in response. "I'll have the provenances emailed to you this evening," he said, and stood up stiffly. "Now if you'll excuse me."
Dean shrugged and let him go. There wasn't much else they could do.
*
The Mertz Museum of Music
Time to rock
The wailing was loud enough to rattle Dean's bones, and holding his hands over his ears didn't come close to blocking it out. "I thought you said this was a woman in white," he shouted, trying to make himself heard.
"That was the description from the witnesses," Sam shouted back, ducking behind a display of Stratocasters. Dean really hoped the glass didn't shatter.
He said something else Dean couldn't make out, and Dean took his hands away from his ears just in time to hear the boom that accompanied the bright white flash of light.
He blinked and shook his head, ears ringing, and when he turned around to look for Sam, he saw two people dressed in weird uniforms holding very strange looking guns. The man was as tall as he was (maybe a little bit taller, but not as tall as Sam), his hair parted and gelled like a choirboy's on the way to a wedding. The girl with him wasn't very tall, but she was hot and she looked like she knew how to use her weird looking gun. Looked like she wanted to use it. On him, probably. Great.
"Sam?" he said, or tried to, but nothing came out. "Sam?" he tried again, but though his mouth was moving, he couldn't make any sound.
Sam appeared from behind the case of guitars and rushed to his side. "Dean?"
Of course, his voice was still working. Bastard. Dean gestured with his flashlight towards their company.
"I'm Agent Ball and this is Agent Ricardo," the guy said, and they both held up badges.
Dean laughed, but still made no sound. He nudged Sam in the ribs with an elbow, shaking his head, and then held up his own fairly realistic fake badge.
"I'm Agent Malone and this is Agent Chambers," Sam said, and Dean kicked his ankle hard before turning his brightest grin on the pair of fake FBI agents confronting them. "I think what my partner is trying to say is, Lucy, you got some 'splaining to do." Sam didn't carry it off with quite the panache Dean would have, but Dean couldn't complain. He was actually kind of proud Sam had said it at all.
Agent Ricardo rolled her eyes and pursed her lips in a way that would give Sam at his bitchiest a run for his money. "And you have a bar to run. Though your partner is cuter than Diane ever was."
Dean beamed at her astute observation and gave her a little hey, baby, how you doin' head bob; her mouth curved into a half-grin before she pressed her lips together and pretended not to notice. He patted his pockets for a pad and pen, but the only pen he had was out of ink. He gave it to Sam, who pocketed it and didn't give him a new one, despite his outstretched hand. He sighed in annoyance, and Sam shot him a warning look.
"Why don't you tell me what you did to him?" Sam's voice was calm and deadly, and Dean wouldn't have wanted to be on his bad side, even with the funky looking guns the other two were holding.
"We used a silence grenade to quiet the noise," Agent Ball said. "Your partner got caught in the crossfire. It should wear off in a few hours." Thank God, Dean mouthed, and Sam squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. "You should go rest up and leave this to the professionals."
"And you think you know what you're dealing with here?" Sam asked.
He was interrupted by the squawking of Agent Ball's wristwatch. "Ida? What is it?"
Dean looked at Sam and mouthed, Dick Tracy, and was pleased when Sam had to bite back a laugh.
"The two yahoos you've got pinned down there are a couple of walking dead men," Ida (at least, Dean figured it was Ida, since the voice was coming from the dude's watch) said. She sounded like a cranky librarian, the kind who liked to rap people's knuckles with a ruler when they were late returning their copy of Tropic of Cancer.
"Sweet undead Moses, Ida! They don't look like zombies!"
"We're not zombies!" Dean said, but he didn't make any sound. Good thing Sam said it at exactly the same time.
"They're not zombies," Ida said. After so many years of living with Sam, Dean could hear the eyeroll in her voice. "They're wanted criminals who faked their own deaths to get The Man off their backs. Probably a couple of Wendy's hophead friends."
"Hey," said Agent Ricardo, but it seemed more automatic and amused than angry.
"Criminals?" Agent Ball asked.
"I'm using the HEYDAR to cross-reference. They're Sam and Dean Winchester. You met their father once."
Ball nodded once, decisively. Dean had a feeling this guy did most things decisively. He had that look. "I remember, Ida. The kappa influx of October 1996." He shuddered theatrically and then gave Sam and Dean another one of those decisive nods. "Your father was a good man in a kappa fight."
"Thanks," Sam said, giving Dean a confused look. Dean shrugged one shoulder slightly and widened his eyes--just go with it, Sammy. "If you knew our dad, then you know that we know what we're doing."
The approaching wail of sirens cut off the guy's response. "We'd better go before the police arrive," he said instead.
"So you're not actually FBI," Sam said.
Dean snorted and rolled his eyes, because duh. Sam scowled at him.
"No. I'm just the Middleman." Before either Sam or Dean could ask what that meant, he said, "Dubbie, we'll go back to your place."
"I'm not sure I want the undead serial killers to know where I live, boss."
"Nonsense, Dubbie. I'm sure they're perfectly nice young gentlemen."
Sam put on the expression he'd used to con librarians and social workers for most of his life. "We really are."
Wendy still looked skeptical but she didn't argue. She probably agreed with the rest of them that the cops were a bigger threat at the moment.
*
The hallway leading to the illegal sublet Wendy shares with another young, photogenic artist
3:54 am Atlantic Daylight Time
There was a lanky black guy with a guitar sitting in the hallway when they came off the elevator.
"Hey, Wendy Watson."
"Hi, Noser."
"Hello, Mr. Noser."
"Hi, Wendy's boss," Noser said. He gave Sam and Dean a thorough once-over. "You know that women never really faint?"
"And villains always blink their eyes," Dean tried to answer, but of course, he still couldn't talk.
"Children are the only ones who blush," Sam said when the pause had gone on a little too long, once again making Dean proud of him. And then he ruined it by saying, "My brother's more into alt-country, Jeff Tweedy instead of Lou Reed."
Dean stared at the back of Sam's big stupid head and wondered if he could set fire to it with his mind. He didn't even know who Jeff Tweedy was.
"It's cool," Noser said, and Dean cursed silently to himself because he couldn't tell him it wasn't.
As they turned to enter Wendy's apartment, he could see the smirk on Sam's face. Payback, he promised himself, would be a bitch.
*
The illegal sublet Wendy shares with another young, photogenic artist
3:56 am Atlantic Daylight Time
Wendy made a beeline to the coffeepot, and Dean followed her instinctively, hovering while it percolated.
She pulled out four mugs but the Middleman said, "You know my feelings about doing drugs while on duty, Dubbie."
"Drugs?" Sam asked, sharing a confused glance with Dean.
"Caffeine is a drug, Sam."
A sweet, sweet, necessary drug as far as Dean was concerned. He gave the guy an incredulous look and held his mug out for some when Wendy offered the pot in his direction.
The Middleman shook his head. "No, thank you. I'll have a squirt of moo juice instead."
"It's in the fridge," Wendy said.
He took out the container of milk and offered it around. "Builds healthy teeth and strong bones."
"Dean," Sam started, and Dean recognized the mischievous glint in his eye and clutched his mug of coffee close. He gave Sam his most intense don't even think about it glare. Some things were sacred, and Sam seemed to get that, because he paused and shook his head. "I'll take some in my coffee," he said instead, holding his mug out. The Middleman poured a healthy portion of milk into it without splashing. Dean was grudgingly impressed.
Once they were all hooked up with their beverages of choice, Dean nudged Sam, who said, "What were you doing at the museum tonight?"
"Two weeks ago, the museum received a cache of instruments from Ireland--a violin, a viola, an oboe, a clarinet, and a piccolo (the family flute was lost in World War II and never replaced)--and among them were a set of Uilleann pipes. We believe the pipes to be," the Middleman coughed, "dangerous in the wrong hands."
Sam looked intrigued. "Like Cecil Rogers's cursed tuba?"
"How do you know about that?" Wendy asked, surprised.
"Everybody knows about that," Sam said, waving a hand. Dean rolled his eyes. Sam would deny it with his dying breath, but he'd been freaking obsessed with that movie, and had read anything and everything about the Titanic that he'd been able to get his hands on. "And anyway, Dean here is kind of an expert on the Titanic. He was obsessed with that movie when it came out. Saw it, like, seventeen times."
"Liar!" Dean said, but of course, no one could hear him. Sure, he liked to look at naked Kate Winslet as much as the next guy, but he'd only seen it that often because Sam watched it every time it showed up on cable. This was almost worse than being denied coffee.
Sam continued as if he hadn't spoken, because he actually hadn't. "You're hunters?"
"We're consultants," the Middleman replied. "We fix exotic problems." He took a sip of his milk, then set the mug on the table. "I've had occasion to work with hunters in the past. The supernatural is not my area of expertise. I'm much better with aliens."
Sam got there before Dean could even open his mouth. "Aliens?" He packed an amazing amount of skepticism into the word.
"Yes, of course. You don't think we're alone in the universe, do you? That's rather arrogant of you, Mr. Winchester."
Sam frowned. "It's not arrogance," he said. "It's just that, if there are aliens, I don't see why they would bother with us."
"I wish they wouldn't," Wendy said.
Sam looked like he wanted to argue, so Dean tapped the table impatiently. They had a job to work, aliens or no aliens, and Dean didn't think it had anything to do with a cursed set of bagpipes.
"We don't think it's cursed bagpipes," Sam said, and Dean gave a decisive nod of his own.
The Middleman took a deep breath and Dean could feel the lecture coming on, but Wendy said, "Then what do you think it is? Because we've got three dead museum employees, all suffocated, and other than the petechial hemorrhaging, there were no other signs of trauma or violence on the bodies."
"We thought it might be a woman in white--"
Wendy blinked. "La llorona?"
Sam nodded. "Yeah. But it's not. Despite the name, the wailing doesn't fit. That was definitely a banshee."
"So the question is, how do you banish a banshee?" Wendy looked at them hopefully. "Please tell me you know, or we'll be up all night reading Middlelore."
"Banshees are generally attached to families," Sam said, and Dean preened a little at how professional he sounded. "They're a variety of death omen, which means they warn people that death is coming, but don't usually kill people themselves."
"So you think the banshee is separate from whatever is doing the killing. Hmm." The Middleman cupped his chin thoughtfully.
"The banshee is probably attached to the McGillicuddy family," Sam said, "though if the old lady was the last of the line, it shouldn't still be hanging around."
Dean nudged Sam, and when he had his attention, made little flappy batwings with his hands. Sam nodded. "Dean says that some people believe banshees are facets of the Morrigan, so this thing could be our killer. Possibly motivated by revenge?"
"I thought old Mrs. McGillicuddy died of natural causes," said Wendy.
Sam shrugged and shook his head. "In that case, without more research, there's no way to tell."
"Back to headquarters then," said the Middleman.
Wendy sighed. "Middlelore, here we come."
Dean gave her a sympathetic smile.
*
Middleman Headquarters
8:57 am Belfast Time
Ida looked exactly like Dean thought she would, based on her voice. She even had the cat's eye glasses he'd pictured. (Her dress, on the other hand, looked like something out of one of the old Sears catalogues from the 1970s they'd sometimes found in the basements of haunted houses.) She took one look at Sam and said to the Middleman, "What's going on with you, boss? First you hired Smokey McStoner to be your apprentice, and now you're bringing home her long-haired hippie friends?" Dean laughed silently at the insulted look on Sam's face until Ida turned her glare on him. "What are you laughing at, pal? You've got juvenile offender written all over you." She waved a hand. "That bad boy look might work on girls too zonked out on weed to know better, but you won't get very far with me."
Dean lowered his head and scratched the back of his neck awkwardly as Sam snickered, his own embarrassment forgotten.
The Middleman's library gave Bobby's a run for its money, and Dean wondered for a second why their father had never mentioned this guy, but Dad had never really talked about other hunters much, and Dean was pretty sure that's how he'd written off the Middleman. He'd found the entry in Dad's journal, and it wasn't exactly overflowing with information--nothing but some notes on kappas and a phone number for the Jolly Fats Wehawkin Temp Agency.
Sam and the Middleman were totally bonding over the books, so Dean turned his attention to Wendy. He didn't need his voice to flirt, though it made things a lot easier. He'd finally gotten a pen that wrote, and after the first hour of looking stuff up in books, he'd drawn a game of hangman and shoved it over to Wendy, who guessed Metallica pretty quickly, and came back with Gutwrencher. He was pretty sure he was going to be getting into her dorky uniform pants at some point. He thought he'd ask her to keep the tie on, though. And maybe the boots, too.
"The three victims--they weren't related in any way, right?" Sam's voice broke through his daydream.
Dean shook his head and started writing. Baxter was the security guard who'd been on duty the first night after the instruments had been displayed; Morganstern was the curator who'd acquired the instruments; and Nivens was the agent who'd brokered the deal for the museum, acting on behalf of the McGillicuddy estate.
"According to the documents we got from Nivens's assistant, he was selling off the estate after old Mrs. McGillicuddy died. She was the last of the family," Sam said. He stopped and cocked his head, struck by something. When he didn't share with the rest of them, Dean motioned for him to keep going. "There was something off about that guy, Mooney. Didn't you think so, Dean?" Dean nodded. "He wasn't afraid that he would be next, even though three people involved with this collection of stuff have already died. He just seemed annoyed by our questions."
"Zuzu's petals! That is hinky." He tapped his watch and said, "Ida, what do we know about Mr. Fred Mooney?"
"I'm on it, boss."
While they waited, Sam leaned over to Wendy and said, "I hope my brother's not being too much of a tease."
"What?"
"He's a huge flirt, but he doesn't actually believe in casual sex. He thinks it should mean something. He's a big romantic like that. He's waiting for the right girl to come along." Sam shook his head wistfully. "Probably has something to do with all those times he watched Titanic as a teenager."
Dean choked and flung the pen at Sam's stupid face, but Sam used one of his huge, mutant hands to block it.
Wendy looked taken aback. "That's sweet. I guess." She gave Dean a wary look. "I'm gonna go get some more coffee."
Dean grabbed the pen and wrote, I am going to kill you in your sleep.
Sam just laughed.
*
Middleman Headquarters
Time to bait the trap
After some argument, the Middleman said that Ida would make the phone call. "He hasn't heard your voice, and you'll be able to block it if he tries to trace the call," he said when she opened her mouth to argue.
Ida harrumphed, but tapped the bud in her ear. "Mr. Fred Mooney of Nevins, Frawley, and O'Hare?" Dean was surprised at how pleasant she sounded, like a switchboard operator in one of the black and white movies that were always on at three am in places that had no cable. "This is Laura Petrie from the Vance Conservatory. I'm sorry for calling so late. I understand you met with our private investigators earlier this evening, and I wanted to let you know there's been a new development in the case." She paused, then, "It seems there was a branch of the McGillicuddy family of which your firm was not aware, and we've found a surviving heir. We'd like you to meet with investigators MacMurray and Douglas as soon as possible. At the museum? In half an hour. Excellent. I'm texting them now, Mr. Mooney. They're on their way." She tapped her ear again, then turned to the Middleman. "You get all that?"
"Thank you, Ida. That's perfect." The Middleman touched her shoulder briefly and then headed into another room.
Dean smiled at her and she gave him a withering glare. "You think you three dope fiends can manage not to screw this up?" She hit her forehead with the heel of her palm. "What was I thinking? Of course you can't. It's not Opposite Day or anything."
Dean opened his mouth, forgetting yet again that he couldn't talk, but Wendy just shook her head. "Don't even ask about Opposite Day." She walked out the same door the Middleman had.
Dean exchanged puzzled glances with Sam, shrugged, and followed them out.
*
The Middle Garage
10:43 am Dakar Time
Dean stopped on the way to the car to admire the Middleman's 1968 Ford Fairlane 500, but Sam had to be his usual killjoy self. "I can't believe you drive a gas guzzler like that."
"Gas guzzler?" The Middleman sounded offended, and Dean couldn't blame him. "Star and garters, man, she runs clean on biodiesel. I fuel her up with the leftover oil from Yu Mi Wang's Chinese Restaurant."
Dean perked up at that. He and Bobby had discussed converting to biodiesel when he'd rebuilt the Impala, but he hadn't really had the patience to check it out. He tapped the Middleman's elbow and jerked his head at the hood of the car.
The Middleman nodded. "After we've apprehended Mr. Mooney and banished the banshee, I'll show you what I've done with the engine."
Dean clapped him on the shoulder in agreement, and headed to his own car with a smile on his face.
*
The Mertz Museum of Music
Time for Dean to get his voice back
Mooney had beaten them to the museum; he was sitting under a yellow spotlight in front of the glass case where the McGillicuddy family instruments were being displayed, playing the Uillean pipes. He wasn't very good at it, or maybe they just weren't Dean's idea of good music, because he thought he'd rather hear the banshee wailing again instead.
The noise stopped, thankfully, when Mooney realized they were there. "So where is he?"
"Excuse me?" said the Middleman.
"This mythical heir to the McGillicuddy estate, such as it is."
"Why don't you tell us, Mr. Mooney?" Wendy raised her Middle-gun. "Or should I say, Mr. McGillicuddy?"
Mooney McGillicuddy tossed his chair at her and ran.
"Son of a sea cook! That's dirty pool!" McGillicuddy must have seen the Middleman's shot coming, because he dove out of the way and the shot hit the wall of Connie Francis's gold records. "Who's sorry now, Mr. McGillicuddy?"
McGillicuddy had taken the pipes with him, clutched under his arm, and as he crawled behind the glass case holding Django Reinhardt's guitar, he began playing them again.
The droning howl was answered by the banshee's wail, and she appeared, long grey hair and long white winding cloth trailing behind her. She was heading towards Wendy when Dean blasted her full of rock salt. She rematerialized by the framed and autographed poster of Ted Nugent. Dean silently apologized to the Nuge before blasting the banshee again. Both barrels empty, he stopped to reload, the relentless screech of the pipes making his head hurt. He was never going to let Sam complain about his music again.
"I waited years for the pipes to come into my hands," McGillicuddy shouted over the noise. "I finally got tired of waiting and finished the old man off, thinking that with him gone, his harpy of a wife would soon follow. But she was tough as old shoe leather, so I had to help her along to her eternal rest.
"But those thieving lawyers had the estate tied up in probate. They didn't accept my claim as James McGillicuddy's only surviving son, just because he never married my mother. And they started selling my inheritance out from under me. What else could I do?"
"Stop monologuing, for one," Wendy snapped, trying to get a bead on him with her funky gun (she'd said it was a positron collider blaster, when Dean had pointed at it and looked charmingly curious, since he couldn't actually ask).
"So you just decided to kill everyone else who got in your way?" Sam asked.
Dean was glad to hear the incredulity and disgust in his voice, even after everything they'd seen and done, even if Sam was the only person on the planet who would encourage a crazy bad guy in his monologuing. Then he realized Sam was trying to draw McGillicuddy's attention away from Wendy and the Middleman, who were still aiming their weapons at him.
McGillicuddy's face went red and he shouted, "My plan is sheer elegance in its simplicity!"
"Oh, for the love of Mike," the Middleman groused, as if he'd heard that line before.
The pipes moaned and the banshee wailed, heading right for Sam, who had his back to it.
"Sam!" Dean startled himself by actually being able to speak again, his voice a little gravelly from disuse, but loud enough to get the job done. "Sam! He's controlling it with the pipes."
Sam tackled McGillicuddy and the pipes went flying in a high arc, landing right in the Middleman's hands, like a perfect pass from Montana to Rice. He pulled out one of those barbecue lighters and set them on fire, just like they'd discussed.
The banshee, freed from having to kill on command, turned on the last of its family.
In the morning, the police wouldn't find much of Fred Mooney, né James McGillicuddy Junior, in the wreckage of the Pat Boone display.
"And he would have gotten away with it, too," Dean said.
"If it weren't for those meddling kids," Wendy concluded.
They shared a celebratory fist-bump before heading out to the diner for pancakes.
*
The Moonstruck Diner
at the corner of Norton and Kramden
6:43 am Pacific Daylight Time
"Nice tackle, Sammy," Dean said in between bites of really awesome pancakes, "and nice catch, MM."
"Thank you, Dean. I did play a bit of ball back in the day. And I knew there was something unsavory about those pipes."
"Aside from the godawful noise?"
"Nonsense. The mournful skirl of bagpipes is one of the most moving sounds known to humanity."
"It certainly made me want to move right out of the room," Wendy said. Dean couldn't disagree.
"Philistine." The Middleman looked at Sam, who shook his head.
"I'm gonna have to side with Dean and Wendy on this one, MM."
The Middleman grunted, but let the subject drop.
The sun was rising when they left the diner. They exchanged contact information and the Middleman promised to email him the specs to upgrade the Impala's engine to biodiesel. He thought it might be a good project to work on in between apocalypses.
Wendy didn't seem like the hugging type, which Dean thought was a damn shame, but she promised him a few rounds of Gutwrencher 3 on X-box the next time they were in touch, and traded World of Warcraft tips with Sam.
"You know everything Sam said about me was a lie, right?" Dean said, leaning against the open car door.
She laughed. "You don't look like the Celine Dion type, but you could have hidden depths."
"I'd plumb your hidden depths."
Sam groaned from the passenger seat. "Get in the car, Dean."
"Maybe next time," Wendy said, patting his cheek.
"I'm gonna hold you to that," he said, getting into the car. "And to me."
"Dean!" Sam sounded like he was going to have a coronary. Dean grinned at him and started the engine.
*
The Impala
Heading east on CA-94
8:36 am Pacific Daylight Time
Dean sang along with Jim Morrison at the top of his lungs, shouting over the wind, glad to have his voice back.
He finally turned the volume down during "Blue Sunday" and glanced over at Sam, who was half-asleep in the passenger seat.
"The Titanic thing was funny," he said, "and I might even forgive you for the Jeff Tweedy thing. If I ever find out who that is. But the celibacy thing? I'm afraid I can't let that one go. You realize this means war, right?"
Sam gave him a sleepy grin, his hair curling wildly around his ears and over his forehead as the wind whipped through the car. "Bring it on, man."
Dean hit the gas a little harder and grinned back, already making plans.
end
~*~
Notes:
I combined elements from two prompts:
1) Fic: Dean loses the use of his voice for some reason--laryngitis, injury to the throat--and Sam is his voice, knowing his brother so well that he is able to practically read Dean's mind and say what he would say in various situations. Except when he gets it wrong, of course. And if Sam takes advantage of the silence to say something he's been wanting to tell Dean, well, who could blame him?
3) Fic: Casefile crossover with The Middleman, wherein there is much confusion about who exactly is actually in the FBI (or whichever fake ID the two sets of heroes are using).
~*~
Feedback is always appreciated. Thanks so much to the lovely people who've already commented. It really means a lot to me.
~*~
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