Bend the Bracket 5
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16
-- -- --
Dean was having the sexiest dream of his life that involved all the wrong people when Sam's voice wrenched him away from a feathery fiesta of fantasy.
"You're not even a demon, you dick!" There was a sound like something wooden crashing, like false thunder, and then a very soft, very shameful, "Ow..."
That didn't sound like anything important, but Dean still opened his eyes and went for a weapon before he fully understood the words that had woken him. Demon? He blinked. There was salt on the nightstand, next to the whiskey, somewhere. By the time he became aware of himself, he was standing at the end of the bed, salt shaker in one hand, knife in the other, glaring at his brother for being defeated by a crappy chair and gravity. The wicker chair that had been next to the table was in three pieces, two of the legs broken off from the main seat.
"Demon?" Was all Dean said, before he sprinkled his fallen brother with an accidental wave of his hand.
"I... I must have fallen asleep at the computer. Sorry." Sam told him, and nearly tipped the table on himself using it to get up. When he was on his feet he gave a toothy, dishonest smile, and waved a hand dismissively. "It's fine. No demons."
"You said it wasn't a demon. I heard..." Dean looked down at his choice of weaponry before he awkwardly shoved the container of salt into Sam's chest. "Right, you fell asleep. That makes so much sense." He started to walk back toward the bed, and didn't even blink when his brother fumbled to catch the thing he'd handed him. Really, how dumb did Sam think he was? "So what priceless nugget of information did Lucy leave you with?"
"Lucy?"
Dean cracked his neck and yawned like his jaw wanted to dislocate itself. He put the knife on the edge of the nightstand and sank back on the mattress. "Lucifer. Don't pretend like I'm a moron."
Sam shifted on his feet before he picked up the laptop and swung it to the chair on the opposite side of the table, just as crappy and wicker as the one that was shattered all over the floor. "Dunno what you're talking about. I did find something, though."
"Alright, hit me with it." Dean let go of the truth easily enough. The game of charades they'd been playing at was likely failing them both, considering how they spent almost every hour of every day together, and rarely stopped paying attention long enough to let the little things slide. He knew that Sam was crazy and Sam knew that he could easily be qualified as an alcoholic, but that didn't mean they needed to sit down and talk about their problems right now. It meant they didn't have much time. It meant if they saved the world one last time, maybe it was time to think about retirement.
Not that hunters retired to anywhere but their grave beds. And maybe camera covered, condiment filled shacks.
Dean rubbed at his eyes for a moment before he got up to make coffee in the sad little pot by the bathroom. Motel coffee was never delicious, but he didn't taste much of anything anymore.
"A deity, maybe even more than one, judging how widespread the temperature drops have been. A sea god, if you have a look at the mythos of sea serpents and other such Leviathans." Sam was telling him, scrolling through something on the screen. He sounded.... different. Kind of flustered, even, like maybe he'd been having a hot dream before a vision of Satan had woken him and broken the chair. How'd that happen, anyway? "From there, it's somewhat difficult to distinguish one god from another unless we find some really specific information. But honestly, I don't know if we should."
"Why wouldn't we?"
"Because, if this guy is killing our enemies, shouldn't we just let him keep it up?"
The grounds for the coffee pot came in little individual ground packets, which was going to be very inconvenient when Sam wanted a cup, too, but there wasn't much to be done about it. Dean picked up the empty pot and took it into the bathroom for water. "It's killed one of them, for all we know it was a mistake or a lackey. We need to find it, talk to it, find out what it wants, what it's after."
"Ideas how to do that exactly?"
"Summon it?"
There was a sound like the laptop clicking closed. "We need a name, which we don't have."
Dean came back with the full pot of water, which he poured into the back of the coffee pot before he flipped the little thing on and waited. "Talk to people, find out if there's any local sea god legends?"
Sam pulled a face like he didn't like that idea one bit. "It's a college town. I'm pretty sure local legends died as soon as the university was built."
"You got any bright ideas, then? Or are you just gonna keep shooting mine down on principle?"
Sam almost, almost laughed, but he was so bad at it now the sound came out wrong, like it was a physical response and not an emotional one. At least his eyes managed to smile. "Sorry. Maybe we can get some information at that Thai bar tonight, find out if there are any pagans around, anyone that might know something about someone with the juice to wake up a god. Ask the right people the right questions, we might get something."
"And it's a bar," Dean smirked.
Sam's eyes didn't roll at the observation, maybe because he had become too numb to Dean's enthusiasm for alcohol and women in a single place. Maybe because he wouldn't mind going to a bar that night, even if it was for a job. "Otherwise, we wait for the next dead body to pop up."
That seemed easy enough, all things considered. And in the meantime, maybe, if he was careful, Dean would figure out what exactly was going on in Sam's head. "Sounds like a plan."
- - -
For a time, the two of them tried to put together exactly which god they might be dealing with, but they didn't have much to go on, all things considered. It was obvious that Dean wanted it to be Thor. There was something about a ridiculously muscular man with a very short, wide hammer that just did it for him, and Sam just couldn't help but chuckle at the idea. It was better than watching Dean obsess over Dick Roman, that was for sure. By the time dinner rolled around they weren't even the tiniest bit closer to being sure of what was around, but that didn't stop them from getting food this time.
They ate in the car, mostly because the burger place was packed on the inside and they'd spent more time in the motel than was comfortable. The food came in little cardboard boxes that Dean seemed to have never seen before, and tasted pretty amazing for fast food, but that might have been colored by the fact that they'd both skipped lunch.
Sam had gone for the plan old burger, simply because In-N-Out didn't offer salads. He watched Dean cram two whole patties of meat covered in cheese (extra onions) down his throat and tried not to shake his head. Fried chicken and bacon and a waffle for breakfast and a pound of beef for dinner. Really, Dean wasn't planning for retirement.
He was almost finished with his pile of fries when a familiar face appeared in the mirror behind him, frowning like maybe Lucifer had a headache. Sam wanted to turn and look right at him, to yell about that stupid trick he'd pulled, ask him what was wrong, have any number of semi-inappropriate reactions. But Dean was beside him, making love to a cheeseburger with his mouth. And they really didn't need to have another fight over what was illusion and what was reality.
"Don't look at me or he'll figure it out, Sam. Eat your fries." Lucifer didn't smile. Instead, he rubbed at his forehead for a moment and let out a long, drawn out sigh. "I swear I got the short end of the bargain, this time."
Sam picked up two fries and tried to eat them, but they turned to a paste in his mouth that he had no desire to swallow. He forced himself to. He turned his eyes away from Lucifer which was almost impossible at the moment. He wanted to will his thoughts into the Devil's head with his eyes.
"I know you haven't figured out who's here but you should keep your eyes open. The cafe isn't going to go unnoticed. The police will be out, the Leviathans will be out - who knows what else might come creeping into this town to find out what murdered a restaurant full of people. It isn't safe here. It won't be safe here. Not until the war is over."
Sam didn't know if he was supposed to acknowledge that he understood but he stopped eating and stared at the cardboard on his lap for a moment, at the pale fabric of the blue jeans he'd changed into when they'd left the motel for dinner. What was he doing? What was Lucifer doing? Warning him? He started to pull at a fraying thread on his kneecap and frowned.
"In the meantime," Lucifer continued. "Do try to think happy thoughts? You're giving me migraines."
The moment his eyes moved back to the side mirror, the back seat was empty. That didn't mean that he felt like finishing his fries, however.
"This whole town kind of freaks me out." Dean said suddenly, and Sam ripped the little thread out of his pants at the sound. His brother didn't look at him, just rolled up the paper his burger had come in and tucked it into the little cardboard box in the center console, looking at nothing. He waved a hand to encompass the line of cars winding like a wheeled centipede into the driveway. "Two blocks from here, twenty-six people are partially digested in a cafe, and this many people go out for burgers?"
"We're here." Sam shrugged.
"We know. We don't have a kitchen, either."
"It's the drive-thru?"
The older hunter rolled his eyes like that really wasn't an excuse but didn't try to articulate his point further. Instead, he turned the keys in the ignition and put the car in gear, like if he wasn't sitting there, watching the people get food and drive away, it wouldn't bother him. "What time's that Thai kitchen and bar thing for Ada's friends?"
"Nine."
Dean nodded. "Let's get there early. Gives us more time to mingle before we get stuck talking to some dead girl's friends for hours pretending to be grief counselors."
That wasn't the reason he wanted to get there early, but Sam wasn't going to call him on it, not yet. Not until it started to ruin the job. If that happened. "Yeah." Was all he said, and they drove off toward the E street like it was their number one priority. He didn't tell Dean anything about Lucifer's warning. It was common sense. And Dean had common sense, most of the time, when it didn't include hedonistic opportunities, but that was outside the spectrum of the night, Sam was sure. This job was too big to get distracted by a nice rack. They both had to see it that way, for once. Sex wasn't going to be an issue on this job.
They parked along the sidewalk, an hour early by Sam's watch, and got out to stand under a prematurely leafless tree in the streetlight. It was already dark, the temperature falling rapidly, to the point that when they breathed, vapor blossomed in front of their faces. Sophia's Thai Kitchen had a porch with stairs on the side, and a sign that enthusiastically spoke of their pad Thai and Long Island iced teas, and heaters stuck to the roof so the porch remained useful all season. It wasn't busy. There were numerous unoccupied tables around the edge of the porch, their darkly lacquered wood shimmering like water in the strand of lights that ran across the roof and the railing. The place looked warm, cozy, with its moody shadows and wooden everything. The glass door that lead into the bar proper was propped open by a large, golden Buddha.
"That's... not what I expected." Dean remarked, and stepped off to cross the street, his hands tucked into his coat pockets.
"Not every bar is a club or a dive, you know." Sam commented, and caught up to walk beside him.
The bouncer at the bottom of the stairs was huge and hairy and carded them, stamped an unrecognizable symbol on the backs of their right hands. The whole thing was more formulated an exchange than Sam was used to, having not spent much of his college years drifting in and out of bars. He took the stairs two at a time - they were small - before he scanned the crowd, looking for something, or someone, that might look promising.
"Grab a table, I'll see if there's anyone inside."
And get you a beer, but that went unspoken.
Sam moved awkwardly to a table in the corner where he could watch the stairs and the sidewalk without putting his back to the outside, which was logically where any unspoken threat would show itself. The stools were decently sized and tall, like the tables, and a glass-encased candle flickered at his approach. He was mostly under one of the ceiling heaters, which was almost like being inside. The song playing softly from inside the bar was maybe indie and quiet enough to think over.
The people on the sidewalk didn't look up at him for the most part, and he didn't recognize anyone. There was an awful lot of foot traffic, though. Maybe it was just that sort of night, he didn't know.
Dean found him a minute and a half later and put something in a hurricane glass in front of him, the liquid inside a shade of neon blue, a slice of fruit clinging precariously to the lip of the glass. Sam frowned at it before he looked up at Dean's beer and outright scowled.
"I thought you were getting me a beer."
His brother shrugged. "The bartender must have heard me wrong."
"He thought you said you needed a drink for your sister?"
The smile Dean gave him was not even close to apologetic.
Sam eventually sipped the thing Dean had bought him and immediately didn't feel so bad about the color or the glass. Tequila and something sweet. He could deal with that. He shrugged, and his indifference stole Dean's fire a little, which was all the better.
They sat in silence while Sam watched the street and Dean watched the bar. The didn't need to go straight to the bartender for information, not when it was this slow, when they'd be remembered as more than the guys that tipped for nothing. For the moment, just listening was a good start.
The conversations around them were pretty ordinary. There was talk of some sort of table-top game not too far away, and a question about trivia night, and a comment that the massacre at Caffe Italia had to be the most terrible thing to happen in the city, ever. Sam picked up little bits of each conversation and logged away the speakers just in case he needed to ask the last person who or what they thought might have happened there and if the town had any violent history he hadn't found on the internet.
A car parked next to the Impala and a man and two women got out. One of them was Nichole, bundled in what looked like a snow jacket and furry boots and jeans. Her face was less red now that she wasn't crying. Her nose was pink from cold. The other woman was about an inch shorter than Nichole, with long brownish hair in a braid over the shoulder of her black peacoat, under which a pair of dark jeans and tennis shoes protruded. The man of the group was perhaps the oddball of the bunch, with obviously dyed red hair and black rimmed glasses, with little more than a thin, arty looking sweater and skin tight pants to keep out the cold.
"Well, that didn't take long." Dean mumbled, and drank from his beer like someone might take it away from him if the three got up the stairs before he was finished with it. "You really think they're going to know something we don't?"
Sam leaned down and sipped a little more of his drink and shrugged, straw still in his mouth. He pulled away before he spoke. "Probably not. Nichole has a pentacle though, might be a place to start."
They waited for the others to climb the stairs before they waved casually, like they hadn't been waiting. The three newcomers talked for a moment between them before everyone handed the red haired man money and he vanished into the bar. The remaining girls approached them slowly, Nichole in the lead. When she came to the stool on Dean's left she went one more and seated herself like she hadn't had a chance to rest all day.
"Hey, I wasn't sure you'd make it." Her voice was just a little creaky, but not hoarse. Her smile was hollow.
"We said we'd be here, so we came." Sam said, and tried to match her smile.
The girl with the braid sidled up to the stool between Nichole and Dean and sat down. Her expression was almost disinterested, her demeanor somewhat withdrawn, and she glanced at each of them without giving either a once over. Dean gave her one though, maybe because of the way the peacoat hugged her breasts. Sam sipped his drink and pretended like he hadn't noticed.
"Steph, this is Sam. And this is Dean. They're brothers." She said it like there was something really odd about that.
The girl with the braid looked at each of them again, her expression suddenly thoughtful. "You were Ada's friends, too?"
"Yeah." Dean said at once, twirling his beer between his fingers and stroking the neck of it without really paying attention to what he was doing. The way he cocked an eyebrow might have been a neon sign. And Sam had been stupid enough to think his brother had common sense. "Sweet girl. It's a shame what happened."
"How'd you meet her?" Stephanie asked Dean, because he was still staring at her.
"Oh, uh..." Dean floundered.
"Forum, I think. Long time ago." Sam lied. "You?"
"Writing." Stephanie said, and the table fell into silence. Just when it looked like Dean was going take the great leap from somewhat appropriate eye signals to entirely inappropriate and badly timed pick-up lines, the red haired man showed up again, carrying three drinks in his hands. Two were in champagne flutes, the last was a shot.
He deposited one champagne flute in front of Nichole and the other in front of Stephanie, and took the shot around behind Dean to the last remaining stool at the table. "Now, my lovelies," he had an accent reminiscent of Ireland or England or both, but it didn't matter, he lifted the shot and smiled and that his delicate features took on the expression like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be there, a complete juxtaposition to the women he'd come to the bar with. "To Ada. And Steph, you drink that mango Bellini or I will find some dark ritual to summon her ghost to haunt your excellent writing forever."
Stephanie picked up the drink, clinked it against the others (even Dean's beer, though that was mostly empty) and sipped it with absolutely no enthusiasm. Nichole's glass was as empty as the shot glass at the end of the toast.
Sam shared a look with his brother before he turned to the red haired man and furrowed his eyebrows. The lighting on that side of the table was warmer than he remembered, maybe a little brighter, and he had to fight not to become distracted by it. Why was that? He couldn't imagine. "So... I'm Sam, and this is my brother, Dean."
"Nice to meet you, Sam, Dean. I'm Arthur." The man replied, and offered each of them his hand to shake, all smiles.
"Arthur, huh? That's pretty funny." Dean said like it wasn't awkward.
Arthur narrowed his sea-green eyes at him and his wide mouth turned down in a frown. "What's funny? That my name is Arthur? It isn't Arthur Camelot and it isn't Arthur Dent, so stuff it. What's funny is that I didn't ask the two of you which one bottoms, now did I?" He made a face like the concept was absolutely scandalous and gently covered his mouth with his hand before he pulled it away and dismissed the idea with a wave. "Still haven't, by the way. Brothers are as brothers do, or whatever. How'd a prick like you befriend Ada?"
"Forum." Nichole said at once. "Or something."
Arthur nodded, "I suppose that makes sense."
Dean was still sitting there in quiet shock at being called a prick so early in an introduction. Sam was just about to laugh, really laugh, but if he did, the moment would be ruined.
"Well, yeah, it was a forum. Back when we were really into obscure gods and stuff." Dean recovered, which was good, because Sam hadn't yet, and likely wasn't going to any time soon. When had his drink become empty? He couldn't recall drinking that much. And it hadn't tasted that strong. Not... laugh at his brother and snort when he did it too hard, strong, that was for sure.
"That... doesn't seem true," Stephanie observed.
Nichole shrugged. "She...was always into that sort of crazy occult stuff, though. Anything from witchcraft to the Keys of Solomon to Wikipedia. Not sure she believed any of it, but she did love to talk about it."
That was a little important grain of information. "Any idea what her current obsession was?" Sam managed.
Arthur clapped him across the back and said, "Demon lore, I think. Did you want another drink? Four of us seem to be out of liquid courage."
When Sam shrugged, Dean didn't say anything. He just made a face like maybe he didn't know if that was the best idea in the world.
While Arthur was off procuring more drinks, Dean got down to business with Nichole and Stephanie, responsibility traveling swiftly from his downstairs brain to his upstairs one. He was a little rude when the two girls didn't have much to say about local legends, but Sam didn't stop him; Stephanie seemed to be quite oblivious to his awkward social cues and Nichole had enough of her own that it didn't really seem to matter that sometimes, Dean put his foot in his mouth and bit down. By the time the next round of drinks came back to the table the discussion had shifted away from Ada's interests and come to the topic of gods and ghosts and rituals, which everyone had an opinion on.
As it turned out, Sam had pegged Nichole right. She was Wiccan, and apparently the harmless kind of hedge-witch that did tarot readings on friends and relished in creation rather than the creator. It was well into her second Bellini that Dean got her to talk about pantheons and things of the like. By that point Steph had touched her flat drink a second time.
How it was that Sam was halfway through a second hurricane glass was beyond him, but that was alright. Dean was doing a fine job without him.
"There are a lot of under-appreciated legends out there, I think, stories about nymphs that used to be goddesses, spirits that used to be gods. They're still gods and goddesses, even if no one remembers them as such any more." Nichole said, and finished her drink like she needed it if she was going to keep on the topic, her lower lip unsteady.
"There's a theory that a god dies without worshipers." Sam offered, paying far more attention to his straw than to the words coming out of his mouth.
"Then how'd they get started? Unless gods are just human beliefs channeled into physical form?" Stephanie asked him, all sobriety and logic and hair and peacoat. The way she looked at him told Sam that he was somehow, after two little blue drinks, drunk. He wasn't ashamed of it, though. Rather, everything was fine, warm, bright, good, and Dean was getting to the heart of the issue without help at the moment. It wasn't like he was going to put anything together right now, sober, so it didn't bother him one tiny little bit to be drunk now.
Dean cleared his throat. "I guess you'd have to ask one."
"Ada always liked those legends that never made it into television shows..." Nichole started to sniffle and pressed at her eyes with her hands like that might hold back the tears, somehow. It didn't work.
Stephanie put a hand on her shoulders and started to rub. Arthur reached out and poured a little of his scotch into her champagne glass.
"I think we should call it a night. I'm... it's good we all came out for her, but I don't know how much more of this Nichole can handle." Stephanie almost whispered. She said it mostly to Dean. Maybe because he currently looked like the more responsible with only two beers under his belt.
The table agreed with her quietly and slowly, and she stood up, taking the taller girl by the arm. Arthur gathered up Nichole's discarded coat as well as the girls' purses before the inevitable finally occurred.
"So, Steph. If you don't mind me calling you Steph," Dean started, "Do you have a phone number?"
She blinked at him like he'd just asked her if she wore clothes or used a toilet or ate food. "No, I just yell really loudly, why?"
"Can I have it?"
Her head tilted to the side and the girl on her arm snorted a laugh. "Steph, Steph, Steph," Nichole patted her arm until she looked at her, frowning. "I think he's hitting on you." The words were a thunderous whisper.
"Oh." Was the response, and then Stephanie turned back to Dean with an apologetic expression. "I'm asexual and Nichole has a girlfriend - I should have said something when she introduced us. Sorry. Have a good night." And she walked away.
Arthur lingered for a moment, still holding the purses and the discarded coat, before he cocked an eyebrow and raked his eyes over Dean's form, a toothy smile overtaking his grin. Naked. He had just taken all of Dean's clothes off and put them back on with his eyes, and anyone paying even the tiniest bit of attention would have noticed. "You can have my number if you'd like, Muppet. Assuming you don't want to bring tall, dark, and gangly." He jerked his chin in Sam's direction like that made the insult somehow less direct.
"I'm good, thanks," Dean managed.
"So am I." Arthur promised him. "I don't mean to sound posh, but he's utterly steamed. Or, as my mother would say, langered. You'd really rather that than-"
"Dude. He's my brother." The words were all teeth and breath, like if Dean said them harshly enough, maybe they'd be taken as true.
The red haired man shrugged noncommittally and readjusted his burden, disbelief still obvious on his features. "Have a boring night, then, cowboy. Don't wank too hard, you might pull something."
Sam couldn't help it, the moment Arthur reached the steps, he laughed.
"You are drunk."
"I know! And you got turned down by an asexual and a lesbian. Not to mention... whatever that was."
If looks could kill, Sam was pretty sure he'd be coughing up blood about then, but Dean didn't currently possess that power. Instead, his brother kicked him under the table, hard, and stood up, adjusted his jacket so the collar stood up like James Dean's, and sighed. "C'mon. I've got stuff to do and you need to sleep this off."
"He called you cowboy."
"Get up, drunky. We're leaving."
"I'm fine. I promise. I am totally useful." Sam insisted with a wild, encompassing gesture, and nearly toppled over getting off of his stool. He'd forgotten how high it was. The room swam a little and he held on to the table in an effort not to take an involuntary step. Maybe he wasn't totally useful, more like... somewhat useful. And the face Dean was making at him, somewhere between amusement and pity, was almost funny and almost painful. "This is entirely your fault."
"Teach you to chug AMF's, I suppose. What the Hell did you do in college again?"
"Study." Sam said proudly, and pushed himself up so they could wobble-walk their way back to the car. He made it down the stairs fine, which was a little surprising, and across the street without much thought, either.
The car felt oddly like coming home. As soon as he was in the passenger seat, he wanted to close his eyes and fall asleep on the door, but there was something nagging at him, something important. Also, he was still getting more drunk. Somehow.
"What are you going to do while I sober up, then?" He asked Dean the moment the car door was open.
"Research."
-- -- --
Dean was having the sexiest dream of his life that involved all the wrong people when Sam's voice wrenched him away from a feathery fiesta of fantasy.
"You're not even a demon, you dick!" There was a sound like something wooden crashing, like false thunder, and then a very soft, very shameful, "Ow..."
That didn't sound like anything important, but Dean still opened his eyes and went for a weapon before he fully understood the words that had woken him. Demon? He blinked. There was salt on the nightstand, next to the whiskey, somewhere. By the time he became aware of himself, he was standing at the end of the bed, salt shaker in one hand, knife in the other, glaring at his brother for being defeated by a crappy chair and gravity. The wicker chair that had been next to the table was in three pieces, two of the legs broken off from the main seat.
"Demon?" Was all Dean said, before he sprinkled his fallen brother with an accidental wave of his hand.
"I... I must have fallen asleep at the computer. Sorry." Sam told him, and nearly tipped the table on himself using it to get up. When he was on his feet he gave a toothy, dishonest smile, and waved a hand dismissively. "It's fine. No demons."
"You said it wasn't a demon. I heard..." Dean looked down at his choice of weaponry before he awkwardly shoved the container of salt into Sam's chest. "Right, you fell asleep. That makes so much sense." He started to walk back toward the bed, and didn't even blink when his brother fumbled to catch the thing he'd handed him. Really, how dumb did Sam think he was? "So what priceless nugget of information did Lucy leave you with?"
"Lucy?"
Dean cracked his neck and yawned like his jaw wanted to dislocate itself. He put the knife on the edge of the nightstand and sank back on the mattress. "Lucifer. Don't pretend like I'm a moron."
Sam shifted on his feet before he picked up the laptop and swung it to the chair on the opposite side of the table, just as crappy and wicker as the one that was shattered all over the floor. "Dunno what you're talking about. I did find something, though."
"Alright, hit me with it." Dean let go of the truth easily enough. The game of charades they'd been playing at was likely failing them both, considering how they spent almost every hour of every day together, and rarely stopped paying attention long enough to let the little things slide. He knew that Sam was crazy and Sam knew that he could easily be qualified as an alcoholic, but that didn't mean they needed to sit down and talk about their problems right now. It meant they didn't have much time. It meant if they saved the world one last time, maybe it was time to think about retirement.
Not that hunters retired to anywhere but their grave beds. And maybe camera covered, condiment filled shacks.
Dean rubbed at his eyes for a moment before he got up to make coffee in the sad little pot by the bathroom. Motel coffee was never delicious, but he didn't taste much of anything anymore.
"A deity, maybe even more than one, judging how widespread the temperature drops have been. A sea god, if you have a look at the mythos of sea serpents and other such Leviathans." Sam was telling him, scrolling through something on the screen. He sounded.... different. Kind of flustered, even, like maybe he'd been having a hot dream before a vision of Satan had woken him and broken the chair. How'd that happen, anyway? "From there, it's somewhat difficult to distinguish one god from another unless we find some really specific information. But honestly, I don't know if we should."
"Why wouldn't we?"
"Because, if this guy is killing our enemies, shouldn't we just let him keep it up?"
The grounds for the coffee pot came in little individual ground packets, which was going to be very inconvenient when Sam wanted a cup, too, but there wasn't much to be done about it. Dean picked up the empty pot and took it into the bathroom for water. "It's killed one of them, for all we know it was a mistake or a lackey. We need to find it, talk to it, find out what it wants, what it's after."
"Ideas how to do that exactly?"
"Summon it?"
There was a sound like the laptop clicking closed. "We need a name, which we don't have."
Dean came back with the full pot of water, which he poured into the back of the coffee pot before he flipped the little thing on and waited. "Talk to people, find out if there's any local sea god legends?"
Sam pulled a face like he didn't like that idea one bit. "It's a college town. I'm pretty sure local legends died as soon as the university was built."
"You got any bright ideas, then? Or are you just gonna keep shooting mine down on principle?"
Sam almost, almost laughed, but he was so bad at it now the sound came out wrong, like it was a physical response and not an emotional one. At least his eyes managed to smile. "Sorry. Maybe we can get some information at that Thai bar tonight, find out if there are any pagans around, anyone that might know something about someone with the juice to wake up a god. Ask the right people the right questions, we might get something."
"And it's a bar," Dean smirked.
Sam's eyes didn't roll at the observation, maybe because he had become too numb to Dean's enthusiasm for alcohol and women in a single place. Maybe because he wouldn't mind going to a bar that night, even if it was for a job. "Otherwise, we wait for the next dead body to pop up."
That seemed easy enough, all things considered. And in the meantime, maybe, if he was careful, Dean would figure out what exactly was going on in Sam's head. "Sounds like a plan."
- - -
For a time, the two of them tried to put together exactly which god they might be dealing with, but they didn't have much to go on, all things considered. It was obvious that Dean wanted it to be Thor. There was something about a ridiculously muscular man with a very short, wide hammer that just did it for him, and Sam just couldn't help but chuckle at the idea. It was better than watching Dean obsess over Dick Roman, that was for sure. By the time dinner rolled around they weren't even the tiniest bit closer to being sure of what was around, but that didn't stop them from getting food this time.
They ate in the car, mostly because the burger place was packed on the inside and they'd spent more time in the motel than was comfortable. The food came in little cardboard boxes that Dean seemed to have never seen before, and tasted pretty amazing for fast food, but that might have been colored by the fact that they'd both skipped lunch.
Sam had gone for the plan old burger, simply because In-N-Out didn't offer salads. He watched Dean cram two whole patties of meat covered in cheese (extra onions) down his throat and tried not to shake his head. Fried chicken and bacon and a waffle for breakfast and a pound of beef for dinner. Really, Dean wasn't planning for retirement.
He was almost finished with his pile of fries when a familiar face appeared in the mirror behind him, frowning like maybe Lucifer had a headache. Sam wanted to turn and look right at him, to yell about that stupid trick he'd pulled, ask him what was wrong, have any number of semi-inappropriate reactions. But Dean was beside him, making love to a cheeseburger with his mouth. And they really didn't need to have another fight over what was illusion and what was reality.
"Don't look at me or he'll figure it out, Sam. Eat your fries." Lucifer didn't smile. Instead, he rubbed at his forehead for a moment and let out a long, drawn out sigh. "I swear I got the short end of the bargain, this time."
Sam picked up two fries and tried to eat them, but they turned to a paste in his mouth that he had no desire to swallow. He forced himself to. He turned his eyes away from Lucifer which was almost impossible at the moment. He wanted to will his thoughts into the Devil's head with his eyes.
"I know you haven't figured out who's here but you should keep your eyes open. The cafe isn't going to go unnoticed. The police will be out, the Leviathans will be out - who knows what else might come creeping into this town to find out what murdered a restaurant full of people. It isn't safe here. It won't be safe here. Not until the war is over."
Sam didn't know if he was supposed to acknowledge that he understood but he stopped eating and stared at the cardboard on his lap for a moment, at the pale fabric of the blue jeans he'd changed into when they'd left the motel for dinner. What was he doing? What was Lucifer doing? Warning him? He started to pull at a fraying thread on his kneecap and frowned.
"In the meantime," Lucifer continued. "Do try to think happy thoughts? You're giving me migraines."
The moment his eyes moved back to the side mirror, the back seat was empty. That didn't mean that he felt like finishing his fries, however.
"This whole town kind of freaks me out." Dean said suddenly, and Sam ripped the little thread out of his pants at the sound. His brother didn't look at him, just rolled up the paper his burger had come in and tucked it into the little cardboard box in the center console, looking at nothing. He waved a hand to encompass the line of cars winding like a wheeled centipede into the driveway. "Two blocks from here, twenty-six people are partially digested in a cafe, and this many people go out for burgers?"
"We're here." Sam shrugged.
"We know. We don't have a kitchen, either."
"It's the drive-thru?"
The older hunter rolled his eyes like that really wasn't an excuse but didn't try to articulate his point further. Instead, he turned the keys in the ignition and put the car in gear, like if he wasn't sitting there, watching the people get food and drive away, it wouldn't bother him. "What time's that Thai kitchen and bar thing for Ada's friends?"
"Nine."
Dean nodded. "Let's get there early. Gives us more time to mingle before we get stuck talking to some dead girl's friends for hours pretending to be grief counselors."
That wasn't the reason he wanted to get there early, but Sam wasn't going to call him on it, not yet. Not until it started to ruin the job. If that happened. "Yeah." Was all he said, and they drove off toward the E street like it was their number one priority. He didn't tell Dean anything about Lucifer's warning. It was common sense. And Dean had common sense, most of the time, when it didn't include hedonistic opportunities, but that was outside the spectrum of the night, Sam was sure. This job was too big to get distracted by a nice rack. They both had to see it that way, for once. Sex wasn't going to be an issue on this job.
They parked along the sidewalk, an hour early by Sam's watch, and got out to stand under a prematurely leafless tree in the streetlight. It was already dark, the temperature falling rapidly, to the point that when they breathed, vapor blossomed in front of their faces. Sophia's Thai Kitchen had a porch with stairs on the side, and a sign that enthusiastically spoke of their pad Thai and Long Island iced teas, and heaters stuck to the roof so the porch remained useful all season. It wasn't busy. There were numerous unoccupied tables around the edge of the porch, their darkly lacquered wood shimmering like water in the strand of lights that ran across the roof and the railing. The place looked warm, cozy, with its moody shadows and wooden everything. The glass door that lead into the bar proper was propped open by a large, golden Buddha.
"That's... not what I expected." Dean remarked, and stepped off to cross the street, his hands tucked into his coat pockets.
"Not every bar is a club or a dive, you know." Sam commented, and caught up to walk beside him.
The bouncer at the bottom of the stairs was huge and hairy and carded them, stamped an unrecognizable symbol on the backs of their right hands. The whole thing was more formulated an exchange than Sam was used to, having not spent much of his college years drifting in and out of bars. He took the stairs two at a time - they were small - before he scanned the crowd, looking for something, or someone, that might look promising.
"Grab a table, I'll see if there's anyone inside."
And get you a beer, but that went unspoken.
Sam moved awkwardly to a table in the corner where he could watch the stairs and the sidewalk without putting his back to the outside, which was logically where any unspoken threat would show itself. The stools were decently sized and tall, like the tables, and a glass-encased candle flickered at his approach. He was mostly under one of the ceiling heaters, which was almost like being inside. The song playing softly from inside the bar was maybe indie and quiet enough to think over.
The people on the sidewalk didn't look up at him for the most part, and he didn't recognize anyone. There was an awful lot of foot traffic, though. Maybe it was just that sort of night, he didn't know.
Dean found him a minute and a half later and put something in a hurricane glass in front of him, the liquid inside a shade of neon blue, a slice of fruit clinging precariously to the lip of the glass. Sam frowned at it before he looked up at Dean's beer and outright scowled.
"I thought you were getting me a beer."
His brother shrugged. "The bartender must have heard me wrong."
"He thought you said you needed a drink for your sister?"
The smile Dean gave him was not even close to apologetic.
Sam eventually sipped the thing Dean had bought him and immediately didn't feel so bad about the color or the glass. Tequila and something sweet. He could deal with that. He shrugged, and his indifference stole Dean's fire a little, which was all the better.
They sat in silence while Sam watched the street and Dean watched the bar. The didn't need to go straight to the bartender for information, not when it was this slow, when they'd be remembered as more than the guys that tipped for nothing. For the moment, just listening was a good start.
The conversations around them were pretty ordinary. There was talk of some sort of table-top game not too far away, and a question about trivia night, and a comment that the massacre at Caffe Italia had to be the most terrible thing to happen in the city, ever. Sam picked up little bits of each conversation and logged away the speakers just in case he needed to ask the last person who or what they thought might have happened there and if the town had any violent history he hadn't found on the internet.
A car parked next to the Impala and a man and two women got out. One of them was Nichole, bundled in what looked like a snow jacket and furry boots and jeans. Her face was less red now that she wasn't crying. Her nose was pink from cold. The other woman was about an inch shorter than Nichole, with long brownish hair in a braid over the shoulder of her black peacoat, under which a pair of dark jeans and tennis shoes protruded. The man of the group was perhaps the oddball of the bunch, with obviously dyed red hair and black rimmed glasses, with little more than a thin, arty looking sweater and skin tight pants to keep out the cold.
"Well, that didn't take long." Dean mumbled, and drank from his beer like someone might take it away from him if the three got up the stairs before he was finished with it. "You really think they're going to know something we don't?"
Sam leaned down and sipped a little more of his drink and shrugged, straw still in his mouth. He pulled away before he spoke. "Probably not. Nichole has a pentacle though, might be a place to start."
They waited for the others to climb the stairs before they waved casually, like they hadn't been waiting. The three newcomers talked for a moment between them before everyone handed the red haired man money and he vanished into the bar. The remaining girls approached them slowly, Nichole in the lead. When she came to the stool on Dean's left she went one more and seated herself like she hadn't had a chance to rest all day.
"Hey, I wasn't sure you'd make it." Her voice was just a little creaky, but not hoarse. Her smile was hollow.
"We said we'd be here, so we came." Sam said, and tried to match her smile.
The girl with the braid sidled up to the stool between Nichole and Dean and sat down. Her expression was almost disinterested, her demeanor somewhat withdrawn, and she glanced at each of them without giving either a once over. Dean gave her one though, maybe because of the way the peacoat hugged her breasts. Sam sipped his drink and pretended like he hadn't noticed.
"Steph, this is Sam. And this is Dean. They're brothers." She said it like there was something really odd about that.
The girl with the braid looked at each of them again, her expression suddenly thoughtful. "You were Ada's friends, too?"
"Yeah." Dean said at once, twirling his beer between his fingers and stroking the neck of it without really paying attention to what he was doing. The way he cocked an eyebrow might have been a neon sign. And Sam had been stupid enough to think his brother had common sense. "Sweet girl. It's a shame what happened."
"How'd you meet her?" Stephanie asked Dean, because he was still staring at her.
"Oh, uh..." Dean floundered.
"Forum, I think. Long time ago." Sam lied. "You?"
"Writing." Stephanie said, and the table fell into silence. Just when it looked like Dean was going take the great leap from somewhat appropriate eye signals to entirely inappropriate and badly timed pick-up lines, the red haired man showed up again, carrying three drinks in his hands. Two were in champagne flutes, the last was a shot.
He deposited one champagne flute in front of Nichole and the other in front of Stephanie, and took the shot around behind Dean to the last remaining stool at the table. "Now, my lovelies," he had an accent reminiscent of Ireland or England or both, but it didn't matter, he lifted the shot and smiled and that his delicate features took on the expression like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to be there, a complete juxtaposition to the women he'd come to the bar with. "To Ada. And Steph, you drink that mango Bellini or I will find some dark ritual to summon her ghost to haunt your excellent writing forever."
Stephanie picked up the drink, clinked it against the others (even Dean's beer, though that was mostly empty) and sipped it with absolutely no enthusiasm. Nichole's glass was as empty as the shot glass at the end of the toast.
Sam shared a look with his brother before he turned to the red haired man and furrowed his eyebrows. The lighting on that side of the table was warmer than he remembered, maybe a little brighter, and he had to fight not to become distracted by it. Why was that? He couldn't imagine. "So... I'm Sam, and this is my brother, Dean."
"Nice to meet you, Sam, Dean. I'm Arthur." The man replied, and offered each of them his hand to shake, all smiles.
"Arthur, huh? That's pretty funny." Dean said like it wasn't awkward.
Arthur narrowed his sea-green eyes at him and his wide mouth turned down in a frown. "What's funny? That my name is Arthur? It isn't Arthur Camelot and it isn't Arthur Dent, so stuff it. What's funny is that I didn't ask the two of you which one bottoms, now did I?" He made a face like the concept was absolutely scandalous and gently covered his mouth with his hand before he pulled it away and dismissed the idea with a wave. "Still haven't, by the way. Brothers are as brothers do, or whatever. How'd a prick like you befriend Ada?"
"Forum." Nichole said at once. "Or something."
Arthur nodded, "I suppose that makes sense."
Dean was still sitting there in quiet shock at being called a prick so early in an introduction. Sam was just about to laugh, really laugh, but if he did, the moment would be ruined.
"Well, yeah, it was a forum. Back when we were really into obscure gods and stuff." Dean recovered, which was good, because Sam hadn't yet, and likely wasn't going to any time soon. When had his drink become empty? He couldn't recall drinking that much. And it hadn't tasted that strong. Not... laugh at his brother and snort when he did it too hard, strong, that was for sure.
"That... doesn't seem true," Stephanie observed.
Nichole shrugged. "She...was always into that sort of crazy occult stuff, though. Anything from witchcraft to the Keys of Solomon to Wikipedia. Not sure she believed any of it, but she did love to talk about it."
That was a little important grain of information. "Any idea what her current obsession was?" Sam managed.
Arthur clapped him across the back and said, "Demon lore, I think. Did you want another drink? Four of us seem to be out of liquid courage."
When Sam shrugged, Dean didn't say anything. He just made a face like maybe he didn't know if that was the best idea in the world.
While Arthur was off procuring more drinks, Dean got down to business with Nichole and Stephanie, responsibility traveling swiftly from his downstairs brain to his upstairs one. He was a little rude when the two girls didn't have much to say about local legends, but Sam didn't stop him; Stephanie seemed to be quite oblivious to his awkward social cues and Nichole had enough of her own that it didn't really seem to matter that sometimes, Dean put his foot in his mouth and bit down. By the time the next round of drinks came back to the table the discussion had shifted away from Ada's interests and come to the topic of gods and ghosts and rituals, which everyone had an opinion on.
As it turned out, Sam had pegged Nichole right. She was Wiccan, and apparently the harmless kind of hedge-witch that did tarot readings on friends and relished in creation rather than the creator. It was well into her second Bellini that Dean got her to talk about pantheons and things of the like. By that point Steph had touched her flat drink a second time.
How it was that Sam was halfway through a second hurricane glass was beyond him, but that was alright. Dean was doing a fine job without him.
"There are a lot of under-appreciated legends out there, I think, stories about nymphs that used to be goddesses, spirits that used to be gods. They're still gods and goddesses, even if no one remembers them as such any more." Nichole said, and finished her drink like she needed it if she was going to keep on the topic, her lower lip unsteady.
"There's a theory that a god dies without worshipers." Sam offered, paying far more attention to his straw than to the words coming out of his mouth.
"Then how'd they get started? Unless gods are just human beliefs channeled into physical form?" Stephanie asked him, all sobriety and logic and hair and peacoat. The way she looked at him told Sam that he was somehow, after two little blue drinks, drunk. He wasn't ashamed of it, though. Rather, everything was fine, warm, bright, good, and Dean was getting to the heart of the issue without help at the moment. It wasn't like he was going to put anything together right now, sober, so it didn't bother him one tiny little bit to be drunk now.
Dean cleared his throat. "I guess you'd have to ask one."
"Ada always liked those legends that never made it into television shows..." Nichole started to sniffle and pressed at her eyes with her hands like that might hold back the tears, somehow. It didn't work.
Stephanie put a hand on her shoulders and started to rub. Arthur reached out and poured a little of his scotch into her champagne glass.
"I think we should call it a night. I'm... it's good we all came out for her, but I don't know how much more of this Nichole can handle." Stephanie almost whispered. She said it mostly to Dean. Maybe because he currently looked like the more responsible with only two beers under his belt.
The table agreed with her quietly and slowly, and she stood up, taking the taller girl by the arm. Arthur gathered up Nichole's discarded coat as well as the girls' purses before the inevitable finally occurred.
"So, Steph. If you don't mind me calling you Steph," Dean started, "Do you have a phone number?"
She blinked at him like he'd just asked her if she wore clothes or used a toilet or ate food. "No, I just yell really loudly, why?"
"Can I have it?"
Her head tilted to the side and the girl on her arm snorted a laugh. "Steph, Steph, Steph," Nichole patted her arm until she looked at her, frowning. "I think he's hitting on you." The words were a thunderous whisper.
"Oh." Was the response, and then Stephanie turned back to Dean with an apologetic expression. "I'm asexual and Nichole has a girlfriend - I should have said something when she introduced us. Sorry. Have a good night." And she walked away.
Arthur lingered for a moment, still holding the purses and the discarded coat, before he cocked an eyebrow and raked his eyes over Dean's form, a toothy smile overtaking his grin. Naked. He had just taken all of Dean's clothes off and put them back on with his eyes, and anyone paying even the tiniest bit of attention would have noticed. "You can have my number if you'd like, Muppet. Assuming you don't want to bring tall, dark, and gangly." He jerked his chin in Sam's direction like that made the insult somehow less direct.
"I'm good, thanks," Dean managed.
"So am I." Arthur promised him. "I don't mean to sound posh, but he's utterly steamed. Or, as my mother would say, langered. You'd really rather that than-"
"Dude. He's my brother." The words were all teeth and breath, like if Dean said them harshly enough, maybe they'd be taken as true.
The red haired man shrugged noncommittally and readjusted his burden, disbelief still obvious on his features. "Have a boring night, then, cowboy. Don't wank too hard, you might pull something."
Sam couldn't help it, the moment Arthur reached the steps, he laughed.
"You are drunk."
"I know! And you got turned down by an asexual and a lesbian. Not to mention... whatever that was."
If looks could kill, Sam was pretty sure he'd be coughing up blood about then, but Dean didn't currently possess that power. Instead, his brother kicked him under the table, hard, and stood up, adjusted his jacket so the collar stood up like James Dean's, and sighed. "C'mon. I've got stuff to do and you need to sleep this off."
"He called you cowboy."
"Get up, drunky. We're leaving."
"I'm fine. I promise. I am totally useful." Sam insisted with a wild, encompassing gesture, and nearly toppled over getting off of his stool. He'd forgotten how high it was. The room swam a little and he held on to the table in an effort not to take an involuntary step. Maybe he wasn't totally useful, more like... somewhat useful. And the face Dean was making at him, somewhere between amusement and pity, was almost funny and almost painful. "This is entirely your fault."
"Teach you to chug AMF's, I suppose. What the Hell did you do in college again?"
"Study." Sam said proudly, and pushed himself up so they could wobble-walk their way back to the car. He made it down the stairs fine, which was a little surprising, and across the street without much thought, either.
The car felt oddly like coming home. As soon as he was in the passenger seat, he wanted to close his eyes and fall asleep on the door, but there was something nagging at him, something important. Also, he was still getting more drunk. Somehow.
"What are you going to do while I sober up, then?" He asked Dean the moment the car door was open.
"Research."