"The Returned"
“The Returned”
Summary: When the Winchesters get a call from a Mob boss up in Boston, they know that this salt'n'burn is going to be one hell of a ride- that is, if they make it out alive.
Frank Costello's being taunted by the deaths of rival mafia members from his past, so in order to evade being next on the post-bucket bucket list, he calls in the "Ghostbusters." Billy Costigan gets saddled with being the boys' handler for the duration of the case, and the parallels that he sees between his own life as an undercover cop and what the boys do gives everyone a little perspective.
Written for the spn_cinema fic challenge, for the movie "The Departed." (Aka, crossover fic: SPN/The Departed.)
Co-authored with the lovely i_speak_tongue, whose hilarity and knowledge of Boston geography (and ACCENTS! Mustn't forget those!) were invaluable.
Wordcount: 7600
Authors’ Note/Disclaimer: Set after SPN 4.12, “Criss Angel is a Douchebag.” Sadly, none of these pretty boys belong to us. Rated R for lots of swearing. Mainly in Boston accents.
Also, Happy Birthday, kalliel! It couldn't be a coincidence that this day was the posting day, now could it?
The man at the bar is like Moses in two ways: He’s bearded, and when he walks through a crowd he’ll part it, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Unlike Moses, he has a cell phone up on the bar he’s sitting at and he’s smirking around a toothpick. When the phone lights up and starts to blare a tinny version of Mick Jagger’s voice talking about how rape and murder are just a shot away, it’s like he’s expecting it.
The man listens to the song for a while, twirling the toothpick between thumb and forefinger, then picks up at the last second.
“Ah, Ralphie. How’ve you been?”
“I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t life or death.”
“Long time no... see, Ralphie. How’s that eye patch workin’ for ya?”
“Dunno, lately I’m thinkin’ that it might’ve been better if you took ‘em both.”
“Yeah, why’s that?
“I said, why’s that, Ralphie? You deaf now, too?”
“No. It’s just this... feeling.”
The man on the phone leans back in his chair, swirls his drink in its glass and chuckles. “We’re in Boston, Ralphie. It’s more than a feeling.”
There’s a pause on the other end, then: “It’s Lenny, Boss. He’s back.”
“Been into the Jame-o tonight, Ralphie? Those nurses bribin’ you to keep you from bitchin’ 24 feckin’ 7?”
“I’m sober as a horse, I swear to God. I’m telling you, ever since Francine.. ever since last month, I’ve been findin’ things.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure if I’d believe you if you swore on the whole Nativity gang, but...” the man in the bar tosses back the rest of his drink and smiles savagely. “But I’ll humor ya. What kind of things, Ralphie?”
“Ties, Boss. Ties!”
~~~~~
What the hell is in this shit anyways? The color his fingers are turning is not a shade that occurs naturally. He’s positive. This is wrong. This is like Tony the Tiger on steroids. The bad, back-alley kind. And no amount of sucking or licking is getting the shit to go away. Sam’s towel is the next logical step. It’s all crisp and white and fluffy-okay, well not that fluffy because, hey, they can’t afford that kind of luxury. It’s also within arms’ reach. Perfect. Sam’s not awake yet, anyway. Lug.
The bag of Cheezy-poofs from outer space kind of tips over and spills a few onto the bedspread as he reaches for salvation. Thank god they’re outta here today. Out of sight, out of mind.
Far out of mind, since the next thing Dean hears is the opening chorus of Britney’s first hit: “Oops, I Did It Again.” Damn that Sam, changing his ringtone again. Seriously uncalled for.
When he answers, Dean fights back the urge to ask if it’s K-Fed or J-Tim, but when he hears the voice on the other end, he’s glad that he’d resisted. It’s the fucking Martians, and they want their snack foods back. Or, at least it might as well be for all Dean can make out of what’s being blathered on the other end of the line. Which is basically nothing. Dean’s always hated people with accents. This is America, and people should speak American. Unless they’re strippers. With names like “Monique” or “Dauphine” or “Cherry Bomb”. They get a free pass. And besides, if they’re with Dean, they probably shouldn’t be talking all that much anyway.
The guy on the other end of the line is sounding more ticked-off now though, and Dean’s eventually able to make out the word “Costello.” His hand stops mid-reach to the Cheezy-poof bag.
“Costello?”
“R’ya bleedin’ deaf, boy-O? Yes, Mr. Frank Costello.”
Dean gulps. He’s heard that name before, and he doesn’t like it. Dude’s a veritable mass-murdering Crime boss up in New England somewhere. Where? Dean thinks hard. Wishes he could remember more of what Bobby’s told him about this guy, but all he can muster up is a really sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Christ. He can really fucking feel it. Damn martians going rogue on him.
“Right. Uh... What about him?” Dean asks carefully, folding Sam’s towel nice and neat so as to hide the bright orange streaks he’s left behind.
At this time, there’s a soft rustling and loud huff into a very flat pillow. Sam’s starting to stir across from him, and when he sits up he gives Dean a quizzical look. “Who are you talking to?” he mouths, but Dean just turns away, nodding into the phone before realizing that Illegal Immigrant Whatshisname can’t see him.
“Okay. Okay. Hang on, I’m finding a pen...” Dean writes down the sequence of numbers, and then the line goes dead.
It’s not even eight-thirty, and already he’s been roped into doing favors for a mob boss. Great.
~~~~~
It takes a little over a day to drive to Boston, and what feels like almost as long to find a motel. There’s nothing but triple-deckers in Dorchester, a couple of big chain hotels right off of I-93, and a sketchy little “guest-house” that Sam finds a flyer for in one of the twenty-billion Dunkin’ Donuts’ they pass on the way through Southie.
They go for sketchy. Always have.
Dean’s not sure how many crack whores have died in this room. More than would be allowed in a “ten items or less” aisle, he’s pretty sure. Also, Donnie, of Donnie’s Guest House, has enough Red Sox paraphernalia to fill every room with tacky shit like signs over the john about the other Green Monster, and a clock with a disturbing close up of Manny Ramirez for the face. All these things, Donnie can find. Yet somehow, mildew remover eludes him. As do maps of Boston.
“Said he didn’t have any, dude,” Sam says as he comes in the door, practically flying into the room as he clearly puts much more effort into opening it than is necessary. Thing is about as strong as the door to a cardboard fort made from a refrigerator box.
“Whoa. That’s sturdy.”
“I know,” Dean says. “Definitely demon-proof.”
“Good thing we don’t have any demons chasing us, huh?” Sam jokes. Dean just looks at him.
“No, they’re too busy fucking us to do that. You, literally, and me, every other way.”
Sam sighs.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Dean snaps. “Now find me a map.”
“I just said that Donnie didn’t have any.”
“Well, go down and ask him if Marky-Mark does.”
“You could do that yourself.”
Dean places his arms behind his head, leaning up against the headboard. It creaks ominously. “Nah... m’gonna stay here. Get a feel for the place.” He makes a point of ignoring the knot that tightens in his stomach as he stretches his back.
“Yeah, I already got a feel for this place,” Sam throws back, “and I’m pretty sure it felt me back. And not in a good way.”
There’s a long pause. “If I come, will you buy me lunch?” Dean says it like he’s just decided to sell off a family heirloom to get bread for his seven starving children, like he thinks that Sam’s that desperate for his continued company.
“Fine.” Sam sighs.
Dean still hasn’t moved from the bed. “With dessert.”
“Fine.”
In the parking lot, Sam insists on listening to the police frequency. Sure enough, murder’s a-happenin,’ just a shot away. And by shot, Dean means neighborhood. Though, looking around this particular neighborhood, he’s sure it’s happening here, too.
“Feds?” Sam asks, more rhetorically than anything else.
“Awesome.”
“What?”
“I left my badge in the room.”
“So go get it,” Sam says, settling his ass more firmly into the driver’s seat.
Dean thinks about a time when he just would’ve called Sam a bitch and made him go get it anyway. Instead, he climbs out of the car, points a finger at his brother and squints. “Donuts, Sam. I want donuts,” he warns, and shuts the door.
~~~~~
“Feds,” Dean whips out his badge, flips it up for a millisecond, then surveys the scene. Something smells like turnips and Vaseline and it’s making him vaguely nauseous.
“Staties,” the State Police officer who’s in charge of the investigation counters, less concerned with showing any official identification, and more concerned with watching the ME slowly pull a piece of silk out of the mouth of the dead, half-naked old man lying in bed. It’s yellow with green polka-dots.
“Bow-tie.” says the ME, a crooked-boned old man, himself about ready for a nursing home like this one.
“You sure this ain’t some feckin’ Woody Allen movie?” the Statie laughs to his buddy, continuing to ignore Sam and Dean.
“Dunno, seems a little more Hannibal Lecter to me,” Sam interjects, chin in hand.
“Oh, wow. We got ourselves a regular film scholar here!” the Statie claps his friend on the chest, then turns to Sam. “You care to explain what your pale asses are doin’ at my crime scene?”
Dean just stands there, arms crossed over his chest, pretending to be David Duchovny. “What’s your name, officer?” he demands of the Statie.
“Sullivan.”
“Sullen? Yeah, I got that already.”
“Sullivan. And right now, I’m in charge. And I want you to get the feck out of my crime scene.”
“And you didn’t answer my question, buddy. Or should I just arrest you for impeding a federal investigation?” Dean’s procured a really official-looking citation pad from his pocket. Sam stares at it curiously.
“You? Arrest me?” Sullivan laughs, looking around at all the other officers, who are suddenly looking more serious.
“Is there a problem?” Sam’s starting to think that maybe Dean’s calling was really the professional poker circuit.
“Uh, no. We’re just investigating a murder scene here,” Sullivan says, but in a more neutral tone.
“You mean the Royal We?” Sam says, flipping open a reporter’s pad.
“What the feck is the Royal We?”
“Yeah, I didn’t peg you for a private school boy, either.” Dean jumps in.
“Jesus feckin’ Christ. Are you guys here to work this case, or just ride my feckin’ ass?”
“Much as I like riding, cowboy,” Dean says with a smirk, “Why don’t you give us a quick tour of Disney World here and we’ll try to get along for mom and dad, huh?”
“Yeah. Whatevah.”
~~~~~
“We’re livin’ the dream, Sammy.”
“Don’t you mean the cliche?”
“Whatever. It’s got jimmies,” Dean says, ogling the vast selection of half-stale pastries.
“Awe, man. That guy over there is totally touching himself. I think I’ll just get an iced tea.”
Dean’s ignoring him. “Oooh, what’s a cruller?”
“It’s French.”
“Fuck that, I want a DONUT. With JIMMIES.”
“So.... case? Crime scene?”
“Well... there were enough ugly-ass ties in that room to dress Bob Barker for all of the 70’s. For one thing.” Dean pokes Sam in the arm, urging him to move forward with the rest of the line.
“Yeah. No shit. Could be the spirit’s calling card or something.”
Dean nods and shows his badge to the small Nepali woman behind the counter. “One chocolate glazed with jimmies, one Boston creme,” Dean orders, and Sam rolls his eyes. “Oh, and an iced tea, for Grandma Moses over here.”
“That will be 4.25, Sir.”
“What?” Dean looks confused.
“That will be 4.25,” the woman repeats, with a heavy accent.
“But...” Dean leans conspiratorially over the counter, and taps on his little pleather covered ID. “I have a.... badge...?” He raises an eyebrow hopefully, and Sam suppresses a laugh.
“Four... Twenty... Five.” The lady repeats again, very slowly.
Sam slaps a fiver down on the counter. “Thank you. I’m very sorry,” he says and drags Dean out into the parking lot.
“But... what about my change? Quarters don’t just fall out of the sky, Sam.”
“I had to tip the woman for putting up with your shenanigans.”
“But you love my shenanigans!” There’s a pause. “You missed them when I was gone.”
It’s the way that Dean states it- flatly, no hint of a question or joke in his tone. Sam stares at his plastic cup of watered down iced tea, wipes at the condensation thoughtfully. “You doin’ this for me?”
“Doin’ what?”
“The jokes and shit. Ever since we got here you’ve been weird... like... like you’re trying to entertain me or something. Distract me.”
Dean brushes some stray jimmies off his chest. “No, Sam. It’s not just for you. It’s for both of us.”
“So it’s some kind of fake it ‘till you make it thing? You really don’t have to do that, man.”
“Yeah. Well, I don’t know how much longer I can keep it up anyways. But the accents help.”
Sam smiles. “Yeah. They kinda do.”
“Besides, I have one more message for our new friend Sulley. It’s a real diamond among gems.”
“I can’t wait to hear it,” Sam sighs. “Hey, what’s wrong with your doughnut?” he asks, watching Dean stuff it back in its little paper bag with the other one, barely touched.
“Stale. Not real hungry anyways,” he says, a hand pressing into his side, just above his left hip, kneading at something there ever so slightly. He rolls down the top of the bag and makes a quick turn towards the drivers’ side before Sam has a chance to speculate as to what the hell is really going on with his brother.
“Of course,” Sam mutters, and heads for the other side of the car.
Ten minutes later, they’re back at the crime scene. The Staties are standing outside the retirement home, checking the perimeters or whatever the hell they do. Dean brings the Impala down to a speed at which the dead guy could probably finish the Boston Marathon faster than them, and rolls down his window.
“Dean...” Sam’s patented warning tone makes a guest appearance. Though by this point it should really be credited with a starring role.
“Hey Jason, think you lost your identity!” Dean’s calling out the window to Sullivan.
“Excuse me?” Sullivan’s not impressed.
“Yeah, I wasn’t “Bourne” yesterday!” Dean yells, and then Sam cuts him off by a literal uppercut to his arm. “Hey!”
“That’s enough, Dean.”
“A diamond. Didn’t I tell ya?”
Sam thinks about telling his brother that he could say the same of graphite, or coal if they really wanted to get specific, but decides to let Dean have this one.
“Yeah.”
~~~~~
Dean glares at Sam in the rear-view. “So how many people has this guy killed exactly?”
“I got no clue. You think I got time to keep tallies?” The guy had flat-out refused to take the back seat. Too bad. There would have been room for him and all of his anger issues back there.
“Just let him do all the talkin’ and you’ll be fine. Don’t get fresh with him, or anyone at arms’ length. He really feckin’ hates it when guys get fresh.”
“Duly noted.”
“And don’t tell him you’ll do what you can. He’ll flip right out. Tell him you’ll feckin’ do it. Whatever this shit is he wants you freaks for. Just say you’ll get it done.”
“Hey, Bill Nye the Science Guy. You got a pen in that pocket protector?”
“It’s Costigan. William Costigan. And no, I don’t have a feckin’ pen.”
“Pity,” Dean says. “Because you got quite a list goin’ there.”
Sam leans forward in the backseat. “So who is this old guy to your boss anyways?”
“Worked for him up until he broke his hip. They go way back, I guess. Before my time. His wife was the old lady Mr. French called you about. Francine.”
“Oh, so that’s what he was saying,” Dean muses. “That makes so much more sense than a dead poodle named Artichoke.”
“So how does Costello fit into all this?” Sam asks keenly.
“Wild guess that it has something to do with him killing someone,” Dean mutters.
“Francine’s first husband. Costello finished him off back in the 70’s. Now he’s feckin’ convinced himself the guy’s back from the dead. And he figures he’s next on the post-bucket bucket-list.”
Sam’s eyes meet Dean’s in the mirror. “That... that we have experience with.”
“Yeah, well if you ask me it’s all a load of feckin’ horse shit. And if you take Mr. Costello for a ride, I promise you, I will end both of you personally.”
“Long as it’s quick,” Dean says cheerfully. “Painless is good, too, but we’re not picky.”
~~~~~
Frank Costello looks like Satan should have, with a serpentine grin, a wiry goatee and little beady eyes. Someone who you’d meet in a dark alleyway and would change your life by either ending it or making it a hell of a lot more interesting.
“Ah, 1979. That was quite the summah, warn’t it Mr. French?”
“We finished off a right bevy of ‘em South End Guineas that year, Frankie,” the huge Irishman from Dean’s confusing phone call says. “If that’s what yer drivin’ at.”
Frank nods in satisfaction as his other goon comes back from the bar and slams a couple of draft beers in front of Sam and Dean. Costello sips at his whiskey, squints at Costigan’s red drink like it’s got bad manners.
“You remember what we did with Lenny Solanas?” Costello asks the big guy.
“Which one was Lenny Solanas?”
“Fuck if I know, Frenchie.”
~~~~~
Twelve bodies. Twelve separate graves scattered across Suffolk and Middlesex Counties, and only half the fucking streets have street signs. Dean wonders for a moment if Alastair had a hand in the urban planning here. Or lack thereof.
“Webster? Is this Webster? Are we on it now?”
“How the fuck should I know? I’m from Lynn, not feckin’ Roxbury.”
~~~~~
Billy the Kid-as Dean’s taken to calling him when it’s only him and Sam listening-gives Dean a run for his money in the boyish good looks department. But he’s lacking the suave charms that allow Dean to sweet-talk his way into the backyard of some young, confused, Portuguese couple. Once they manage to find the damn place.
“Don’t you ever get sick of lyin’ all the time?” Billy asks, rubbing at his left forearm where the skin is a few shades paler than the rest of him.
Dean pitches some dirt over his shoulder and laughs, harsh and quick. “That’s the least of my fucking problems.”
Whoever it is they dig up this time around, they’re wearing platform heels and a red mini-skirt.
“Safe to say this isn’t Lenny?” Dean leans heavily on his shovel.
Costigan runs his hand through his hair, sighing. “If it was, I doubt Costello woulda forgot him.”
~~~~~
That night for supper they go to a place of Costigan’s choosing, a pub down on Boylston Street. One of the few that isn’t filled with rowdy college kids and large, drunk, overzealous sports fans.
“So, Good Will Hunting,” Dean pokes Costigan in the back as they’re going in. “You come here a lot?”
“No,” says Costigan peevishly. “I got bodies to bury and stuff to do. Not much time to Yelp left at the end of the day.”
“I know how that goes,” Dean says, and then changes tack. “Mmmm... brisket!”
“You. Eating brisket.” Sam balks. “What are you? Sixty?”
“Shut up, Harry Potter.”
“Harry Potter?” Costigan’s looking back and forth between them, the first hint of what could be a smile starting to curl his lip.
“Yeah,” Dean says. “‘Cuz he’s the “Chosen One.””
“I’m not even going to start on explaining that one,” Sam sighs. “Now can we sit down and order our food, or what?”
“He’s always been a little touchy about it,” Dean mutters as an aside to Costigan as they’re being seated. “Kind of self conscious about the”-- Dean raises his voice to a loud stage whisper-- “scar. That’s why his hair’s so long.”
Later, after their food’s arrived, Dean’s going on about asking Costigan how his psychiatric sessions with Robin Williams are going, milking the thing to death until Costigan snaps like a dried-up rubber band.
“Where’d you do your time?” Costigan asks Dean bluntly, and fuck if that isn’t the first thing to really shut him up since Costigan met him.
Dean takes a moment to lick his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “South,” he says, “the Deep South,” before giving up on his Brisket dinner and ordering another bourbon.
Dean’s quiet the rest of the night, and when he and Sam get back to the motel room, he sits heavily on the end of his bed, kneading his stomach with his fist. Sam has a quick flashback to a different motel room in a different part of the country, and Dean spitting up blood on the floor.
“Bad brisket?” Sam asks cautiously, trying not to laugh.
Dean grimaces, his face pale. “Maybe. I don’t know, man. This whole deal isn’t sitting right with me.” He massages his stomach harder.
“What deal?” Sam sits on the bed across from his brother.
“The thing with Costello. The mafia. The killing.” Dean condenses his thoughts down into single words, each one contorting his face like he expects a slap to come next.
“There’s always been killing,” Sam states flatly.
“Yeah,” Dean pants. “But not for no reason. Not here.”
“Here?” Sam looks confused.
“Here,” Dean emphasizes again, breathing shallowly. “Up here--” he breaks off. “Sam. I think I’m gonna hurl.”
Sam doesn’t think that he’s heard that particular combination of words out of his brother’s mouth since he was about eight, but regardless, he watches with concern as Dean scrambles to the bathroom and heaves up his brisket dinner special under the watchful eye of the Ted Williams poster on the wall.
It’s going to be a long night.
~~~~~
Since going undercover, the one thing Costigan can’t stop thinking about is morality. He almost thinks he should go out and buy himself some fucking books by Kant or something, because at least then he’d have the physical manifestation of the heavy weight that’s settled on his chest, ever since that first sharpened ballpoint pierced his skin, on Cell Block- D of MCI-Concord.
Was it worse to kill someone after you were provoked, Costigan wonders, or just because you could? The former showed a lack of control, the latter, a certain sense of spontaneity. Though of course nothing he did was spontaneous, it was all Government approved and funded and thank you, Uncle Sam, I’ll be sure to spit on my hand before we shake.
He’s feeling jittery the next morning when he meets his new tagalong buddies, the ghost hunter freaks, in the parking lot of a 7-11 in Winter Hill.
“So I think we should just keep going,” Dean’s muttering to his brother. “I don’t think we really have a choice about finishing this one.”
“Do we ever?” Sam mutters back, as Costigan walks up.
“Ah, Buffalo Bill,” Dean says in a louder voice. “Where to today?” He looks like twelve kinds of shit, all pale and squinting like the grey pre-dawn light is a blazing Mexican midday sun.
“Somahville,” Costigan says.
“Summaville?”
“No, jackwad. Som-er-ville. The next body’s buried out behind the radiator graveyard in Union Square.”
“Radiator graveyard?” Sam says, popping the trunk of their car to rummage around for some freaky voodoo crap, no doubt.
“It’s pretty feckin’ self-explanatory, isn’t it?”
~~~~~
They park out back, next to some crappy little condos on a dead end street along the train tracks. It’s all a little too apropos for Dean’s liking... a street that goes nowhere. It doesn’t bode well for them, or for Lenny Solanas’ corpse.
Costigan leads the way through a maze of rusted old pot-belly stoves and cast iron radiators with chipping paint of silver, bronze, and black, patches of rust growing on them like fungus on trees, all of them in various stages of decay.
“We cool here?” Dean asks, eyeing the little shop at the edge of the driveway up ahead of them with suspicion.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it. Costello’s cousin’s been runnin’ this place for 40 years.”
“Naturally,” Dean says drily. He’s trailing behind the other two a bit, a little relieved that he can hold his stomach while it goes fucking ballistic on him without being scrutinized, even if it’s just for a few minutes.
Turns out he’s just postponing the inevitable. He doesn’t last long with the whole digging thing, trying to ignore suspicious looks from Sam and Costigan as he breaks out in a totally unwarranted sweat. And soon enough, no matter what he tells his body, it will not fucking budge.
Sam slams his shovel into the dry dirt, hard enough to keep it vertical, tugs at the one Dean’s clinging to for dear life. “Hey,” he says, “Wanna take a breather, man? Let Billy the Kid have a turn?”
“You demoting me?”
“I’m trying to get this body dug up sometime this decade,” Sam tells him, and Dean sighs and lets his fingers loosen enough for Sam to pry the shovel away and toss it over to Costigan.
“They should call you the feckin’ Resurrection Men,” Costigan notes, plunging the battered tool into the dirt, with a little extra push from his boot.
“Dickens?” Sam gives Costigan an incredulous look. “You?”
“Private school,” Costigan says shortly.
“Yeah,” Dean puffs, both hands at his belly. “I bet.”
For a first time gravedigger, Costigan turns out to be not so bad. Dean gives his form a 7.5, his execution a generous 8- only because he manages to keep any dirt from flying in Dean’s face. However, he doesn’t gain any points on the attitude. Cocky Irish bastard.
He gives whatever the fuck is going on in his gut a big fat Zero, and if he could give out negative scores, it’d get one of those, too. And if it was an Olympic diver, it just freakin’ belly-flopped.
“What the.... fridge?”
Dean gets his shit together long enough to peer into the dugout, and sure enough, Sam’s working on the rusty lever-style handle of an old Philco.
Sam yanks it open in no time, the sound of grinding gravel and rust the only indication that there’s an impediment to the whole process.
“A fridge?” Dean repeats again. “Really?”
“Yeah, love is a cold dead thing, apparently,” Sam notes, holding up the smaller skeleton’s hand and displaying a decent-sized engagement ring.
“Two cold dead things.”
Costigan’s been silent throughout this whole shindig, pun intended, until he points to the other skeleton. “What’s that?”
The box is an unmistakable shade of turquoise, even after sitting in a decomposing man’s pocket for thirty-odd years.
“Guess they didn’t quite make it to breakfast,” Sam notes.
“That sick fucking heartless.... fucker...” Dean rasps, clinging to the edge of the grave like he’s just crawled out of it... for the second time.
“Costello’s not exactly sentimental. Not when it comes to the North End boys, that’s for feckin’ sure,” Costigan says, shaking his head at the Tiffany and Co. box he’s taken into his dirt-smeared palm.
“How can you work for...” Dean starts, but gasps mid sentence, twisting in on himself like a nervous caterpillar. He tries to say something after that, but it’s not so much words as partly muffled grunts.
“Hey, man,” Costigan says, jumping over to Dean’s side of the hole in the ground, “You know what the hell this is?”
Dean shakes his head fiercely and Costigan looks to Sam, who’s already kicking the fridge closed and making his way over to his brother.
“Dean. Dean. Hey. Tune into our station, okay, bud?”
All that gets is Dean shaking his head with equal vehemence, eyes squeezed shut against whatever the fuck is burning a hole in his gut from the inside out.
“What are you up against, man? ‘Cuz I’ve seen seventy-year-olds take on that brisket and do just fine.”
“Not that,” Dean gasps. “Don’t fuckin’ know. Been too busy chasing after demons to finish up that pesky medical degree.”
Another wave of pain hits him just then, and any chance of further elaboration on the whole writhing-in-pain situation is pretty much tossed out the window along with all these anachronistic radiators.
~~~~~
In this line of work, calling 911 is equivalent to snitching on your little sister. It never fucking turns out well. So it never fucking happens.
Free clinics, uncles that aren’t actually related to you, and skeevy Mafia-employed M.D.’s, though, those are all home-free. And if Costigan wasn’t higher up on the food-chain, he’d probably be flipping through the yellow pages. But he’s got a feeling someone might be interested in keeping the Winchesters on their feet. For the time it takes to finish this bullshit job anyways. Though Costigan wouldn’t put it past Costello to bury them standing, after it’s all said and done.
It’s the ringing part that’s the worst. He never picks up until the last possible second, and for some reason Costigan associates the sound as being the sound of purgatory.
“What is it Costigan? And keep it short,” Costello answers, and Costigan can hear ice clinking in a glass in the background.
“Your guy, that Doc that patched up Mr. French a few weeks back. He make house calls?”
“You have a house?” Costello asks, chuckling.
“Yeah.”
“It fall on a good witch or a bad witch?”
“Dunno,” Costigan counters. “Most witches I’ve met are pretty morally ambiguous.”
“Remember what I said a few words ago about brevity?”
“Sorry. One of these Ghostbusters is ready to twist his guts out like a feckin’ kid eatin’ a creme filled. And I figured you’d like ‘em vertical enough to finish what they started here.”
“Bill Murray or Dan Akyroyd?”
Costigan thinks hard for a minute, then: “Akyroyd.”
There’s a pause, where Costigan can hear Mr. French tell Costello something about a beached whale in the background, and he almost laughs, thinking about bodies on the shores of Winthrop Beach.
Next, Costello’s back in his ear, that omnipresent little devil on his shoulder.
“You got a pen, Costigan?”
“Montblanc,” Costigan spits. “Of course.”
There’s a sequence of numbers, and then Costello’s gone.
~~~~~
The guy who comes to the house is balding and wearing a sportscoat with patches at the elbows. He says to call him ‘Doc.’ He’s driving a silver ‘86 Corvette with vanity plates that say ‘CAPTLZM,’ and he takes his damn sweet time getting out of it and up the steps into Costigan’s house.
“You think you could hurry it up out there?” Costigan yells out his open screen door. “You know, maybe make it up here this feckin’ decade?”
The guy flips him the finger and lights a cigarette.
“Nice bird,” Costigan calls. “You got trained doves in there, too?” But it’s pointless. The guy just taps some ash onto Costigan’s sidewalk and looks unperturbed. He clearly makes his own hours. One of the perks of working without a medical licence.
Just then, Sam pokes his head out the door, too. “You know, someone could be dying in here,” he says loudly.
“They’re not,” the Doc says, “or else I would be in there already.”
Sam gives up on cajoling the older man inside, and goes back to check on his brother. Dean’s a mess on Costigan’s ratty orange velour couch, his arm curled around his stomach like his guts are spilling out on the beaches of Normandy.
“I can’t do it,” he says, and it barely registers. Sam holds him steady by the shoulder, keeps him from rolling onto the ratty shag carpet.
“You’ll be fine, man. Costello’s guy’s on his way up.”
Dean shakes his head. “Fuck my life,” he whispers.
“Hey. I... think he’s a real doctor, even.” Sam fakes a game-show host smile, and lets his hand rub at Dean’s back just a little.
“Wow,” Dean spits. “That-- is-- so-- reassuring--”
Just then, Costigan bangs through the screen door with a sour expression and a guy who looks a little like Clint Eastwood. Neither of them look too pleased with the company they’re keeping.
“Who’s this... Clean Harry?”
“Dean. He works for the mob. Pretty sure his hands are not clean.”
“They may not be clean, but they are sterile,” the doctor smiles.
“You just smoked,” Costigan points out. “On my feckin’ porch.”
“Trifles. Now, who’s the patient?” he asks, setting down what looks like a tackle box from the Deadliest Catch.
“The one who isn’t vertical,” Sam suggests.
“Ah.”
Dean reluctantly gives up his forearm to the not-so-good doctor, and lets him strap a blood pressure cuff around it. He tries to stare the guy down, as if it’ll somehow reveal to him some kind of medical credentials, but the man’s glare is ice-cold and focused dutifully on the gauge on the cuff.
On the same track as his brother, Sam asks as casually as possible, “So... where’d you go to Med school?”
“You ever been to Jamaica?” The doctor looks up at Sam with a beatific smile. “Lovely weather.”
“Awesome,” Sam mutters.
“Used to go there every year for spring break. You know, from Harvard.”
Dean and Sam share a skeptical look as the man coaxes Dean to lie flat on his back.
“One little bong hit before an invasive heart surgery...” he starts, and shakes his head wistfully as he pauses to listen to Dean’s heart. “You know what kind of mess I’d have been over in Kon Tum province without my darlin’ Mary Jane? Not to mention the kids whose insides I twist-tied back together.”
The Doc’s hand presses gently into Dean’s side, and he moans in pain.
“Gettin’ laid on my couch, huh?” Costigan smirks, but the comment goes ignored by the others, one too focused on his work, one too focused on not screaming like a two-year-old, and the third far too deep into worried-little-brother mode to even notice.
It takes a few more painful pokes and prods and a deluge of boring questions before the doctor finally sighs and nods and starts rummaging though his tackle box. “You have an ulcer.”
“What gauge hook you gonna use on that?” Costigan asks.
“Nobody’s hookin’ nothin,” Dean growls. “Right?”
“Cut down on coffee and shit food, drop a couple of these beans and things should start lookin’ up.”
The Doc procures unlabeled pills from one of the compartments, counts some out into his palm, and waves it at Costigan. “You got a baggie?”
“Drop one of these...” he says, adding two little purple pills into the mix, “And things’ll look waaaay up.”
Dean reaches a hand out needfully, his other hand curled around his belly again. “Now? Please?”
Sam takes Dean’s hand in his own and presses it back to his brother’s chest. “Sorry, man. You’ll have to save the trip to Wonderland for later. We still got a case to finish.”
“Don’t worry,” The Doc says, patting Dean on the knee. “They improve with age.”
When the Doc roars off in his ‘Vette, Sam and Costigan watch from the porch like they’re going to start waving hankies, and Dean slumps back against the saggy couch cushions.
“You know...” Dean starts, smiling slightly. “I kind of liked him. Didn’t even get his name.” He directs this last statement at Costigan, who’s not looking nearly as cheerful.
“Boudreaux,” Costigan says. “Phil Boudreaux.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Dean shifts slightly so that he’s more sitting than lying down. “You mean to tell me that that guy was... Doctor Phil?”
“Not technically a doctor anymore.”
“Still. I coulda... damn.... I coulda freakin’ rocked that.”
~~~~~
One reason Dean has trouble sleeping that night is the ulcer. The other is Sam staring at him in that completely claustrophobia-inducing way he tends to whenever Dean buys a box of Kleenex or a bottle of Nyquil.
It doesn’t come to a head until the next morning, however, when both of them wake up in moods to rival Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest. Sam stalks around the motel room all morning without saying much, while Dean stumbles around swearing at all the furniture that keeps jumping out at him. Finally, after half a shaved face and a nick on his jaw, Dean turns from the bathroom mirror.
“Let’s just get the fuck out of here.”
“What?”
“This... this asshole Costello deserves whatever the hell he’s got coming to him.”
“Yeah... I think if he stood still long enough, Hell would personally come and take him back home.”
Dean laughs darkly, but Sam shakes his head.
“Seriously, though. You know we need to finish this, right?”
“Do we? If we took off right now, we’d be doing the world a favor. How many bodies has this guy buried in the greater Boston area, Sam? We could be standing over one right now, for Christ’s sake.”
“Enough to fill up the Old Burying Grounds a few times over, I’d guess.”
Dean finishes shaving, and gets really quiet, thinking about how he himself had torn apart more souls than Costello could ever dream of unceremoniously rolling into old kitchen appliances. He packs his razor away and sits on the end of his bed, wondering if the hole currently burning its way though his belly is some kind of ember from Hell he’ll be stuck with for the rest of his (hopefully short) life. Whoever said a man could get used to anything, if he had the time, had obviously never been to Hell. Hell was like the fabled seven-headed monster- every time you cut a head off, another, more terrible one grew in its place, forever and ever and never the end.
How had Castiel pulled him up with the knowledge of all that he had done when he was down there? Simply by believing that he had remained “righteous?” Cas played that hand blind, and Dean... Dean still has his poker face, but that’s about it. His hand’s shit. And if he had his way, he’d shuffle the cards back into the deck and get the fuck out of Reno. Or Dorchester. Or wherever.
“Hey, man. You okay?”
Dean’s head’s somehow sunk into his lap, his hands wrapped around it like a pretzel. He peeks up at his brother, face flushed.
“I’m awesome.”
Sam sighs, in the manner of a hospice nurse, cleaning up other people’s deaths until it’s finally his turn.
“This isn’t about Costello.”
“Fuck you and your fucking layers,” Dean groans, picking at the fresh little cut on the edge of his face.
“It’s not healthy, man. I just want you to.... I want you to cope with this. I mean. Somehow. An ulcer? That’s not what I call coping.”
Dean gets up and walks around in a circle, then rummages around for something in his duffel.
He picks up his gun, looks at it like it might have an off switch for Sam’s mouth. “Well, you can’t always get what you want.” Dean slides the barrel out, inspects it, and shoves it back in place.
“Fuck off. Don’t quote the Stones at me, man.” Sam tucks his own gun in his waistband.
“And you know what happens when you actually try…”
“I mean it, Dean.”
“What, you all antsy ‘cuz it hasn’t been Ruby Tuesday for a while?”
Sam stops in the middle of re-packing his duffel. “Fine. Let’s just drop it, then. Happy?”
Dean shrugs, shoulders his bag and heads for the door.
Sam doesn’t say anything more to him until they’re at the site, getting out of the car. Dean hangs on his open door for a moment, sighting for Costigan.
“Hey, Kill Bill!”
“Really subtle, Dean. The whole neighborhood’s not on alert for being knifed now, or anything.”
Costigan’s parked a ways down the street, looking over his shoulder as he gets out of the dirty blue Ford Taurus. He remembers his first night in prison- “Did you ever kill somebody?” another prisoner had asked him over some unidentified glop of meat. “Yeah,” Costigan had said, swallowing past the lump in his throat, poking his fork into his food like it was nothing. If there’s anything he’s learned from Costello thus far, it’s that death never meant nothing. There was always some lesson to be learned, and the way things are going, Costigan’s going to graduate with honors, no doubt. Too bad he’ll probably be six feet under for the ceremony. Doesn’t know why he bothers counting down the days. With this undercover bullshit, his fuckin’ calendar’s numbered one to infinity.
“You expecting this to be a Tarantino, then?” Costigan asks Dean as a greeting.
“Meaning lots of blood? Yeah.” Dean nods. Sam’s leaning up against the Impala, looking annoyed.
“I’m assuming you’re playing Bruce Willis’ character?” Sam asks Dean in a flat tone.
“Fuckin’ right.”
“So this is how we’re gonna do this,” Costigan breaks in. “I knock, and when they open the door, I’m gonna invite ‘em to a feckin’ Sopranos marathon. And you guys are gonna have my back. No questions? Good.”
At this point, Costigan doesn’t even have to shove down the urge to announce, “Police!” when he’s banging on the door. That shit used to scare the shit outta him, to the point where he’d nearly fucking piss himself. But now all he’s scared of is the fact that it doesn’t. That he’s lost any instincts he ever had to do any fucking good in this world. That maybe he’s been this mobster for so long that he’s forgotten what color his blood really is- Statie blue. Though he thinks Costello probably has a saying for that, something about how when you get shot, it doesn’t matter who you’re loyal to. You’ll bleed out just as fast, whether your precinct’s there holding your hand, or your boss’s hitman’s checking the silencer on his gun.
It comes so fuckin’ easy to him now. He holds his Glock to his chest and counts to three. Counting went across the board, trooper or mobster alike.
The door splinters on his first kick.
~~~~~
They don’t end up having to kill anyone, after all. Turns out the house is empty. It’s pretty hilarious actually, and Costigan even seems a little disappointed. Sam seems relieved, and Dean stays focused on the job.
Finding the bones of Lenny Solanas ends up being straightforward, too. Had to happen once, Dean supposes.
Sam claims that Dean was supposed to be in charge of bringing the lighter fluid from the car, and Dean’s sure that that was Sam’s responsibility. Ah well- there’s a mostly-full bottle of whiskey on the counter, so Dean merely snags it and brings it out into the backyard.
“I thought you were getting the lighter fluid?” Sam calls, arms crossed over his chest.
“Nah. Better.” Dean takes a swig from the bottle, then pours the rest of it out over Lenny’s last remaining earthlies.
“Irish baptism, huh?” Costigan chimes in, adjusting the brim of his Red Sox cap.
Dean flicks open his lighter. “If you say so.”
“Guess Costello’ll sleep tight tonight.”
Sam squints through the heat of the flames at his brother. “That’s someone, I guess.”
The Winchesters turn away from the conflagration, but Costigan takes an extra minute.
There are certain things that have weight, he’s found out in all his time working for Costello. They’re things that you never knew to even have gravity, let alone good old Catholic Mass, down on your knees while it weighs on your shoulders like all the ‘Our Father’s’ you aren’t going to say for all the sins you aren’t going to repent. It’s the idea that you aren’t ever going home, until you get to the family plot. It’s the collection of Rolexes you’ve lifted from all the bodies you’ve disappeared.
They’ll keep him up tonight for sure, and probably the next, and the next, until they weigh him down to the bottom of the Charles River.
~~~~~
It’s dark by the time they’ve wiped all their prints from the house and made sure that there isn’t anything left there that could link Costello to the bizarre grave desecration under the gazebo in the back yard.
In the end, everyone is too tired to think of anything meaningful to say as they make their way down the steps of the creaky front porch and to the point on the sidewalk where they’re forced to part ways.
Costigan’s the first to leave, playing around with the positioning of his cap on his head for a moment, then muttering a goodbye like a teenager being dropped off at camp, too cool or embarrassed to display any sentiment at all.
The Winchesters just stand there for a while, watching his hunched shoulders move quickly towards his car, and then, “Hey, Billy Ray!” Dean calls after Costigan. “Don’t forget your Achy Breaky heart!”
It falls completely flat. There’s a long moment where they all look at each other and the feeling of mortality between them is as thick as Jell-O with marshmallows and severed pinkies in it.
Finally Dean says, “You take care of yourself, Costigan.” There’s a glint in Costigan’s eyes that Dean recognizes, back from what he and Sam call the “lost year” or sometimes the “last year,” depending on how drunk they are.
Costigan gives a curt nod and shoves his hands deep in his pockets. “You too.”
There’s a last moment of silence, out here on a dark street on the wrong side of Boston, then without preamble, they turn their backs on each other and depart.
Summary: When the Winchesters get a call from a Mob boss up in Boston, they know that this salt'n'burn is going to be one hell of a ride- that is, if they make it out alive.
Frank Costello's being taunted by the deaths of rival mafia members from his past, so in order to evade being next on the post-bucket bucket list, he calls in the "Ghostbusters." Billy Costigan gets saddled with being the boys' handler for the duration of the case, and the parallels that he sees between his own life as an undercover cop and what the boys do gives everyone a little perspective.
Written for the spn_cinema fic challenge, for the movie "The Departed." (Aka, crossover fic: SPN/The Departed.)
Co-authored with the lovely i_speak_tongue, whose hilarity and knowledge of Boston geography (and ACCENTS! Mustn't forget those!) were invaluable.
Wordcount: 7600
Authors’ Note/Disclaimer: Set after SPN 4.12, “Criss Angel is a Douchebag.” Sadly, none of these pretty boys belong to us. Rated R for lots of swearing. Mainly in Boston accents.
Also, Happy Birthday, kalliel! It couldn't be a coincidence that this day was the posting day, now could it?
The man at the bar is like Moses in two ways: He’s bearded, and when he walks through a crowd he’ll part it, leaving a trail of blood behind him. Unlike Moses, he has a cell phone up on the bar he’s sitting at and he’s smirking around a toothpick. When the phone lights up and starts to blare a tinny version of Mick Jagger’s voice talking about how rape and murder are just a shot away, it’s like he’s expecting it.
The man listens to the song for a while, twirling the toothpick between thumb and forefinger, then picks up at the last second.
“Ah, Ralphie. How’ve you been?”
“I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t life or death.”
“Long time no... see, Ralphie. How’s that eye patch workin’ for ya?”
“Dunno, lately I’m thinkin’ that it might’ve been better if you took ‘em both.”
“Yeah, why’s that?
“I said, why’s that, Ralphie? You deaf now, too?”
“No. It’s just this... feeling.”
The man on the phone leans back in his chair, swirls his drink in its glass and chuckles. “We’re in Boston, Ralphie. It’s more than a feeling.”
There’s a pause on the other end, then: “It’s Lenny, Boss. He’s back.”
“Been into the Jame-o tonight, Ralphie? Those nurses bribin’ you to keep you from bitchin’ 24 feckin’ 7?”
“I’m sober as a horse, I swear to God. I’m telling you, ever since Francine.. ever since last month, I’ve been findin’ things.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure if I’d believe you if you swore on the whole Nativity gang, but...” the man in the bar tosses back the rest of his drink and smiles savagely. “But I’ll humor ya. What kind of things, Ralphie?”
“Ties, Boss. Ties!”
~~~~~
What the hell is in this shit anyways? The color his fingers are turning is not a shade that occurs naturally. He’s positive. This is wrong. This is like Tony the Tiger on steroids. The bad, back-alley kind. And no amount of sucking or licking is getting the shit to go away. Sam’s towel is the next logical step. It’s all crisp and white and fluffy-okay, well not that fluffy because, hey, they can’t afford that kind of luxury. It’s also within arms’ reach. Perfect. Sam’s not awake yet, anyway. Lug.
The bag of Cheezy-poofs from outer space kind of tips over and spills a few onto the bedspread as he reaches for salvation. Thank god they’re outta here today. Out of sight, out of mind.
Far out of mind, since the next thing Dean hears is the opening chorus of Britney’s first hit: “Oops, I Did It Again.” Damn that Sam, changing his ringtone again. Seriously uncalled for.
When he answers, Dean fights back the urge to ask if it’s K-Fed or J-Tim, but when he hears the voice on the other end, he’s glad that he’d resisted. It’s the fucking Martians, and they want their snack foods back. Or, at least it might as well be for all Dean can make out of what’s being blathered on the other end of the line. Which is basically nothing. Dean’s always hated people with accents. This is America, and people should speak American. Unless they’re strippers. With names like “Monique” or “Dauphine” or “Cherry Bomb”. They get a free pass. And besides, if they’re with Dean, they probably shouldn’t be talking all that much anyway.
The guy on the other end of the line is sounding more ticked-off now though, and Dean’s eventually able to make out the word “Costello.” His hand stops mid-reach to the Cheezy-poof bag.
“Costello?”
“R’ya bleedin’ deaf, boy-O? Yes, Mr. Frank Costello.”
Dean gulps. He’s heard that name before, and he doesn’t like it. Dude’s a veritable mass-murdering Crime boss up in New England somewhere. Where? Dean thinks hard. Wishes he could remember more of what Bobby’s told him about this guy, but all he can muster up is a really sick feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Christ. He can really fucking feel it. Damn martians going rogue on him.
“Right. Uh... What about him?” Dean asks carefully, folding Sam’s towel nice and neat so as to hide the bright orange streaks he’s left behind.
At this time, there’s a soft rustling and loud huff into a very flat pillow. Sam’s starting to stir across from him, and when he sits up he gives Dean a quizzical look. “Who are you talking to?” he mouths, but Dean just turns away, nodding into the phone before realizing that Illegal Immigrant Whatshisname can’t see him.
“Okay. Okay. Hang on, I’m finding a pen...” Dean writes down the sequence of numbers, and then the line goes dead.
It’s not even eight-thirty, and already he’s been roped into doing favors for a mob boss. Great.
~~~~~
It takes a little over a day to drive to Boston, and what feels like almost as long to find a motel. There’s nothing but triple-deckers in Dorchester, a couple of big chain hotels right off of I-93, and a sketchy little “guest-house” that Sam finds a flyer for in one of the twenty-billion Dunkin’ Donuts’ they pass on the way through Southie.
They go for sketchy. Always have.
Dean’s not sure how many crack whores have died in this room. More than would be allowed in a “ten items or less” aisle, he’s pretty sure. Also, Donnie, of Donnie’s Guest House, has enough Red Sox paraphernalia to fill every room with tacky shit like signs over the john about the other Green Monster, and a clock with a disturbing close up of Manny Ramirez for the face. All these things, Donnie can find. Yet somehow, mildew remover eludes him. As do maps of Boston.
“Said he didn’t have any, dude,” Sam says as he comes in the door, practically flying into the room as he clearly puts much more effort into opening it than is necessary. Thing is about as strong as the door to a cardboard fort made from a refrigerator box.
“Whoa. That’s sturdy.”
“I know,” Dean says. “Definitely demon-proof.”
“Good thing we don’t have any demons chasing us, huh?” Sam jokes. Dean just looks at him.
“No, they’re too busy fucking us to do that. You, literally, and me, every other way.”
Sam sighs.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Dean snaps. “Now find me a map.”
“I just said that Donnie didn’t have any.”
“Well, go down and ask him if Marky-Mark does.”
“You could do that yourself.”
Dean places his arms behind his head, leaning up against the headboard. It creaks ominously. “Nah... m’gonna stay here. Get a feel for the place.” He makes a point of ignoring the knot that tightens in his stomach as he stretches his back.
“Yeah, I already got a feel for this place,” Sam throws back, “and I’m pretty sure it felt me back. And not in a good way.”
There’s a long pause. “If I come, will you buy me lunch?” Dean says it like he’s just decided to sell off a family heirloom to get bread for his seven starving children, like he thinks that Sam’s that desperate for his continued company.
“Fine.” Sam sighs.
Dean still hasn’t moved from the bed. “With dessert.”
“Fine.”
In the parking lot, Sam insists on listening to the police frequency. Sure enough, murder’s a-happenin,’ just a shot away. And by shot, Dean means neighborhood. Though, looking around this particular neighborhood, he’s sure it’s happening here, too.
“Feds?” Sam asks, more rhetorically than anything else.
“Awesome.”
“What?”
“I left my badge in the room.”
“So go get it,” Sam says, settling his ass more firmly into the driver’s seat.
Dean thinks about a time when he just would’ve called Sam a bitch and made him go get it anyway. Instead, he climbs out of the car, points a finger at his brother and squints. “Donuts, Sam. I want donuts,” he warns, and shuts the door.
~~~~~
“Feds,” Dean whips out his badge, flips it up for a millisecond, then surveys the scene. Something smells like turnips and Vaseline and it’s making him vaguely nauseous.
“Staties,” the State Police officer who’s in charge of the investigation counters, less concerned with showing any official identification, and more concerned with watching the ME slowly pull a piece of silk out of the mouth of the dead, half-naked old man lying in bed. It’s yellow with green polka-dots.
“Bow-tie.” says the ME, a crooked-boned old man, himself about ready for a nursing home like this one.
“You sure this ain’t some feckin’ Woody Allen movie?” the Statie laughs to his buddy, continuing to ignore Sam and Dean.
“Dunno, seems a little more Hannibal Lecter to me,” Sam interjects, chin in hand.
“Oh, wow. We got ourselves a regular film scholar here!” the Statie claps his friend on the chest, then turns to Sam. “You care to explain what your pale asses are doin’ at my crime scene?”
Dean just stands there, arms crossed over his chest, pretending to be David Duchovny. “What’s your name, officer?” he demands of the Statie.
“Sullivan.”
“Sullen? Yeah, I got that already.”
“Sullivan. And right now, I’m in charge. And I want you to get the feck out of my crime scene.”
“And you didn’t answer my question, buddy. Or should I just arrest you for impeding a federal investigation?” Dean’s procured a really official-looking citation pad from his pocket. Sam stares at it curiously.
“You? Arrest me?” Sullivan laughs, looking around at all the other officers, who are suddenly looking more serious.
“Is there a problem?” Sam’s starting to think that maybe Dean’s calling was really the professional poker circuit.
“Uh, no. We’re just investigating a murder scene here,” Sullivan says, but in a more neutral tone.
“You mean the Royal We?” Sam says, flipping open a reporter’s pad.
“What the feck is the Royal We?”
“Yeah, I didn’t peg you for a private school boy, either.” Dean jumps in.
“Jesus feckin’ Christ. Are you guys here to work this case, or just ride my feckin’ ass?”
“Much as I like riding, cowboy,” Dean says with a smirk, “Why don’t you give us a quick tour of Disney World here and we’ll try to get along for mom and dad, huh?”
“Yeah. Whatevah.”
~~~~~
“We’re livin’ the dream, Sammy.”
“Don’t you mean the cliche?”
“Whatever. It’s got jimmies,” Dean says, ogling the vast selection of half-stale pastries.
“Awe, man. That guy over there is totally touching himself. I think I’ll just get an iced tea.”
Dean’s ignoring him. “Oooh, what’s a cruller?”
“It’s French.”
“Fuck that, I want a DONUT. With JIMMIES.”
“So.... case? Crime scene?”
“Well... there were enough ugly-ass ties in that room to dress Bob Barker for all of the 70’s. For one thing.” Dean pokes Sam in the arm, urging him to move forward with the rest of the line.
“Yeah. No shit. Could be the spirit’s calling card or something.”
Dean nods and shows his badge to the small Nepali woman behind the counter. “One chocolate glazed with jimmies, one Boston creme,” Dean orders, and Sam rolls his eyes. “Oh, and an iced tea, for Grandma Moses over here.”
“That will be 4.25, Sir.”
“What?” Dean looks confused.
“That will be 4.25,” the woman repeats, with a heavy accent.
“But...” Dean leans conspiratorially over the counter, and taps on his little pleather covered ID. “I have a.... badge...?” He raises an eyebrow hopefully, and Sam suppresses a laugh.
“Four... Twenty... Five.” The lady repeats again, very slowly.
Sam slaps a fiver down on the counter. “Thank you. I’m very sorry,” he says and drags Dean out into the parking lot.
“But... what about my change? Quarters don’t just fall out of the sky, Sam.”
“I had to tip the woman for putting up with your shenanigans.”
“But you love my shenanigans!” There’s a pause. “You missed them when I was gone.”
It’s the way that Dean states it- flatly, no hint of a question or joke in his tone. Sam stares at his plastic cup of watered down iced tea, wipes at the condensation thoughtfully. “You doin’ this for me?”
“Doin’ what?”
“The jokes and shit. Ever since we got here you’ve been weird... like... like you’re trying to entertain me or something. Distract me.”
Dean brushes some stray jimmies off his chest. “No, Sam. It’s not just for you. It’s for both of us.”
“So it’s some kind of fake it ‘till you make it thing? You really don’t have to do that, man.”
“Yeah. Well, I don’t know how much longer I can keep it up anyways. But the accents help.”
Sam smiles. “Yeah. They kinda do.”
“Besides, I have one more message for our new friend Sulley. It’s a real diamond among gems.”
“I can’t wait to hear it,” Sam sighs. “Hey, what’s wrong with your doughnut?” he asks, watching Dean stuff it back in its little paper bag with the other one, barely touched.
“Stale. Not real hungry anyways,” he says, a hand pressing into his side, just above his left hip, kneading at something there ever so slightly. He rolls down the top of the bag and makes a quick turn towards the drivers’ side before Sam has a chance to speculate as to what the hell is really going on with his brother.
“Of course,” Sam mutters, and heads for the other side of the car.
Ten minutes later, they’re back at the crime scene. The Staties are standing outside the retirement home, checking the perimeters or whatever the hell they do. Dean brings the Impala down to a speed at which the dead guy could probably finish the Boston Marathon faster than them, and rolls down his window.
“Dean...” Sam’s patented warning tone makes a guest appearance. Though by this point it should really be credited with a starring role.
“Hey Jason, think you lost your identity!” Dean’s calling out the window to Sullivan.
“Excuse me?” Sullivan’s not impressed.
“Yeah, I wasn’t “Bourne” yesterday!” Dean yells, and then Sam cuts him off by a literal uppercut to his arm. “Hey!”
“That’s enough, Dean.”
“A diamond. Didn’t I tell ya?”
Sam thinks about telling his brother that he could say the same of graphite, or coal if they really wanted to get specific, but decides to let Dean have this one.
“Yeah.”
~~~~~
Dean glares at Sam in the rear-view. “So how many people has this guy killed exactly?”
“I got no clue. You think I got time to keep tallies?” The guy had flat-out refused to take the back seat. Too bad. There would have been room for him and all of his anger issues back there.
“Just let him do all the talkin’ and you’ll be fine. Don’t get fresh with him, or anyone at arms’ length. He really feckin’ hates it when guys get fresh.”
“Duly noted.”
“And don’t tell him you’ll do what you can. He’ll flip right out. Tell him you’ll feckin’ do it. Whatever this shit is he wants you freaks for. Just say you’ll get it done.”
“Hey, Bill Nye the Science Guy. You got a pen in that pocket protector?”
“It’s Costigan. William Costigan. And no, I don’t have a feckin’ pen.”
“Pity,” Dean says. “Because you got quite a list goin’ there.”
Sam leans forward in the backseat. “So who is this old guy to your boss anyways?”
“Worked for him up until he broke his hip. They go way back, I guess. Before my time. His wife was the old lady Mr. French called you about. Francine.”
“Oh, so that’s what he was saying,” Dean muses. “That makes so much more sense than a dead poodle named Artichoke.”
“So how does Costello fit into all this?” Sam asks keenly.
“Wild guess that it has something to do with him killing someone,” Dean mutters.
“Francine’s first husband. Costello finished him off back in the 70’s. Now he’s feckin’ convinced himself the guy’s back from the dead. And he figures he’s next on the post-bucket bucket-list.”
Sam’s eyes meet Dean’s in the mirror. “That... that we have experience with.”
“Yeah, well if you ask me it’s all a load of feckin’ horse shit. And if you take Mr. Costello for a ride, I promise you, I will end both of you personally.”
“Long as it’s quick,” Dean says cheerfully. “Painless is good, too, but we’re not picky.”
~~~~~
Frank Costello looks like Satan should have, with a serpentine grin, a wiry goatee and little beady eyes. Someone who you’d meet in a dark alleyway and would change your life by either ending it or making it a hell of a lot more interesting.
“Ah, 1979. That was quite the summah, warn’t it Mr. French?”
“We finished off a right bevy of ‘em South End Guineas that year, Frankie,” the huge Irishman from Dean’s confusing phone call says. “If that’s what yer drivin’ at.”
Frank nods in satisfaction as his other goon comes back from the bar and slams a couple of draft beers in front of Sam and Dean. Costello sips at his whiskey, squints at Costigan’s red drink like it’s got bad manners.
“You remember what we did with Lenny Solanas?” Costello asks the big guy.
“Which one was Lenny Solanas?”
“Fuck if I know, Frenchie.”
~~~~~
Twelve bodies. Twelve separate graves scattered across Suffolk and Middlesex Counties, and only half the fucking streets have street signs. Dean wonders for a moment if Alastair had a hand in the urban planning here. Or lack thereof.
“Webster? Is this Webster? Are we on it now?”
“How the fuck should I know? I’m from Lynn, not feckin’ Roxbury.”
~~~~~
Billy the Kid-as Dean’s taken to calling him when it’s only him and Sam listening-gives Dean a run for his money in the boyish good looks department. But he’s lacking the suave charms that allow Dean to sweet-talk his way into the backyard of some young, confused, Portuguese couple. Once they manage to find the damn place.
“Don’t you ever get sick of lyin’ all the time?” Billy asks, rubbing at his left forearm where the skin is a few shades paler than the rest of him.
Dean pitches some dirt over his shoulder and laughs, harsh and quick. “That’s the least of my fucking problems.”
Whoever it is they dig up this time around, they’re wearing platform heels and a red mini-skirt.
“Safe to say this isn’t Lenny?” Dean leans heavily on his shovel.
Costigan runs his hand through his hair, sighing. “If it was, I doubt Costello woulda forgot him.”
~~~~~
That night for supper they go to a place of Costigan’s choosing, a pub down on Boylston Street. One of the few that isn’t filled with rowdy college kids and large, drunk, overzealous sports fans.
“So, Good Will Hunting,” Dean pokes Costigan in the back as they’re going in. “You come here a lot?”
“No,” says Costigan peevishly. “I got bodies to bury and stuff to do. Not much time to Yelp left at the end of the day.”
“I know how that goes,” Dean says, and then changes tack. “Mmmm... brisket!”
“You. Eating brisket.” Sam balks. “What are you? Sixty?”
“Shut up, Harry Potter.”
“Harry Potter?” Costigan’s looking back and forth between them, the first hint of what could be a smile starting to curl his lip.
“Yeah,” Dean says. “‘Cuz he’s the “Chosen One.””
“I’m not even going to start on explaining that one,” Sam sighs. “Now can we sit down and order our food, or what?”
“He’s always been a little touchy about it,” Dean mutters as an aside to Costigan as they’re being seated. “Kind of self conscious about the”-- Dean raises his voice to a loud stage whisper-- “scar. That’s why his hair’s so long.”
Later, after their food’s arrived, Dean’s going on about asking Costigan how his psychiatric sessions with Robin Williams are going, milking the thing to death until Costigan snaps like a dried-up rubber band.
“Where’d you do your time?” Costigan asks Dean bluntly, and fuck if that isn’t the first thing to really shut him up since Costigan met him.
Dean takes a moment to lick his lips, his mouth suddenly dry. “South,” he says, “the Deep South,” before giving up on his Brisket dinner and ordering another bourbon.
Dean’s quiet the rest of the night, and when he and Sam get back to the motel room, he sits heavily on the end of his bed, kneading his stomach with his fist. Sam has a quick flashback to a different motel room in a different part of the country, and Dean spitting up blood on the floor.
“Bad brisket?” Sam asks cautiously, trying not to laugh.
Dean grimaces, his face pale. “Maybe. I don’t know, man. This whole deal isn’t sitting right with me.” He massages his stomach harder.
“What deal?” Sam sits on the bed across from his brother.
“The thing with Costello. The mafia. The killing.” Dean condenses his thoughts down into single words, each one contorting his face like he expects a slap to come next.
“There’s always been killing,” Sam states flatly.
“Yeah,” Dean pants. “But not for no reason. Not here.”
“Here?” Sam looks confused.
“Here,” Dean emphasizes again, breathing shallowly. “Up here--” he breaks off. “Sam. I think I’m gonna hurl.”
Sam doesn’t think that he’s heard that particular combination of words out of his brother’s mouth since he was about eight, but regardless, he watches with concern as Dean scrambles to the bathroom and heaves up his brisket dinner special under the watchful eye of the Ted Williams poster on the wall.
It’s going to be a long night.
~~~~~
Since going undercover, the one thing Costigan can’t stop thinking about is morality. He almost thinks he should go out and buy himself some fucking books by Kant or something, because at least then he’d have the physical manifestation of the heavy weight that’s settled on his chest, ever since that first sharpened ballpoint pierced his skin, on Cell Block- D of MCI-Concord.
Was it worse to kill someone after you were provoked, Costigan wonders, or just because you could? The former showed a lack of control, the latter, a certain sense of spontaneity. Though of course nothing he did was spontaneous, it was all Government approved and funded and thank you, Uncle Sam, I’ll be sure to spit on my hand before we shake.
He’s feeling jittery the next morning when he meets his new tagalong buddies, the ghost hunter freaks, in the parking lot of a 7-11 in Winter Hill.
“So I think we should just keep going,” Dean’s muttering to his brother. “I don’t think we really have a choice about finishing this one.”
“Do we ever?” Sam mutters back, as Costigan walks up.
“Ah, Buffalo Bill,” Dean says in a louder voice. “Where to today?” He looks like twelve kinds of shit, all pale and squinting like the grey pre-dawn light is a blazing Mexican midday sun.
“Somahville,” Costigan says.
“Summaville?”
“No, jackwad. Som-er-ville. The next body’s buried out behind the radiator graveyard in Union Square.”
“Radiator graveyard?” Sam says, popping the trunk of their car to rummage around for some freaky voodoo crap, no doubt.
“It’s pretty feckin’ self-explanatory, isn’t it?”
~~~~~
They park out back, next to some crappy little condos on a dead end street along the train tracks. It’s all a little too apropos for Dean’s liking... a street that goes nowhere. It doesn’t bode well for them, or for Lenny Solanas’ corpse.
Costigan leads the way through a maze of rusted old pot-belly stoves and cast iron radiators with chipping paint of silver, bronze, and black, patches of rust growing on them like fungus on trees, all of them in various stages of decay.
“We cool here?” Dean asks, eyeing the little shop at the edge of the driveway up ahead of them with suspicion.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it. Costello’s cousin’s been runnin’ this place for 40 years.”
“Naturally,” Dean says drily. He’s trailing behind the other two a bit, a little relieved that he can hold his stomach while it goes fucking ballistic on him without being scrutinized, even if it’s just for a few minutes.
Turns out he’s just postponing the inevitable. He doesn’t last long with the whole digging thing, trying to ignore suspicious looks from Sam and Costigan as he breaks out in a totally unwarranted sweat. And soon enough, no matter what he tells his body, it will not fucking budge.
Sam slams his shovel into the dry dirt, hard enough to keep it vertical, tugs at the one Dean’s clinging to for dear life. “Hey,” he says, “Wanna take a breather, man? Let Billy the Kid have a turn?”
“You demoting me?”
“I’m trying to get this body dug up sometime this decade,” Sam tells him, and Dean sighs and lets his fingers loosen enough for Sam to pry the shovel away and toss it over to Costigan.
“They should call you the feckin’ Resurrection Men,” Costigan notes, plunging the battered tool into the dirt, with a little extra push from his boot.
“Dickens?” Sam gives Costigan an incredulous look. “You?”
“Private school,” Costigan says shortly.
“Yeah,” Dean puffs, both hands at his belly. “I bet.”
For a first time gravedigger, Costigan turns out to be not so bad. Dean gives his form a 7.5, his execution a generous 8- only because he manages to keep any dirt from flying in Dean’s face. However, he doesn’t gain any points on the attitude. Cocky Irish bastard.
He gives whatever the fuck is going on in his gut a big fat Zero, and if he could give out negative scores, it’d get one of those, too. And if it was an Olympic diver, it just freakin’ belly-flopped.
“What the.... fridge?”
Dean gets his shit together long enough to peer into the dugout, and sure enough, Sam’s working on the rusty lever-style handle of an old Philco.
Sam yanks it open in no time, the sound of grinding gravel and rust the only indication that there’s an impediment to the whole process.
“A fridge?” Dean repeats again. “Really?”
“Yeah, love is a cold dead thing, apparently,” Sam notes, holding up the smaller skeleton’s hand and displaying a decent-sized engagement ring.
“Two cold dead things.”
Costigan’s been silent throughout this whole shindig, pun intended, until he points to the other skeleton. “What’s that?”
The box is an unmistakable shade of turquoise, even after sitting in a decomposing man’s pocket for thirty-odd years.
“Guess they didn’t quite make it to breakfast,” Sam notes.
“That sick fucking heartless.... fucker...” Dean rasps, clinging to the edge of the grave like he’s just crawled out of it... for the second time.
“Costello’s not exactly sentimental. Not when it comes to the North End boys, that’s for feckin’ sure,” Costigan says, shaking his head at the Tiffany and Co. box he’s taken into his dirt-smeared palm.
“How can you work for...” Dean starts, but gasps mid sentence, twisting in on himself like a nervous caterpillar. He tries to say something after that, but it’s not so much words as partly muffled grunts.
“Hey, man,” Costigan says, jumping over to Dean’s side of the hole in the ground, “You know what the hell this is?”
Dean shakes his head fiercely and Costigan looks to Sam, who’s already kicking the fridge closed and making his way over to his brother.
“Dean. Dean. Hey. Tune into our station, okay, bud?”
All that gets is Dean shaking his head with equal vehemence, eyes squeezed shut against whatever the fuck is burning a hole in his gut from the inside out.
“What are you up against, man? ‘Cuz I’ve seen seventy-year-olds take on that brisket and do just fine.”
“Not that,” Dean gasps. “Don’t fuckin’ know. Been too busy chasing after demons to finish up that pesky medical degree.”
Another wave of pain hits him just then, and any chance of further elaboration on the whole writhing-in-pain situation is pretty much tossed out the window along with all these anachronistic radiators.
~~~~~
In this line of work, calling 911 is equivalent to snitching on your little sister. It never fucking turns out well. So it never fucking happens.
Free clinics, uncles that aren’t actually related to you, and skeevy Mafia-employed M.D.’s, though, those are all home-free. And if Costigan wasn’t higher up on the food-chain, he’d probably be flipping through the yellow pages. But he’s got a feeling someone might be interested in keeping the Winchesters on their feet. For the time it takes to finish this bullshit job anyways. Though Costigan wouldn’t put it past Costello to bury them standing, after it’s all said and done.
It’s the ringing part that’s the worst. He never picks up until the last possible second, and for some reason Costigan associates the sound as being the sound of purgatory.
“What is it Costigan? And keep it short,” Costello answers, and Costigan can hear ice clinking in a glass in the background.
“Your guy, that Doc that patched up Mr. French a few weeks back. He make house calls?”
“You have a house?” Costello asks, chuckling.
“Yeah.”
“It fall on a good witch or a bad witch?”
“Dunno,” Costigan counters. “Most witches I’ve met are pretty morally ambiguous.”
“Remember what I said a few words ago about brevity?”
“Sorry. One of these Ghostbusters is ready to twist his guts out like a feckin’ kid eatin’ a creme filled. And I figured you’d like ‘em vertical enough to finish what they started here.”
“Bill Murray or Dan Akyroyd?”
Costigan thinks hard for a minute, then: “Akyroyd.”
There’s a pause, where Costigan can hear Mr. French tell Costello something about a beached whale in the background, and he almost laughs, thinking about bodies on the shores of Winthrop Beach.
Next, Costello’s back in his ear, that omnipresent little devil on his shoulder.
“You got a pen, Costigan?”
“Montblanc,” Costigan spits. “Of course.”
There’s a sequence of numbers, and then Costello’s gone.
~~~~~
The guy who comes to the house is balding and wearing a sportscoat with patches at the elbows. He says to call him ‘Doc.’ He’s driving a silver ‘86 Corvette with vanity plates that say ‘CAPTLZM,’ and he takes his damn sweet time getting out of it and up the steps into Costigan’s house.
“You think you could hurry it up out there?” Costigan yells out his open screen door. “You know, maybe make it up here this feckin’ decade?”
The guy flips him the finger and lights a cigarette.
“Nice bird,” Costigan calls. “You got trained doves in there, too?” But it’s pointless. The guy just taps some ash onto Costigan’s sidewalk and looks unperturbed. He clearly makes his own hours. One of the perks of working without a medical licence.
Just then, Sam pokes his head out the door, too. “You know, someone could be dying in here,” he says loudly.
“They’re not,” the Doc says, “or else I would be in there already.”
Sam gives up on cajoling the older man inside, and goes back to check on his brother. Dean’s a mess on Costigan’s ratty orange velour couch, his arm curled around his stomach like his guts are spilling out on the beaches of Normandy.
“I can’t do it,” he says, and it barely registers. Sam holds him steady by the shoulder, keeps him from rolling onto the ratty shag carpet.
“You’ll be fine, man. Costello’s guy’s on his way up.”
Dean shakes his head. “Fuck my life,” he whispers.
“Hey. I... think he’s a real doctor, even.” Sam fakes a game-show host smile, and lets his hand rub at Dean’s back just a little.
“Wow,” Dean spits. “That-- is-- so-- reassuring--”
Just then, Costigan bangs through the screen door with a sour expression and a guy who looks a little like Clint Eastwood. Neither of them look too pleased with the company they’re keeping.
“Who’s this... Clean Harry?”
“Dean. He works for the mob. Pretty sure his hands are not clean.”
“They may not be clean, but they are sterile,” the doctor smiles.
“You just smoked,” Costigan points out. “On my feckin’ porch.”
“Trifles. Now, who’s the patient?” he asks, setting down what looks like a tackle box from the Deadliest Catch.
“The one who isn’t vertical,” Sam suggests.
“Ah.”
Dean reluctantly gives up his forearm to the not-so-good doctor, and lets him strap a blood pressure cuff around it. He tries to stare the guy down, as if it’ll somehow reveal to him some kind of medical credentials, but the man’s glare is ice-cold and focused dutifully on the gauge on the cuff.
On the same track as his brother, Sam asks as casually as possible, “So... where’d you go to Med school?”
“You ever been to Jamaica?” The doctor looks up at Sam with a beatific smile. “Lovely weather.”
“Awesome,” Sam mutters.
“Used to go there every year for spring break. You know, from Harvard.”
Dean and Sam share a skeptical look as the man coaxes Dean to lie flat on his back.
“One little bong hit before an invasive heart surgery...” he starts, and shakes his head wistfully as he pauses to listen to Dean’s heart. “You know what kind of mess I’d have been over in Kon Tum province without my darlin’ Mary Jane? Not to mention the kids whose insides I twist-tied back together.”
The Doc’s hand presses gently into Dean’s side, and he moans in pain.
“Gettin’ laid on my couch, huh?” Costigan smirks, but the comment goes ignored by the others, one too focused on his work, one too focused on not screaming like a two-year-old, and the third far too deep into worried-little-brother mode to even notice.
It takes a few more painful pokes and prods and a deluge of boring questions before the doctor finally sighs and nods and starts rummaging though his tackle box. “You have an ulcer.”
“What gauge hook you gonna use on that?” Costigan asks.
“Nobody’s hookin’ nothin,” Dean growls. “Right?”
“Cut down on coffee and shit food, drop a couple of these beans and things should start lookin’ up.”
The Doc procures unlabeled pills from one of the compartments, counts some out into his palm, and waves it at Costigan. “You got a baggie?”
“Drop one of these...” he says, adding two little purple pills into the mix, “And things’ll look waaaay up.”
Dean reaches a hand out needfully, his other hand curled around his belly again. “Now? Please?”
Sam takes Dean’s hand in his own and presses it back to his brother’s chest. “Sorry, man. You’ll have to save the trip to Wonderland for later. We still got a case to finish.”
“Don’t worry,” The Doc says, patting Dean on the knee. “They improve with age.”
When the Doc roars off in his ‘Vette, Sam and Costigan watch from the porch like they’re going to start waving hankies, and Dean slumps back against the saggy couch cushions.
“You know...” Dean starts, smiling slightly. “I kind of liked him. Didn’t even get his name.” He directs this last statement at Costigan, who’s not looking nearly as cheerful.
“Boudreaux,” Costigan says. “Phil Boudreaux.”
“Wait, wait, wait.” Dean shifts slightly so that he’s more sitting than lying down. “You mean to tell me that that guy was... Doctor Phil?”
“Not technically a doctor anymore.”
“Still. I coulda... damn.... I coulda freakin’ rocked that.”
~~~~~
One reason Dean has trouble sleeping that night is the ulcer. The other is Sam staring at him in that completely claustrophobia-inducing way he tends to whenever Dean buys a box of Kleenex or a bottle of Nyquil.
It doesn’t come to a head until the next morning, however, when both of them wake up in moods to rival Faye Dunaway in Mommie Dearest. Sam stalks around the motel room all morning without saying much, while Dean stumbles around swearing at all the furniture that keeps jumping out at him. Finally, after half a shaved face and a nick on his jaw, Dean turns from the bathroom mirror.
“Let’s just get the fuck out of here.”
“What?”
“This... this asshole Costello deserves whatever the hell he’s got coming to him.”
“Yeah... I think if he stood still long enough, Hell would personally come and take him back home.”
Dean laughs darkly, but Sam shakes his head.
“Seriously, though. You know we need to finish this, right?”
“Do we? If we took off right now, we’d be doing the world a favor. How many bodies has this guy buried in the greater Boston area, Sam? We could be standing over one right now, for Christ’s sake.”
“Enough to fill up the Old Burying Grounds a few times over, I’d guess.”
Dean finishes shaving, and gets really quiet, thinking about how he himself had torn apart more souls than Costello could ever dream of unceremoniously rolling into old kitchen appliances. He packs his razor away and sits on the end of his bed, wondering if the hole currently burning its way though his belly is some kind of ember from Hell he’ll be stuck with for the rest of his (hopefully short) life. Whoever said a man could get used to anything, if he had the time, had obviously never been to Hell. Hell was like the fabled seven-headed monster- every time you cut a head off, another, more terrible one grew in its place, forever and ever and never the end.
How had Castiel pulled him up with the knowledge of all that he had done when he was down there? Simply by believing that he had remained “righteous?” Cas played that hand blind, and Dean... Dean still has his poker face, but that’s about it. His hand’s shit. And if he had his way, he’d shuffle the cards back into the deck and get the fuck out of Reno. Or Dorchester. Or wherever.
“Hey, man. You okay?”
Dean’s head’s somehow sunk into his lap, his hands wrapped around it like a pretzel. He peeks up at his brother, face flushed.
“I’m awesome.”
Sam sighs, in the manner of a hospice nurse, cleaning up other people’s deaths until it’s finally his turn.
“This isn’t about Costello.”
“Fuck you and your fucking layers,” Dean groans, picking at the fresh little cut on the edge of his face.
“It’s not healthy, man. I just want you to.... I want you to cope with this. I mean. Somehow. An ulcer? That’s not what I call coping.”
Dean gets up and walks around in a circle, then rummages around for something in his duffel.
He picks up his gun, looks at it like it might have an off switch for Sam’s mouth. “Well, you can’t always get what you want.” Dean slides the barrel out, inspects it, and shoves it back in place.
“Fuck off. Don’t quote the Stones at me, man.” Sam tucks his own gun in his waistband.
“And you know what happens when you actually try…”
“I mean it, Dean.”
“What, you all antsy ‘cuz it hasn’t been Ruby Tuesday for a while?”
Sam stops in the middle of re-packing his duffel. “Fine. Let’s just drop it, then. Happy?”
Dean shrugs, shoulders his bag and heads for the door.
Sam doesn’t say anything more to him until they’re at the site, getting out of the car. Dean hangs on his open door for a moment, sighting for Costigan.
“Hey, Kill Bill!”
“Really subtle, Dean. The whole neighborhood’s not on alert for being knifed now, or anything.”
Costigan’s parked a ways down the street, looking over his shoulder as he gets out of the dirty blue Ford Taurus. He remembers his first night in prison- “Did you ever kill somebody?” another prisoner had asked him over some unidentified glop of meat. “Yeah,” Costigan had said, swallowing past the lump in his throat, poking his fork into his food like it was nothing. If there’s anything he’s learned from Costello thus far, it’s that death never meant nothing. There was always some lesson to be learned, and the way things are going, Costigan’s going to graduate with honors, no doubt. Too bad he’ll probably be six feet under for the ceremony. Doesn’t know why he bothers counting down the days. With this undercover bullshit, his fuckin’ calendar’s numbered one to infinity.
“You expecting this to be a Tarantino, then?” Costigan asks Dean as a greeting.
“Meaning lots of blood? Yeah.” Dean nods. Sam’s leaning up against the Impala, looking annoyed.
“I’m assuming you’re playing Bruce Willis’ character?” Sam asks Dean in a flat tone.
“Fuckin’ right.”
“So this is how we’re gonna do this,” Costigan breaks in. “I knock, and when they open the door, I’m gonna invite ‘em to a feckin’ Sopranos marathon. And you guys are gonna have my back. No questions? Good.”
At this point, Costigan doesn’t even have to shove down the urge to announce, “Police!” when he’s banging on the door. That shit used to scare the shit outta him, to the point where he’d nearly fucking piss himself. But now all he’s scared of is the fact that it doesn’t. That he’s lost any instincts he ever had to do any fucking good in this world. That maybe he’s been this mobster for so long that he’s forgotten what color his blood really is- Statie blue. Though he thinks Costello probably has a saying for that, something about how when you get shot, it doesn’t matter who you’re loyal to. You’ll bleed out just as fast, whether your precinct’s there holding your hand, or your boss’s hitman’s checking the silencer on his gun.
It comes so fuckin’ easy to him now. He holds his Glock to his chest and counts to three. Counting went across the board, trooper or mobster alike.
The door splinters on his first kick.
~~~~~
They don’t end up having to kill anyone, after all. Turns out the house is empty. It’s pretty hilarious actually, and Costigan even seems a little disappointed. Sam seems relieved, and Dean stays focused on the job.
Finding the bones of Lenny Solanas ends up being straightforward, too. Had to happen once, Dean supposes.
Sam claims that Dean was supposed to be in charge of bringing the lighter fluid from the car, and Dean’s sure that that was Sam’s responsibility. Ah well- there’s a mostly-full bottle of whiskey on the counter, so Dean merely snags it and brings it out into the backyard.
“I thought you were getting the lighter fluid?” Sam calls, arms crossed over his chest.
“Nah. Better.” Dean takes a swig from the bottle, then pours the rest of it out over Lenny’s last remaining earthlies.
“Irish baptism, huh?” Costigan chimes in, adjusting the brim of his Red Sox cap.
Dean flicks open his lighter. “If you say so.”
“Guess Costello’ll sleep tight tonight.”
Sam squints through the heat of the flames at his brother. “That’s someone, I guess.”
The Winchesters turn away from the conflagration, but Costigan takes an extra minute.
There are certain things that have weight, he’s found out in all his time working for Costello. They’re things that you never knew to even have gravity, let alone good old Catholic Mass, down on your knees while it weighs on your shoulders like all the ‘Our Father’s’ you aren’t going to say for all the sins you aren’t going to repent. It’s the idea that you aren’t ever going home, until you get to the family plot. It’s the collection of Rolexes you’ve lifted from all the bodies you’ve disappeared.
They’ll keep him up tonight for sure, and probably the next, and the next, until they weigh him down to the bottom of the Charles River.
~~~~~
It’s dark by the time they’ve wiped all their prints from the house and made sure that there isn’t anything left there that could link Costello to the bizarre grave desecration under the gazebo in the back yard.
In the end, everyone is too tired to think of anything meaningful to say as they make their way down the steps of the creaky front porch and to the point on the sidewalk where they’re forced to part ways.
Costigan’s the first to leave, playing around with the positioning of his cap on his head for a moment, then muttering a goodbye like a teenager being dropped off at camp, too cool or embarrassed to display any sentiment at all.
The Winchesters just stand there for a while, watching his hunched shoulders move quickly towards his car, and then, “Hey, Billy Ray!” Dean calls after Costigan. “Don’t forget your Achy Breaky heart!”
It falls completely flat. There’s a long moment where they all look at each other and the feeling of mortality between them is as thick as Jell-O with marshmallows and severed pinkies in it.
Finally Dean says, “You take care of yourself, Costigan.” There’s a glint in Costigan’s eyes that Dean recognizes, back from what he and Sam call the “lost year” or sometimes the “last year,” depending on how drunk they are.
Costigan gives a curt nod and shoves his hands deep in his pockets. “You too.”
There’s a last moment of silence, out here on a dark street on the wrong side of Boston, then without preamble, they turn their backs on each other and depart.