Fic: A Potentially Dangerous Impression, SPN/HSM, Sam/Ryan, NC-17 (24/?)
Title: A Potentially Dangerous Impression (part 24 of ?)
Author: SallySimpson
Fandoms: Supernatural collides with High School Musical
Pairing: Sam Winchester/Ryan Evans
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 1411, this chapter
Disclaimers: The usual. I am in no legal or professional way associated with any of the assorted films, shows, studios, actors, etc. I do not pretend this story actually happened, particularly as it's about fictional characters.
Summary: East High is the scene of a bizarre string of cyclical unexplained murders. It's got to be a job for Sam and Dean, but only one of them can go undercover as a high school student.
1 || 2 || 3 || 4 || 5 || 6 || 7 || 8 || 9 || 10 || 11 || 12 || 13 || 14 || 15 || 16 || 17 || 18 || 19 || 20 || 21 || 22 || 23
In this chapter: Dean and Sam start pulling some of the loose threads together.
"I still say we're wasting our fucking time here," Dean insisted, pausing in his pacing routine to pull aside the curtain and peer out their window at the street-lit motel parking lot. "We should be at the school, digging around. Looking for things we missed. Checking every single dusty corner with an EMF meter, something."
"There's a home football game tonight," Sam replied from where he was hunched over at the small table. His carefully patient tone of voice was suggestive of a man who'd already had to explain the same thing to the same person, and already more than once. "People would notice us wandering around inside the school, if not notice us breaking and entering in the first place."
Dean rolled his eyes. "And what's wrong with us wandering around the school? You're a registered student, sort of. You could say you were giving me a tour or something." He looked at Sam expectantly.
"With flashlights?"
"All right, fine," Dean grumbled, and let the curtain fall closed again. He pushed himself heavily onto his bed, landing flat on his back and glaring up at the ceiling. "I hate this fucking room. Have I mentioned how I hate this fucking room? Because I've been getting to spend a whole lot of time in it, recently, and-“
“Seriously, Dean, enough,” Sam shot back, and - wonder of wonders - he actually bothered to look up from the documents he was studying. “You’re getting on my nerves.”
“Oh, I’m getting on your nerves?” Dean snarled. “Well that’s just peachy. I think you need to cut me some friggin' slack, Sam. After all, I’ve been holed up in here with basic cable while you’re out there getting laid, you selfish dick."
"Yeah, well not anymore," Sam muttered, frowning, and he turned back to hunch over his papers again.
“What?” Dean turned his head against the pillow so he could watch Sam. “Did you and Ryan have another fight?” He scoffed in disbelief. “Seriously, again? You’ve been together for, what. A week and a half?” Dean shook his head, incredulous. “I swear you two spend more time fighting than fucking. Drama drama drama.”
“Drama drama drama,” Sam echoed in a whisper, and rubbed his eyes tiredly. After a few moments of silence, he sighed. “Tell me where we’re going to look.”
“...Huh?” Dean glanced absently away from the water stain he’d been studying on the spackled ceiling. He could almost just make out the outline of a ’64 Chevelle, distinctive roof drip rails and all. “Oh, going to look at the school, you mean?” He shrugged. “Everywhere, I guess. You got any better ideas?”
“No,” Sam replied shortly, and for all that Sam was pissing him off tonight, Dean could hear in his brother’s voice that the whole crappy situation was getting to him just as badly. “I haven’t been able to really inspect every single room yet. I’ve been going a lot on say-so from the students....” He sighed, and dragged his fingers through his unkempt hair. “I guess tomorrow night’s our best bet. I think the place is pretty empty on Saturday afternoons, so maybe we can even start before sundown.”
“Yeah. ‘Cause it’s going to take us all damn night to go over that building thoroughly,” Dean agreed, irritated already at the thought of it. “And not just the building, I guess.” His brow furrowed as he tried to recall the details of the old blueprints. “Are any of the newer structures on plots where students used to be active?” he asked. “Like, do we need to check every inch of the baseball diamond, too?”
”Let me see,” Sam said, pushing back from the table and turning to the ragged pile of photocopied newspaper clippings, hand-scrawled notes, ancient county records-every scrap of information they’d accumulated on the East High case, thus far. He pulled out the blueprints from the stack and spread the thin sheets across the table.
Pulling up the chair opposite, Dean settled in and lifted Sam’s glass of water out of the way. Sam shuffled down to the bottom layer of prints, to the oldest one, and then carefully spread out that one on top of the others. “All right,” he murmured. “The bodies were found here,” he laid his finger on a black-inked X, next to a scribbled date, “here, and here. We still haven’t discovered the location for the 1960 murder. And from what the newspaper article said, Minnie’s corpse was found right here, in the yard just outside where the English classrooms were back then.”
Dean frowned. “We’re going back to Minnie?”
Sam opened his mouth to speak, but then just shrugged. “What else do we have right now?”
“True.” As much as Dean hated it, he had to admit at least that. “Okay, so Minnie was actually found outside. Don’t know if she was killed there, but that’s where she ended up.” Dean sat up and craned his neck to inspect the blueprint sideways. “So far as we know, all the other bodies were found inside the building somewhere, right?”
“Right,” Sam agreed, his brow furrowing as he studied the drawing.
“Well, what about that patch of ground where Minnie was? Did anything ever get built on top of that?” Without waiting for an answer, Dean started lifting up the edges of the blueprints and peeking at them until he found the one he was looking for. “Here,” he said, pulling that one out and laying it on top. He double-checked the location with a quick glance, and then nodded. “That’s where they built the theater. In, um...” he pursed his lips as he raked through his memory. “The sixties.”
“Yeah.” Sam chewed on his bottom lip for a long moment, and then blew out a breath in frustration. “So, what does that give us?”
“Not fucking much,” Dean agreed, just as glum. But then his eyes narrowed. “Wait.” He grabbed his own notebook from the stack on the floor and began flipping through it. “That girl who got burned this past week-what was her name?”
“Ahh, Jenna,” Sam recalled. “Jenna Brady.”
“Jenna Brady,” Dean muttered, running his fingertip down a closely-scrawled page of notes. “Was she a theater student, by chance?”
“A theater student?” Sam sat back, obviously struck by the question. “She... I don’t think... oh, wait,” he exclaimed, as a fragment of memory dropped into place. “I don’t know if she actually takes theater classes, but I think she’s active in the drama department-you know, extracurricular, or whatever. I remember Troy’s girlfriend worrying that Jenna would miss some play auditions because of the accident.”
Dean looked up and pinned Sam with a dubious gaze. “Troy’s girlfriend?”
“Yeah,” Sam said, and shook his head apologetically. “I can never remember her name.”
“Yeah, but. The guy’s name is actually Troy? Did I make a wrong turn into Beverly Hills, or something?”
“The hell if I know what’s up with that,” Sam muttered, and sat up again, reaching across the table to snatch Dean’s notebook out of his hands.
“Hey! Mine.” Dean slapped at Sam’s wrist and yanked the book back. “Look. Every kid we’ve got info on...” he began, grabbing a pen and starting to scribble furiously, adding to his notes. “The 1996 victim, Mrs. Harding’s student. 1972, that kid. That girl in May of ’84. And then the kid who got killed in 1960, who was in the school newspaper the week before for getting his leg broken.” Dean rapidly scanned his notes again, and then shook his head in disbelief. “Sam, they were all written up in the school paper as drama kids. Every single one.”
“Every single one,” Sam echoed in a slow whisper, staring incredulously down at the blueprints. “How did we miss- The theater. Minnie’s body. But...” he raised his eyes to meet Dean’s. “Minnie, she’s not...” he trailed off with a shrug.
Dean’s lips pursed in a deep frown. “Yeah. But... damn it, there’s got to be something there!” he exclaimed, smacking his palm against the table. “This connection can’t mean nothing. I mean-Ryan, even!”
“Ryan,” Sam said softly, and Dean could have kicked himself for putting that desolate expression right back onto Sam’s face. “All right, we go tomorrow night,” he said, his voice firming. “We’ll check out the theater, top to bottom-at least that gives us a starting point. And then if we don’t find anything, we’ll keep going from there.”
To Chapter 25