Fic: Ghost Stories (Leverage/SPN crossover, PG-13)
Title: Ghost Stories
Author: sheryden
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Eliot, Dean and Sam Winchester, the Leverage team; no pairings
Word Count: 4319
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Mention of past combat experiences, lot of Eliot whumping, minor language
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. They belong to their respective creators, and I’m not making any money from this.
Summary: While on a routine job, Eliot runs into someone from his past and is forced to face some old ghosts.
Author's Note 1: Written for lady_yashka for leveragexchange. Go check out comm, guys. There are some great stories there! My story went live earlier this morning, so I figured I'd post it here now.
Author's Note 2: The flashback sequences in the story are meant to take place shortly after Sam Winchester left for college.
Then
The bar was thick with stifling smoke, raucous laughter, and stale beer. And the floor… Well, it was littered with peanuts, dirty napkins, and plain old dust. Dean Winchester loved this kind of place. Most nights, he’d settle in, hustle a little pool, and make friends with an attractive waitress. Tonight, though, he was trying to save a guy’s life.
The object of his visit sat a few feet away, hunched over a bottle of beer that he was clutching like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Dean couldn’t help but think the guy looked like he’d had the life kicked out of him a few hundred times. There was something world weary and brittle about him. Of course, given what he’d seen him go through only an hour before, Dean wasn’t exactly surprised the guy had an edge to him.
Slipping onto a stool next to him, Dean cleared his throat and said, “How’s it going?”
Without looking up, the man said, “Not interested in company, kid. Take a walk.”
Dean sat up a little straighter. “Yeah, well you might be interested in what I have to say.”
“I’m interested in sitting here and drinking this beer in silence.”
Letting out a breath, Dean leaned a little closer. “Look… Eliot…”
Before Dean knew what hit him, Eliot’s hand was around his wrist, twisting it just such a way that Dean couldn’t get enough leverage to properly fight back. “Who are you,” Eliot spat. “Why are you dogging me, and how do you know my name?”
Through clenched teeth, Dean said, “Name’s Dean. And I heard your cranky-ass friend say your name back at the warehouse. And I know what he was, ‘cause I hunt ‘em.”
Eliot released Dean’s wrist and turned back to his beer. “Get out of my face.”
Leaning close enough to Eliot that he could talk without the other bar patrons listening in, he said, “That ghost is not gonna leave you alone.”
“I said go.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“And I’m telling you if you don’t turn around and walk away, I’m gonna hurt you.”
“That what happened to your friend?”
With an eerie swiftness, Eliot’s hand locked around Dean’s neck. “Listen to me, kid,” he said in a low, raspy voice. “I can do things to you that will give you nightmares for weeks. If I let you live. Now walk away.”
Then unceremoniously, Eliot pushed Dean backward and sent him thudding to the dusty barroom floor. Without waiting for Dean to respond, Eliot sat back down on the barstool and ordered another beer.
***
Now
Eliot groaned internally and tried to ignore the persistent ache in his lower back and shoulders. This job was a milk run compared to most of the teams recent gigs. But it was also a swanky party, which meant that a) Eliot had to dress up in an uncomfortable suit b) He had to stand on his feet all night and c) He was bored out of his skull while he waited for something to do besides standing around watching Nate and Sophie weave their trap.
The festivities were being held at the home of their mark, one Rowan Havershaw, an obscenely wealthy and arrogant hotelier with a penchant for antiques. The team was trying to retrieve a music box Havershaw had swindled out from under a financially strapped young couple. The antique had been in the wife’s family for decades, and when the couple had approached the team, that’s all they’d wanted. During the course of the con, however, Nate had decided that Havershaw had done far more heinous things and wanted to bring him down completely and utterly. Hence, a long con and a swanky party.
As Eliot stood by the buffet table, drink in hand, one of the housekeepers breezed over to Havershaw and whispered something in his ear that had him blubbering out apologies to Nate and Sophie and hurrying out of the room toward the front of the house. About ten seconds later, Nate glanced in Eliot’s direction and nodded.
“I’m on it,” Eliot said. He moved through the crowd of people and crept after Havershaw as inconspicuously as he could. Babysitting the mark wasn’t high on his list of favorite pastimes, but at least he was doing something. And maybe Havershaw would give him an excuse to slug him one while he was at it. He really wanted to release some tension.
As Eliot approached the foyer, he could see Havershaw talking with a pair of men in suits. Given the stiff way Havershaw was standing, Eliot guessed they were FBI. Slipping into a shadowy corner that gave him a partial view of the new arrivals, Eliot cussed internally at the open layout of the entryway. There was no way he could get close enough to listen in properly without being seen.
Eliot couldn’t hear the details of the conversation, but he picked up words like “bad luck lately” and “anything strange.” After a few minutes, Havershaw muttered something about getting back to the party and watched as the agents departed through the front door. Almost as soon as Havershaw breezed past him, though, Eliot heard the door open again. From his hiding place, he could see the two agents reenter the house.
“That guy’s a douche,” one of them said.
Eliot arched an eyebrow. The voice sounded familiar enough to make him uneasy. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in a long time, and if it was attached the person he thought it was, this job just got considerably more complicated.
“I don’t like him much either, Dean,” said another voice. “Let’s just find the locket and get out of here.”
Dean. Dammit. It was him. Pulling out his earbud and slipping it into his the pocket of his dress pants, Eliot stood up and walked into plain view. “FBI? Seriously.”
When Dean saw him, he flashed a sloppy grin. “Eliot,” he said. Then his grin faded, and he added, “If you’re here, that can’t be a good sign.”
“I was thinking the same thing about you.”
A mountain of a man who was standing next to Dean gazed at Eliot with a quizzical expression on his face. Turning to Dean, he said, “I take it you know him?”
Making a face, Dean shook his head. “No, Sam,” he said. “We just made up names for each other, and he’s a good guesser.” Rolling his eyes at Eliot, he added, “My brother.”
Eliot glanced down the hall. The housekeeper was nowhere to be seen, but she could easily turn up any second. Nodding toward an open room a few feet away, Eliot said. “We need to get out of sight.”
After the three of them had slipped into the room, Eliot pointed at Dean. “You first. What’re you doing here?”
Dean leaned against the doorframe. “This chick, Kathleen, died in one of Havershaw’s family hotels back in the ‘40s. Back when his grandfather first opened it. Every ten years since, people staying at Havershaw’s hotel in downtown Boston randomly die.
Narrowing his eyes, Eliot ran a hand through his hair. “Reenacting her death or something?”
“Something like that. Anyway, this is year ten.”
“There’ve been two more deaths,” Sam added. “One at the hotel. And Havershaw’s cook here at the house.”
Eliot folded his arms across his chest. “How do you know the cook is connected to the others?”
“It’s a hunch,” Dean said. “We torched Kathleen’s bones after the first death, but the ghost almost took out a busboy Wednesday.”
“And then,” Sam said. “We found a reference to a locket with a piece of Kathleen’s hair in it. It was supposed to be in a trunk stored at the hotel, but Havershaw brought the locket home. A present for his daughter or something.”
“Then the cook dropped dead,” Dean said. “That’s our story. How about you? What are you doing here?”
“I’m on a job.”
“You still in the business?”
Eliot shook his head. “Not exactly. I guess you could say we’re extra-legal aids. We’re trying to get back a music box Havershaw stole from our clients.”
Dean cocked his head. “We?”
“My crew.”
“I thought you were Mr. Loner.”
“Things change,” Eliot said. He bit his lip. “So how bad is this ghost, Dean?”
“The deaths are random. I wouldn’t get in its way.”
“Look,” Sam said. “Maybe we should work together on this. Or at least compare notes.”
Eliot turned the thought over in his mind. The idea of Dean Winchester, who knew so many of his deep, dark secrets interacting with the team made the bile start to swirl around in his gut. But he’d seen enough over the years to know what kind of threat an angry spirit could pose if the team got in its way. And he didn’t relish the idea of the Leverage crew and the Winchesters tripping over each other as they tried to achieve their respective goals.
Slipping his earbud in, Eliot took a breath. “Nate?”
Nate’s voice erupted in his ear. “Eliot, where are you? You okay?”
“Yeah, Nate, I’m good.”
“What have I told you about taking your damn earbud out?”
Eliot felt a tinge of guilt, but he’d rather get chewed out than have his private business aired to the whole team. “Sorry Nate,” he said. “Listen, we need to pull out of here.”
“What’s going on?”
“There’s another player involved. Trust me, Nate. We need to regroup.”
The other end of the comm was silent for a moment, then Nate said, “All right. Meet us back at the van.”
“And Nate? I have a couple of people I want you to meet.”
***
Once they’d all made it to the condo that served as an office for Eliot and his team, hasty introductions and explanations were made. Currently, Dean was sitting at a fancy island/desk thing in between Sam and an attractive blonde Eliot had introduced as Parker. She was gazing at him with a sunny-and creepy-expression on her face. Another of Eliot’s teammates, a guy named Hardison, pulled up a chair next to Parker, and Dean immediately cast his eyes down at the surface of the island.
“Hey, man,” Hardison said. “I told you. I am not Jake Whoever.”
Dean glanced up and shrugged. “Sorry. I’m just a little wigged out.”
“You’re wigged out?” Sam said. He smiled apologetically in Hardison’s direction.
“Hey,” Eliot said from the kitchen. “Hardison’s all right. That’s all you need to know.”
Dean nodded and watched Eliot, who was bustling around the kitchen and chatting away with Nate. Eliot was as efficient and methodical as ever, even when he cooked. Dean appreciated that about him. But he was different now, too. He seemed lighter. Calmer.
Nate took a sip of whiskey and leaned his elbows against the kitchen counter. “So I pulled out of a perfectly good con because the mark might have ghost. Somebody needs to start talking.”
Parker bounced in her seat. “Ghostbusters!” She leaned closer to Dean and sniffed him.
Eliot tossed a handful of pasta into a pot of boiling water. “Nate, I know it’s a stretch. But I’m asking you to trust me. I’ve seen a lot of things over the years, and this could get ugly if we don’t stop it.”
Placing his glass on the counter in front of him, Nate turned to Eliot. “I do trust you. The only reason we’re talking about this at all is because you’re telling me it’s real.”
Sophie, the last of Eliot’s teammates, walked across the room toward Dean. “So assuming the lore I’ve always heard is correct, this… ghost died some sort of violent death?”
Sam leaned forward. “Probably. The records are sketchy on how she died, but ghosts tend borne out of tragedy. Murder, suicide-”
“War,” Dean added. He glanced up at Eliot, but he couldn’t see any visible reaction. “Sometimes they’re pissed about dying, sometimes they’re traumatized. On the upside, ghosts are pretty easy to get rid of once you figure out who they are.”
“How do we do that?” Nate asked.
“Well, we usually salt and torch the bones. Problem is, we already did that. Havershaw has a locket with a piece of the Kathleen’s hair in it. We need to find it and burn it. If a piece of her is still around, she’s not going away.”
Parker shrugged. “So we just steal a locket? I can do that.”
Eliot stopped chopping vegetables and sat his knife down hard. “No,” he said, pointing an index finger at her. “I don’t want you going anywhere near that house until this is over. This isn’t anything to mess with.”
Sophie gazed in Eliot’s direction, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Eliot,” she said. “How do you know some much about this?”
Eliot’s eyes glazed over, and he leaned heavily against the counter. “Well,” he said in a cracked, quiet voice. “Considering all I’ve done, I’m lucky I don’t have ghosts lined up around the block.” He cleared his throat and tugged off his apron. “Pasta and sauce are done. All that needs finished is the salad.” With that, he disappeared out the door.
***
McRory’s was jam-packed, even for a Friday night. Dart in hand, Eliot scanned the sea of faces. Most of tonight’s customers were longtime regulars, hard-working folk from the neighborhood. Good people. But amidst the crowd were a handful of privileged frat boys from one of the area’s more prestigious universities. They were standing a few feet away, yucking it up and trash-talking to some of the waitresses.
Eliot felt the familiar pull of rage as it started to gather in his gut and work its way to his fist. His fingers formed a tight ball, and it was all he could do to keep his temper in check. In his head, he painted a mental picture of what the scene would look like if he acted on his impulse and beat the snot out of the frat boys. He imagined the damage the impact of their bodies would cause when he tossed them across the bar. He internally sketched out the escape routes they’d try to take and the chance of regulars getting hurt. He was spoiling for a good fight. But would it be worth it? How much would a brawl damage Cora’s Friday night business? How pissed would Nate be if he drew unwanted attention to a bar frequented by cops?
The questions were answered for him, though, when Cora slipped up next to him and handed him a pint. “Eliot,” she whispered. “I can tell you’re itching for a fight. Not on a Friday night, okay? Take it to another bar if you have to pound someone.”
Nate and the others had promised Cora a long time ago that they would keep the trouble to a minimum. She often reminded them-Eliot, mostly-that McCann, Donnelly, and Cabella still had their regular poker game in the bar, and that it wouldn’t do for them to wreck the place. They all tried to do the best they could to respect Cora’s wishes. “All right, sweetheart,” Eliot said with a smile.
He tossed the dart at the bullseye then drink in hand, walked over to his regular booth and plunked himself down. He sat for several minutes and just listened to the din of the crowd. It was calming in its own way and was leaps and bounds better than sitting up in Nate’s apartment waiting for someone to poke at the wounds Dean’s visit had reopened.
Eliot tried not to think about those old days. He was afraid that if he gave the memories much power, he’d lose himself and never be able to climb back out. He’d meant what he’d said to Sophie earlier. He was lucky he wasn’t haunted by every poor sap he’d helped put into a grave. So far, only one of the skeletons from his closet had ever rattled its way into tangible form. And that one had almost killed him.
“How awesome is it that your headquarters are above a bar?”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Eliot glanced up and saw Dean grinning at him, his face flushed with alcohol and excitement. Without being invited, he plunked down at the booth and sat the bottle of beer he was clutching down on the table.
“What do you want, Dean?”
“Hanging out upstairs? Not the most exciting Friday night.”
Taking a sip of beer, Eliot let his eyes drift over to the frat boys. By now, they’d managed to take over the dart board and were hurling the damn darts like drunken chimpanzees. “Go find something to do,” he said to Dean.
Dean tore at the label of his bottle. “You know, it’s still not your fault.”
With a scowl, Eliot drained the pint and marched toward the exit. He could feel Dean on his heels as he pushed open the door and slipped out into the night. He didn’t need this. Not tonight.
“You hear me?” Dean called. “O’Leary’s death was not your fault. It wasn’t then, and it isn’t now.”
Eliot spun around. “I let him die.”
“You didn’t let him die,” Dean said. “You just couldn’t save him. There’s a difference.”
Closing his eyes, Eliot’s mind was pulled back to a battlefield littered with broken bodies and broken minds. He could see Ben O’Leary lying in a pool of blood at his feet. They were both too young to be playing soldier, but they’d slapped on their uniforms and had gone off to do their duty. Eliot had made it out alive shattered and scarred. The only part of Ben that had made it out was his anger. And it had followed Eliot all the way back the states.
Shaking the memory from his head, Eliot opened his eyes and gazed at Dean. Back when he’d been struggling with his own ghost, Eliot had been vulnerable, stripped bare. He’d had to trust Dean, let him in. Dean had seen Eliot’s fear and guilt up close, and that feeling of being exposed, of having his privacy violated had pissed him off. It hadn’t been Dean’s fault, but Eliot had blamed him for it anyway.
“Look,” Dean said. “You survived, and O’Leary didn’t. It was a traumatic death, and he was angry. But none of that makes his death your fault.”
Eliot folded his arms across his chest. “I try to tell myself that. But then I think about him lying there in the dirt…”
“You can’t keep going there. You have to let it go.”
Biting his bottom lip, Eliot nodded. “I know.”
***
Then
Dean balanced Eliot’s weight against him own body as pushed open the door to the hotel room. Eliot was a battered mess right now, but he was alive, and that was a win in Dean’s book. Of course, things could have turned out very differently. Eliot had slipped off to confront O’Leary on his own, the stubborn bastard. And Dean had almost been too late to save him.
After Dean dragged him over and deposited him on the bed, Eliot peeled his shirt off, wincing as the fabric pulled away from blood-caked skin. Dean watched his movements-efficient yet somehow graceful. Once the shirt had been tossed onto the floor, Dean’s eyes did a mental inventory of all the broken places on Eliot’s body.
“Hang tight a minute,” he said to Eliot. He ran into the bathroom and retrieved a wet washcloth to clean up Eliot’s wounds a little bit. Then he dug through his bag to find the alcohol, antibiotic ointment, and few bandages he had with him.
As he patched up Eliot’s body, he said, “So that was a dumb move out there. Here I thought you were the big bad professional.”
Eliot scowled at him for a moment, but then his face softened. “Look, kid,” he said in a weary voice. “I appreciate the help. But I don’t deserve it. You should’ve just let it finish me off.”
“What? You think you deserve the whole vengeful ghost thing? Dude, get therapy. Work out your guilt a less lethal way.”
“What difference does it make?” Eliot eyelids started to droop, and Dean could tell he was struggling to stay awake.
“I like to think saving a life makes a lot of difference.”
Rubbing his eyes, Eliot stifled a yawn. “I’d have just been another dead criminal. No big loss.”
Dean taped a piece of gauze in place. “Seriously, dude. Therapy might not hurt.”
Neither of them talked as Dean continued to patch up Eliot’s wounds. They weren’t life-threatening, but Eliot was going to be sore and weak for a few days. At least the ghost was dust now, and he could recover in relative peace.
After a few moments, Eliot gazed at Dean with a grave expression on his face. “Dean… What I do? It’s not gonna end well. Guys like me don’t live to be old men.”
Dean shrugged. “From what I understand, guys like me don’t either. That doesn’t mean we have to be in a hurry. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
He helped Eliot stretch out on the bed, then walked over and sat down in a nearby chair. As he watched Eliot struggle not to surrender to sleep, Dean felt a familiar tug at his heart. He missed this sort of camaraderie. Sure, to a certain degree he had it with his dad. But his dad was larger than life. This, though. The shared close-call, the mending, the chance for Dean to take care of someone. He’d missed this since Sam had gone off to college. He could tell Eliot wasn’t used to letting people take care of him. But he seemed tired to the bone and willing to accept at least a little bit of comfort.
“Hey,” he said to Eliot. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Eliot gazed at him through lidded eyes. He muttered a soft word of gratitude, then started to drift off.
***
Now
Eliot climbed out of Dean’s car and stared up at the Havershaw house. Antsy and tired of waiting for a better solution, Dean had decided they needed to confront Havershaw that night and take the locket before anyone else died. Eliot couldn’t argue with saving lives, but he wasn’t sure rushing into the fray was such a good idea either.
“I don’t like going in there without a plan,” he said.
Dean smirked. “Dude, we’re just gonna go talk to him. That’s our plan.” He smacked Eliot on the shoulder. “We even have a backup plan. If he’s not home, we steal the locket and music box and run away.”
Eliot bit his lip. He wasn’t crazy about heading into a situation with a vengeful ghost involved. It just brought back too many raw memories of his own. Besides, it was out of his skill set, and he didn’t like feeling useless, or even helpless.
“Let’s just get it over with,” he groused. “What are we supposed to say to this guy anyway?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Dean said. “The FBI badge didn’t get him talking. I figured maybe he’d respond to your brand of questioning. You can be pretty persuasive.”
“Not that persuasive. I couldn’t get rid of a snot-nosed punk kid hunter back in the day.”
“I was 23, man. Not a kid.” Dean’s flashed a grin. “You scared the shit out of me back then, you know?”
“You still kept following me around.”
“Good thing, too. You would’ve let that damn thing take you.”
Eliot closed his eyes. Dean was right, of course. He had intended to let the ghost kill him. Whether it had been his own guilt over surviving while O’Leary hadn’t or the pain of trying to figure out how to feel through years of scar tissue, Eliot had intended to die that day. “Probably so.” Placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder, he said, “Thanks for not giving up on me, man.”
Dean nodded. “Thanks for not finding another ghost to do you in. And just you know, we’re getting pretty close to a Hallmark moment here.”
Smiling, Eliot punched Dean in the shoulder. “Can’t have that, can we?”
***
As it turned out, Dean had been right about Eliot’s powers of persuasion. They’d managed to walk away with both the locket and the music box. Once the locket had been destroyed, they’d headed back the offices and had finished off the pasta Eliot had made earlier. It might not be the complete and utter destruction Nate had pictured raining down on Havershaw, but this one time, he was going to have to settle for it. They had dusted the ghost, scared the crap out of Havershaw, and had walked away with the one thing the clients wanted. Eliot and Dean were ready to call it a win.
The next morning, Eliot made breakfast for everyone, and they all congregated in front of McRory’s. As Sam climbed into the passenger seat, Eliot and Dean walked a few feet away to say their goodbyes.
“You got a good family here,” Dean said, gesturing at the others.
Eliot nodded. “Yeah. Never thought I’d have something like this again. Glad I lived long enough to see it.”
Dean smacked Eliot on the shoulder and headed toward the car. “Me too. Take care of yourself, okay?”
Flashing a genuine smile, Eliot said, “Back atcha.”
As Dean’s car pulled away, Nate slipped up beside Eliot. “Did you bury any of your own ghosts?”
“Maybe a couple,” Eliot said. “Way I’ve lived my life I’ll always have a few lurking in the shadows.”
“Do you want to talk about some of ‘em?”
“Maybe. Busy right now?”
“Never too busy to hear ghost stories.”
Master Fic List
***
Author: sheryden
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Eliot, Dean and Sam Winchester, the Leverage team; no pairings
Word Count: 4319
Spoilers: None
Warnings: Mention of past combat experiences, lot of Eliot whumping, minor language
Disclaimer: None of these characters are mine. They belong to their respective creators, and I’m not making any money from this.
Summary: While on a routine job, Eliot runs into someone from his past and is forced to face some old ghosts.
Author's Note 1: Written for lady_yashka for leveragexchange. Go check out comm, guys. There are some great stories there! My story went live earlier this morning, so I figured I'd post it here now.
Author's Note 2: The flashback sequences in the story are meant to take place shortly after Sam Winchester left for college.
Then
The bar was thick with stifling smoke, raucous laughter, and stale beer. And the floor… Well, it was littered with peanuts, dirty napkins, and plain old dust. Dean Winchester loved this kind of place. Most nights, he’d settle in, hustle a little pool, and make friends with an attractive waitress. Tonight, though, he was trying to save a guy’s life.
The object of his visit sat a few feet away, hunched over a bottle of beer that he was clutching like it was the only thing keeping him alive. Dean couldn’t help but think the guy looked like he’d had the life kicked out of him a few hundred times. There was something world weary and brittle about him. Of course, given what he’d seen him go through only an hour before, Dean wasn’t exactly surprised the guy had an edge to him.
Slipping onto a stool next to him, Dean cleared his throat and said, “How’s it going?”
Without looking up, the man said, “Not interested in company, kid. Take a walk.”
Dean sat up a little straighter. “Yeah, well you might be interested in what I have to say.”
“I’m interested in sitting here and drinking this beer in silence.”
Letting out a breath, Dean leaned a little closer. “Look… Eliot…”
Before Dean knew what hit him, Eliot’s hand was around his wrist, twisting it just such a way that Dean couldn’t get enough leverage to properly fight back. “Who are you,” Eliot spat. “Why are you dogging me, and how do you know my name?”
Through clenched teeth, Dean said, “Name’s Dean. And I heard your cranky-ass friend say your name back at the warehouse. And I know what he was, ‘cause I hunt ‘em.”
Eliot released Dean’s wrist and turned back to his beer. “Get out of my face.”
Leaning close enough to Eliot that he could talk without the other bar patrons listening in, he said, “That ghost is not gonna leave you alone.”
“I said go.”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“And I’m telling you if you don’t turn around and walk away, I’m gonna hurt you.”
“That what happened to your friend?”
With an eerie swiftness, Eliot’s hand locked around Dean’s neck. “Listen to me, kid,” he said in a low, raspy voice. “I can do things to you that will give you nightmares for weeks. If I let you live. Now walk away.”
Then unceremoniously, Eliot pushed Dean backward and sent him thudding to the dusty barroom floor. Without waiting for Dean to respond, Eliot sat back down on the barstool and ordered another beer.
***
Now
Eliot groaned internally and tried to ignore the persistent ache in his lower back and shoulders. This job was a milk run compared to most of the teams recent gigs. But it was also a swanky party, which meant that a) Eliot had to dress up in an uncomfortable suit b) He had to stand on his feet all night and c) He was bored out of his skull while he waited for something to do besides standing around watching Nate and Sophie weave their trap.
The festivities were being held at the home of their mark, one Rowan Havershaw, an obscenely wealthy and arrogant hotelier with a penchant for antiques. The team was trying to retrieve a music box Havershaw had swindled out from under a financially strapped young couple. The antique had been in the wife’s family for decades, and when the couple had approached the team, that’s all they’d wanted. During the course of the con, however, Nate had decided that Havershaw had done far more heinous things and wanted to bring him down completely and utterly. Hence, a long con and a swanky party.
As Eliot stood by the buffet table, drink in hand, one of the housekeepers breezed over to Havershaw and whispered something in his ear that had him blubbering out apologies to Nate and Sophie and hurrying out of the room toward the front of the house. About ten seconds later, Nate glanced in Eliot’s direction and nodded.
“I’m on it,” Eliot said. He moved through the crowd of people and crept after Havershaw as inconspicuously as he could. Babysitting the mark wasn’t high on his list of favorite pastimes, but at least he was doing something. And maybe Havershaw would give him an excuse to slug him one while he was at it. He really wanted to release some tension.
As Eliot approached the foyer, he could see Havershaw talking with a pair of men in suits. Given the stiff way Havershaw was standing, Eliot guessed they were FBI. Slipping into a shadowy corner that gave him a partial view of the new arrivals, Eliot cussed internally at the open layout of the entryway. There was no way he could get close enough to listen in properly without being seen.
Eliot couldn’t hear the details of the conversation, but he picked up words like “bad luck lately” and “anything strange.” After a few minutes, Havershaw muttered something about getting back to the party and watched as the agents departed through the front door. Almost as soon as Havershaw breezed past him, though, Eliot heard the door open again. From his hiding place, he could see the two agents reenter the house.
“That guy’s a douche,” one of them said.
Eliot arched an eyebrow. The voice sounded familiar enough to make him uneasy. It was a voice he hadn’t heard in a long time, and if it was attached the person he thought it was, this job just got considerably more complicated.
“I don’t like him much either, Dean,” said another voice. “Let’s just find the locket and get out of here.”
Dean. Dammit. It was him. Pulling out his earbud and slipping it into his the pocket of his dress pants, Eliot stood up and walked into plain view. “FBI? Seriously.”
When Dean saw him, he flashed a sloppy grin. “Eliot,” he said. Then his grin faded, and he added, “If you’re here, that can’t be a good sign.”
“I was thinking the same thing about you.”
A mountain of a man who was standing next to Dean gazed at Eliot with a quizzical expression on his face. Turning to Dean, he said, “I take it you know him?”
Making a face, Dean shook his head. “No, Sam,” he said. “We just made up names for each other, and he’s a good guesser.” Rolling his eyes at Eliot, he added, “My brother.”
Eliot glanced down the hall. The housekeeper was nowhere to be seen, but she could easily turn up any second. Nodding toward an open room a few feet away, Eliot said. “We need to get out of sight.”
After the three of them had slipped into the room, Eliot pointed at Dean. “You first. What’re you doing here?”
Dean leaned against the doorframe. “This chick, Kathleen, died in one of Havershaw’s family hotels back in the ‘40s. Back when his grandfather first opened it. Every ten years since, people staying at Havershaw’s hotel in downtown Boston randomly die.
Narrowing his eyes, Eliot ran a hand through his hair. “Reenacting her death or something?”
“Something like that. Anyway, this is year ten.”
“There’ve been two more deaths,” Sam added. “One at the hotel. And Havershaw’s cook here at the house.”
Eliot folded his arms across his chest. “How do you know the cook is connected to the others?”
“It’s a hunch,” Dean said. “We torched Kathleen’s bones after the first death, but the ghost almost took out a busboy Wednesday.”
“And then,” Sam said. “We found a reference to a locket with a piece of Kathleen’s hair in it. It was supposed to be in a trunk stored at the hotel, but Havershaw brought the locket home. A present for his daughter or something.”
“Then the cook dropped dead,” Dean said. “That’s our story. How about you? What are you doing here?”
“I’m on a job.”
“You still in the business?”
Eliot shook his head. “Not exactly. I guess you could say we’re extra-legal aids. We’re trying to get back a music box Havershaw stole from our clients.”
Dean cocked his head. “We?”
“My crew.”
“I thought you were Mr. Loner.”
“Things change,” Eliot said. He bit his lip. “So how bad is this ghost, Dean?”
“The deaths are random. I wouldn’t get in its way.”
“Look,” Sam said. “Maybe we should work together on this. Or at least compare notes.”
Eliot turned the thought over in his mind. The idea of Dean Winchester, who knew so many of his deep, dark secrets interacting with the team made the bile start to swirl around in his gut. But he’d seen enough over the years to know what kind of threat an angry spirit could pose if the team got in its way. And he didn’t relish the idea of the Leverage crew and the Winchesters tripping over each other as they tried to achieve their respective goals.
Slipping his earbud in, Eliot took a breath. “Nate?”
Nate’s voice erupted in his ear. “Eliot, where are you? You okay?”
“Yeah, Nate, I’m good.”
“What have I told you about taking your damn earbud out?”
Eliot felt a tinge of guilt, but he’d rather get chewed out than have his private business aired to the whole team. “Sorry Nate,” he said. “Listen, we need to pull out of here.”
“What’s going on?”
“There’s another player involved. Trust me, Nate. We need to regroup.”
The other end of the comm was silent for a moment, then Nate said, “All right. Meet us back at the van.”
“And Nate? I have a couple of people I want you to meet.”
***
Once they’d all made it to the condo that served as an office for Eliot and his team, hasty introductions and explanations were made. Currently, Dean was sitting at a fancy island/desk thing in between Sam and an attractive blonde Eliot had introduced as Parker. She was gazing at him with a sunny-and creepy-expression on her face. Another of Eliot’s teammates, a guy named Hardison, pulled up a chair next to Parker, and Dean immediately cast his eyes down at the surface of the island.
“Hey, man,” Hardison said. “I told you. I am not Jake Whoever.”
Dean glanced up and shrugged. “Sorry. I’m just a little wigged out.”
“You’re wigged out?” Sam said. He smiled apologetically in Hardison’s direction.
“Hey,” Eliot said from the kitchen. “Hardison’s all right. That’s all you need to know.”
Dean nodded and watched Eliot, who was bustling around the kitchen and chatting away with Nate. Eliot was as efficient and methodical as ever, even when he cooked. Dean appreciated that about him. But he was different now, too. He seemed lighter. Calmer.
Nate took a sip of whiskey and leaned his elbows against the kitchen counter. “So I pulled out of a perfectly good con because the mark might have ghost. Somebody needs to start talking.”
Parker bounced in her seat. “Ghostbusters!” She leaned closer to Dean and sniffed him.
Eliot tossed a handful of pasta into a pot of boiling water. “Nate, I know it’s a stretch. But I’m asking you to trust me. I’ve seen a lot of things over the years, and this could get ugly if we don’t stop it.”
Placing his glass on the counter in front of him, Nate turned to Eliot. “I do trust you. The only reason we’re talking about this at all is because you’re telling me it’s real.”
Sophie, the last of Eliot’s teammates, walked across the room toward Dean. “So assuming the lore I’ve always heard is correct, this… ghost died some sort of violent death?”
Sam leaned forward. “Probably. The records are sketchy on how she died, but ghosts tend borne out of tragedy. Murder, suicide-”
“War,” Dean added. He glanced up at Eliot, but he couldn’t see any visible reaction. “Sometimes they’re pissed about dying, sometimes they’re traumatized. On the upside, ghosts are pretty easy to get rid of once you figure out who they are.”
“How do we do that?” Nate asked.
“Well, we usually salt and torch the bones. Problem is, we already did that. Havershaw has a locket with a piece of the Kathleen’s hair in it. We need to find it and burn it. If a piece of her is still around, she’s not going away.”
Parker shrugged. “So we just steal a locket? I can do that.”
Eliot stopped chopping vegetables and sat his knife down hard. “No,” he said, pointing an index finger at her. “I don’t want you going anywhere near that house until this is over. This isn’t anything to mess with.”
Sophie gazed in Eliot’s direction, a thoughtful expression on her face. “Eliot,” she said. “How do you know some much about this?”
Eliot’s eyes glazed over, and he leaned heavily against the counter. “Well,” he said in a cracked, quiet voice. “Considering all I’ve done, I’m lucky I don’t have ghosts lined up around the block.” He cleared his throat and tugged off his apron. “Pasta and sauce are done. All that needs finished is the salad.” With that, he disappeared out the door.
***
McRory’s was jam-packed, even for a Friday night. Dart in hand, Eliot scanned the sea of faces. Most of tonight’s customers were longtime regulars, hard-working folk from the neighborhood. Good people. But amidst the crowd were a handful of privileged frat boys from one of the area’s more prestigious universities. They were standing a few feet away, yucking it up and trash-talking to some of the waitresses.
Eliot felt the familiar pull of rage as it started to gather in his gut and work its way to his fist. His fingers formed a tight ball, and it was all he could do to keep his temper in check. In his head, he painted a mental picture of what the scene would look like if he acted on his impulse and beat the snot out of the frat boys. He imagined the damage the impact of their bodies would cause when he tossed them across the bar. He internally sketched out the escape routes they’d try to take and the chance of regulars getting hurt. He was spoiling for a good fight. But would it be worth it? How much would a brawl damage Cora’s Friday night business? How pissed would Nate be if he drew unwanted attention to a bar frequented by cops?
The questions were answered for him, though, when Cora slipped up next to him and handed him a pint. “Eliot,” she whispered. “I can tell you’re itching for a fight. Not on a Friday night, okay? Take it to another bar if you have to pound someone.”
Nate and the others had promised Cora a long time ago that they would keep the trouble to a minimum. She often reminded them-Eliot, mostly-that McCann, Donnelly, and Cabella still had their regular poker game in the bar, and that it wouldn’t do for them to wreck the place. They all tried to do the best they could to respect Cora’s wishes. “All right, sweetheart,” Eliot said with a smile.
He tossed the dart at the bullseye then drink in hand, walked over to his regular booth and plunked himself down. He sat for several minutes and just listened to the din of the crowd. It was calming in its own way and was leaps and bounds better than sitting up in Nate’s apartment waiting for someone to poke at the wounds Dean’s visit had reopened.
Eliot tried not to think about those old days. He was afraid that if he gave the memories much power, he’d lose himself and never be able to climb back out. He’d meant what he’d said to Sophie earlier. He was lucky he wasn’t haunted by every poor sap he’d helped put into a grave. So far, only one of the skeletons from his closet had ever rattled its way into tangible form. And that one had almost killed him.
“How awesome is it that your headquarters are above a bar?”
Pinching the bridge of his nose, Eliot glanced up and saw Dean grinning at him, his face flushed with alcohol and excitement. Without being invited, he plunked down at the booth and sat the bottle of beer he was clutching down on the table.
“What do you want, Dean?”
“Hanging out upstairs? Not the most exciting Friday night.”
Taking a sip of beer, Eliot let his eyes drift over to the frat boys. By now, they’d managed to take over the dart board and were hurling the damn darts like drunken chimpanzees. “Go find something to do,” he said to Dean.
Dean tore at the label of his bottle. “You know, it’s still not your fault.”
With a scowl, Eliot drained the pint and marched toward the exit. He could feel Dean on his heels as he pushed open the door and slipped out into the night. He didn’t need this. Not tonight.
“You hear me?” Dean called. “O’Leary’s death was not your fault. It wasn’t then, and it isn’t now.”
Eliot spun around. “I let him die.”
“You didn’t let him die,” Dean said. “You just couldn’t save him. There’s a difference.”
Closing his eyes, Eliot’s mind was pulled back to a battlefield littered with broken bodies and broken minds. He could see Ben O’Leary lying in a pool of blood at his feet. They were both too young to be playing soldier, but they’d slapped on their uniforms and had gone off to do their duty. Eliot had made it out alive shattered and scarred. The only part of Ben that had made it out was his anger. And it had followed Eliot all the way back the states.
Shaking the memory from his head, Eliot opened his eyes and gazed at Dean. Back when he’d been struggling with his own ghost, Eliot had been vulnerable, stripped bare. He’d had to trust Dean, let him in. Dean had seen Eliot’s fear and guilt up close, and that feeling of being exposed, of having his privacy violated had pissed him off. It hadn’t been Dean’s fault, but Eliot had blamed him for it anyway.
“Look,” Dean said. “You survived, and O’Leary didn’t. It was a traumatic death, and he was angry. But none of that makes his death your fault.”
Eliot folded his arms across his chest. “I try to tell myself that. But then I think about him lying there in the dirt…”
“You can’t keep going there. You have to let it go.”
Biting his bottom lip, Eliot nodded. “I know.”
***
Then
Dean balanced Eliot’s weight against him own body as pushed open the door to the hotel room. Eliot was a battered mess right now, but he was alive, and that was a win in Dean’s book. Of course, things could have turned out very differently. Eliot had slipped off to confront O’Leary on his own, the stubborn bastard. And Dean had almost been too late to save him.
After Dean dragged him over and deposited him on the bed, Eliot peeled his shirt off, wincing as the fabric pulled away from blood-caked skin. Dean watched his movements-efficient yet somehow graceful. Once the shirt had been tossed onto the floor, Dean’s eyes did a mental inventory of all the broken places on Eliot’s body.
“Hang tight a minute,” he said to Eliot. He ran into the bathroom and retrieved a wet washcloth to clean up Eliot’s wounds a little bit. Then he dug through his bag to find the alcohol, antibiotic ointment, and few bandages he had with him.
As he patched up Eliot’s body, he said, “So that was a dumb move out there. Here I thought you were the big bad professional.”
Eliot scowled at him for a moment, but then his face softened. “Look, kid,” he said in a weary voice. “I appreciate the help. But I don’t deserve it. You should’ve just let it finish me off.”
“What? You think you deserve the whole vengeful ghost thing? Dude, get therapy. Work out your guilt a less lethal way.”
“What difference does it make?” Eliot eyelids started to droop, and Dean could tell he was struggling to stay awake.
“I like to think saving a life makes a lot of difference.”
Rubbing his eyes, Eliot stifled a yawn. “I’d have just been another dead criminal. No big loss.”
Dean taped a piece of gauze in place. “Seriously, dude. Therapy might not hurt.”
Neither of them talked as Dean continued to patch up Eliot’s wounds. They weren’t life-threatening, but Eliot was going to be sore and weak for a few days. At least the ghost was dust now, and he could recover in relative peace.
After a few moments, Eliot gazed at Dean with a grave expression on his face. “Dean… What I do? It’s not gonna end well. Guys like me don’t live to be old men.”
Dean shrugged. “From what I understand, guys like me don’t either. That doesn’t mean we have to be in a hurry. Why don’t you get some sleep?”
He helped Eliot stretch out on the bed, then walked over and sat down in a nearby chair. As he watched Eliot struggle not to surrender to sleep, Dean felt a familiar tug at his heart. He missed this sort of camaraderie. Sure, to a certain degree he had it with his dad. But his dad was larger than life. This, though. The shared close-call, the mending, the chance for Dean to take care of someone. He’d missed this since Sam had gone off to college. He could tell Eliot wasn’t used to letting people take care of him. But he seemed tired to the bone and willing to accept at least a little bit of comfort.
“Hey,” he said to Eliot. “Go to sleep. I’ll be here when you wake up.”
Eliot gazed at him through lidded eyes. He muttered a soft word of gratitude, then started to drift off.
***
Now
Eliot climbed out of Dean’s car and stared up at the Havershaw house. Antsy and tired of waiting for a better solution, Dean had decided they needed to confront Havershaw that night and take the locket before anyone else died. Eliot couldn’t argue with saving lives, but he wasn’t sure rushing into the fray was such a good idea either.
“I don’t like going in there without a plan,” he said.
Dean smirked. “Dude, we’re just gonna go talk to him. That’s our plan.” He smacked Eliot on the shoulder. “We even have a backup plan. If he’s not home, we steal the locket and music box and run away.”
Eliot bit his lip. He wasn’t crazy about heading into a situation with a vengeful ghost involved. It just brought back too many raw memories of his own. Besides, it was out of his skill set, and he didn’t like feeling useless, or even helpless.
“Let’s just get it over with,” he groused. “What are we supposed to say to this guy anyway?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Dean said. “The FBI badge didn’t get him talking. I figured maybe he’d respond to your brand of questioning. You can be pretty persuasive.”
“Not that persuasive. I couldn’t get rid of a snot-nosed punk kid hunter back in the day.”
“I was 23, man. Not a kid.” Dean’s flashed a grin. “You scared the shit out of me back then, you know?”
“You still kept following me around.”
“Good thing, too. You would’ve let that damn thing take you.”
Eliot closed his eyes. Dean was right, of course. He had intended to let the ghost kill him. Whether it had been his own guilt over surviving while O’Leary hadn’t or the pain of trying to figure out how to feel through years of scar tissue, Eliot had intended to die that day. “Probably so.” Placing a hand on Dean’s shoulder, he said, “Thanks for not giving up on me, man.”
Dean nodded. “Thanks for not finding another ghost to do you in. And just you know, we’re getting pretty close to a Hallmark moment here.”
Smiling, Eliot punched Dean in the shoulder. “Can’t have that, can we?”
***
As it turned out, Dean had been right about Eliot’s powers of persuasion. They’d managed to walk away with both the locket and the music box. Once the locket had been destroyed, they’d headed back the offices and had finished off the pasta Eliot had made earlier. It might not be the complete and utter destruction Nate had pictured raining down on Havershaw, but this one time, he was going to have to settle for it. They had dusted the ghost, scared the crap out of Havershaw, and had walked away with the one thing the clients wanted. Eliot and Dean were ready to call it a win.
The next morning, Eliot made breakfast for everyone, and they all congregated in front of McRory’s. As Sam climbed into the passenger seat, Eliot and Dean walked a few feet away to say their goodbyes.
“You got a good family here,” Dean said, gesturing at the others.
Eliot nodded. “Yeah. Never thought I’d have something like this again. Glad I lived long enough to see it.”
Dean smacked Eliot on the shoulder and headed toward the car. “Me too. Take care of yourself, okay?”
Flashing a genuine smile, Eliot said, “Back atcha.”
As Dean’s car pulled away, Nate slipped up beside Eliot. “Did you bury any of your own ghosts?”
“Maybe a couple,” Eliot said. “Way I’ve lived my life I’ll always have a few lurking in the shadows.”
“Do you want to talk about some of ‘em?”
“Maybe. Busy right now?”
“Never too busy to hear ghost stories.”
Master Fic List
***