Fic: Faithfully
Title: Faithfully
Author: brightly_lit
Recipient and Artist: mamapranayama
Fandoms: SPN/Psych crossover
Rating: PG for a teeny bit of language
Genre: gen, humor, resolution fic, case!fic (kinda), brother feels
Characters: Dean, Sam, Shawn, Gus, Lassiter, mention of Cain's bees
Word Count: ~3,400
Summary: Sam and Dean follow a lead on a possible werewolf case in Santa Barbara, where no one seems to be who they say they are at the local police department, especially that Shawn Spencer guy claiming to be a psychic ....
Written for the 3rd annual Spring Fic Exchange over at spn_bigpretzel. With fantastic art from mamapranayama!
Notes:
- Feel free to read even if you aren't familiar with Psych; I don't think it'll infringe on your enjoyment of the fic.
- Setting: late S9 for SPN (so I could have a little fun with Lassiter/Cain), early S2 for Psych (because that's all I've seen of Psych so far!).
- Setting a SPN fic in the latter half of S9 inevitably brings up Sam and Dean's relationship issues--I couldn't avoid addressing them, but a lighthearted fic also gave me an opportunity to handle them in a way that left me feeling happy--hopefully it'll do the same for you!
Sam and Dean, fed suits on, flashed their badges at the local police at the scene where a body was missing its heart. “Agents Cain and Perry,” Dean said gruffly, only to hear someone titter and start singing the chorus to “Any Way You Want It.” Shit. “Yes, yes,” Dean impatiently addressed the guy, whose buddy was now supplying the words for the verse. Lovely, some real ’80’s music afficionados here. “Hilarious. My partner and I were born with these names, and assigned to work together, so we get smart-asses like you making comments sometimes.”
“Really?” said the guy who tittered, looking between him and Sam intently. “Because I feel like you’re more ... brothers.”
Sam and Dean glanced at each other quickly. Sam utilized his impressive stature to try to intimidate the guy into backing off; he dwarfed the dude. “... And you are?” Sam said dangerously.
“I’m Shawn Spencer, head psychic for the Santa Barbara Police Department,” he told them proudly, and gestured to the guy who’d been singing along. “And this is my partner, Gus.”
“Really? Because I feel like you’re more brothers,” Dean said, weathering Sam’s disapproving stare, as Shawn was white and Gus was black, but Dean didn’t think he and Sam looked much more alike than those two wiseasses, so how did he figure out he and Sam were brothers?
Shawn displayed a troubling failure to be intimidated. “We are like brothers,” he conceded, without missing a beat. “Best friends since we were kids, know everything about each other. Just like you.” He beamed impishly at Dean, who turned his back to him to confer with Sam.
“What’s with this guy?” Dean hissed, disturbed.
Sam didn’t seem to find anything amiss. “He’s psychic. Could be useful.”
“He’s not psychic!” Dean protested. “Missouri and Pamela wouldn’t have just looked at us and popped out with something like that. Besides, he wasn’t looking into the beyond; he was looking right at us! At ... our feet. I’m tellin’ you, Sam, something doesn’t feel right. I think this guy’s gonna be trouble.”
“You probably think that because you and he are so much alike,” Sam said mildly, pretending he didn’t expect outrage from Dean at this little bombshell. “And you’re trouble.”
Dean didn’t miss Sam’s slight smirk as he went to talk more to the so-called psychic. Whatever. At least he was keeping that joker out of his way so he could get more information on the case. Dean went up to one of the other cops on the scene and flashed his badge. “What’ve you guys got so far?”
The guy turned around, and Dean staggered back a step. “C--Cain!”
Cain seemed confused. “Cane of what?” he asked, his voice clipped. He looked Dean up and down, but showed no sign of recognition.
Dean took in Cain’s suit, his gun. “I thought you gave up killing!”
Cain lifted his chin, turning all the way to face him. “I use exactly the amount of force that’s necessary and appropriate,” he insisted sternly.
“But--where’d you put the bees?” Dean choked out.
The man frowned deeper. He did look different--different-colored hair, no beard, but Dean could swear it was the same man. Cain drew himself up and flashed his own badge. “I’m Detective Carlton Lassiter, head detective for the Santa Barbara police department. And you are ...?”
After another few seconds of staring, Dean fumbled for his own badge. “Uh--uh-- Agent, uh ... Cain, actually. Really. Uh, FBI.”
Cain/Lassiter frowned. “Why is the FBI interested in this case? I can assure you, we have it well under control.” God, the voice was even the same.
Why was Cain hiding out in such a public position? And why was he keeping up this act? Maybe he didn’t remember Dean? Maybe to a guy that old, faces started running together. Dean unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his sleeve, surreptitiously flashing his Mark of Cain. Cain’s eyes dropped to it and raised back to Dean’s face, frown somehow deepening even further, though Dean would have believed it would be impossible for anyone to frown more than this guy did with his resting expression. Again, he showed no sign of recognition.
Then Sam was there, catching Dean by the shoulder on the way by and dragging him to an unpopulated corner. “You’re right, the so-called psychic’s lying,” Sam said shortly. “And not just to us; he’s lying to the whole department. I’ll take care of him tonight. You got anything?”
“Th-that’s Cain!” Dean said, pointing at the detective, who was now discussing evidence with his partner, a short blonde woman.
“Cain’s a police officer?” Sam asked incredulously.
“He is now, I guess,” said Dean.
“Well--what’s he doing on this case?” Sam asked, even more bewildered.
“I--I don’t know.”
“Well, did he say anything to you?!”
“No, he ... he doesn’t seem to recognize me. I mean, he looks a little different, but I swear it’s the same guy.”
“Huh.” Sam observed Lassiter for a while. “Maybe just a lookalike. It happens.”
“Shifter?”
“Maybe. If the ‘head psychic’ and the head detective aren’t who they say they are, anyone here may be involved.” They both paranoidly eyed all the CSI people and police milling around. “Let’s get a hotel and I’ll see if I can crack into their database with my laptop, or at least figure out who this guy really is.”
Sam couldn’t get anywhere with his laptop, so after lunch, they split up. Dean dropped Sam off at the police department so he could follow up with Cain, then Dean tailed Shawn and Gus in their ridiculously tiny blue car. They went to a somewhat run-down house by the beach and went inside, while Dean snuck into the backyard and camped out by the back screen door to listen.
“Where’s your dad?” Gus asked.
“I dunno. I just really wanted some Cheetos, and I figured he’d have some,” Shawn said. Dean made a face to himself. He comes all this way just for some Cheetos?? Why didn’t he go to the store? There was the sound of rummaging, then: “No Cheetos!” Shawn whined. Dean shook his head in disgust. What kind of man would go to so much trouble just for some junk food he shouldn’t be eating, anyway? Ridiculous. Reminded, Dean took out his cell phone and texted Sam: BURGERS FOR DINNER. DON’T FORGET FRIES. WITH CHEESE. CHILI IF THEY HAVE IT.
“Why do you think they’re brothers?”
“Body language is too familiar. Nothing either of them says surprises the other. Did you see their shoes? No FBI agent would wear shoes like that, but they were the same cheap brand, so they’re wearing what they think looks like what the people they’re playing would wear, not what they would actually wear. Socks, too. And the cuffs of their pants were dirty, like they haven’t had those suits cleaned in a loooong time. They live together, probably on the road, probably always have. Even their mannerisms are the same.” Dean heard a cabinet close, and Shawn tsked, outraged. “No fruit roll-ups, either?! What does this man eat?!”
“So why are they on this case?” Gus asked. “Who are they?”
“Don’t know ...,” Shawn said, distracted, still rummaging, “but I don’t think they’ll be any trouble. They aren’t cops, and they aren’t psychics, so there isn’t any chance they’ll solve this case before I do. Bingo! Dad had some Planter’s Cheez Balls hiding in the very back! I KNEW I caught a glimpse of the container the last time Dad opened the cabinet! Want some, Gus?”
“Um, no, since they quit making those eight years ago, Shawn. There’s petitions online to bring them back. Even signed one myself, but they aren’t going to work; it wouldn’t be a cost-effective decision for the company, now that they’ve already shut down production.” Dean shook his head, chortling to himself. What a nerd, trotting out the statistics, just like Sam.
Dean heard the sound of crunching. “Still taste pretty good,” Shawn said, then a gagging cough belied the statement.
“I can smell the stale from here, Shawn,” Gus said disapprovingly--just like Sam would.
More crunching. “I just wonder why they’re saying they’re FBI. Kinda risky, impersonating a government agent, especially around Lassie.”
“You gonna turn ’em in?” Gus asked, and Dean tensed.
“Nah,” said Shawn. Crunching. “God, these are stale. Nah, I think they’re gonna be fun. Besides, whatever leads Lassie and Julie have, Winger don’t seem interested in.” Dean, just beginning to relax, tensed again. Winger! “I’d rather follow them around and see what they’re finding out.”
Dean took this as his cue to beat it the hell out of there, because Shawn and Gus were about to go look for his car, and if Shawn was as observant as he seemed, they would soon find it parked just around the corner. Dean sped away, texting Sam again: CHEESE PUFFS IF YOU’RE GOING TO THE STORE.
“Well, it isn’t Cain,” Sam told him when he picked him up. He had a burger waiting for Dean--no fries. Could Sam get any more passive-aggressive lately? He’d even been to the store and did not bring cheese puffs, though he bought himself some of his rabbit food--fruit, mostly, a bunch of strawberries and blueberries, even some pineapple. “His employment records at the Santa Barbara P.D. predate your meeting Cain by a few years. He’s also not a shifter--I saw him, um, handling something silver, and he wasn’t bothered.”
“And you’re sure it was silver?”
“Yeah, I checked, when he, um, left ’em on his desk to go talk to the chief. Sterling.”
“Why? What were they?”
“Um ... earrings.”
“What was he doing with them? Were they evidence?”
“No, he, uh ... when he thought no one was looking, he put one in and checked himself out in a little mirror. He said something to his partner earlier about finding a new style now that he’s ‘back on the market’--I dunno.”
Dean started giggling. The idea of Cain surreptitiously putting in earrings .... “When was the last time a single silver earring was cool? 1983?”
Sam couldn’t hide his smirk, even though he was, bafflingly, trying to be mature about this. Sam just didn’t know how to have fun. “So, um ... anyway, he must just be a lookalike. What’d you find on the ‘psychic’?”
“Just a really observant guy. By the way, he’s totally onto us. And, he and his buddy plan on following us around to see what we find, so ... I guess I should drive around doing boring stuff while you do the real work, take ’em on a wild goose chase. It’s not like I can miss their laser-blue car.”
“Not like they can miss yours, either,” Sam murmured. Passive-aggressive. “’Kay. I’ll hit the morgue, get a look at the body. Drop me off in the back so they don’t see we’ve split up.”
“Great. I’ll go get myself some cheese balls,” Dean said pointedly. Sam didn’t rise to the bait. He never did.
When Dean emerged from the grocery store, he noticed the blue car was no longer in the parking lot. “Shit,” Dean muttered, stuffing some cheese balls in his mouth, and texted Sam: LOST THEM. THEY MAY FIND YOU.
Sam texted back within a minute: ALREADY DID.
There was a sudden knock at Dean’s window, and he started. It was Shawn, grinning in at him. “Hey, ‘Agent.’ ’Sup?” He hurried around the car to the passenger side and got in, ignoring Dean’s protests. “Let’s work together! I noticed you were following up on some different leads than my good buddies down at the P.D.--that’s ‘police department’ in cop lingo--I figured you might not know since you’re not real cops.”
“Just like you’re not a real psychic,” Dean noted dangerously. This could actually work to his and Sam’s advantage--they could get the inside dirt on whatever the cops had and use this guy’s powers of observation, too.
“My powers work in mysterious ways ...,” Shawn intoned, interrupted by Dean’s snort.
“Give it up. My brother and I have worked with plenty of psychics--REAL psychics, and you ain’t one of ’em. What do you got, a photographic memory or something?”
“Nope; just a psycho father who made me do things no child should have to do and turned me into the monster you see today.” He gestured to himself, grinning irrepressibly.
“Like lookin’ into a mirror,” Dean muttered. “So, seriously, though, whaddya got on this case? Because Cai--er, ‘Lassiter’ won’t let me near it.”
“Lassie? Yeah, that’s standard. He tries to do the same thing to me. Don’t sweat it; your bro and my bro are at the morgue, gettin’ a gander at the body. Let’s go! I love the smell of formaldehyde in the morning.”
“It’s afternoon,” Dean noted gruffly.
“It’s even better in the afternoon; takes on a certain pungency ....”
Dean shook his head and grumbled under his breath, but headed for the morgue. It might be easier to get in if someone who officially worked for the local police was with them.
“So, big Journey fan?” Shawn asked knowingly.
“They have some good songs, okay?” Dean said defensively. Shawn grabbed Dean’s shoebox full of tapes and started riffling through it. “Hey!” Dean protested, to no avail.
Shawn tsked. “What, no D-squared? No T-squared? No T-F-squared? No U-squared--I mean, U2?” Dismissively, he tossed the box into the back seat. He gazed silently out the window for only maybe three seconds before he abruptly began yowling nonsense words at top volume. Dean soon recognized the tune of the final, poignant few lines of “Faithfully.” Already in a high register in the original song, Shawn kicked it up a few keys. “FAITHFULLYYYY!” Shawn finished dramatically, drawing out the final note, air-conducting his imaginary band to the song’s conclusion, all while Dean scowled furiously.
“I see why Cain is the way he is,” he growled.
At the morgue, Sam and Gus were happily arguing about quarks. Sam was even smiling. Dean made a mental note to make sure Sam got some time talking to other geeks; maybe geeks formed pods and needed some time with fellow geeks or something, and Sam was suffering from a lack of it. Maybe that was what was wrong with him lately. They all went in and looked at the body. Sam and Dean glanced at each other. It was a werewolf attack, all right.
“But why would somebody cut out a heart?” Gus asked.
“They didn’t cut it out; they ate it out,” Shawn said, uncharacteristically focused, looking intently at the wounds on the body. “It was an animal, like ... like a wolf, but a wolf wouldn’t be strong enough to break through a human ribcage that fast on its own, so ... bear? Are there bears in Santa Barbara?” Gus looked around and behind him fearfully.
Meanwhile, Sam and Dean, having lost interest in the body now that they’d confirmed it was really a werewolf, were flipping through the coroner’s notes. “Where was the body found?” Sam asked with his usual efficiently.
“Right downtown,” Shawn answered.
“Can you take us there?”
Because Shawn and Gus knew Santa Barbara far better than Sam and Dean, they decided to take one from each pair in each car. Dean and Shawn, who rode in the Impala, both burst out laughing as Gus pulled up with Sam in the passenger seat, his knees in his armpits. As Sam clambered out with extreme difficulty, Dean and Shawn both tried and failed to smother their laughter. Ahh ... that was a sight Dean would not soon forget ... or let Sam forget. He couldn’t suppress his titters even as they were examining the crime scene.
“What’s the Super-Sniffer say?” Shawn asked Gus. “Smell any bear?”
Gus sniffed the air. “I don’t know. What’s bear smell like?”
“Like wet dog, only with a heavy musk,” Shawn answered.
“Like you know, Shawn,” Gus said irritably, still sniffing trepidatiously.
Dean realized Shawn and Gus had suddenly become liabilities rather than helpers. It was getting toward evening, and it was still the week of the full moon. Sam and Dean would have to try to keep them safe when they should be putting all their energy toward finding and killing the werewolf. Shawn was still looking for bears; these civilians didn’t believe in the supernatural, so all of Shawn’s observational skills would be useless, since he couldn’t help them find the kind of clues they were actually looking for.
“That’s weird,” Shawn said suddenly, staring at a nearby wall. Dean and Sam followed his gaze. Deep scratches all the way down.
“The bear must have come from there,” Dean said. “We’ll check it out; you go home.”
“It didn’t, though,” said Shawn, his eyes roving over the entire area. “First it was over there, and then there ....” They followed the trail of scratches and pawprints--some of which were far too minute or marred for Sam and Dean to have been able to use for tracking, although Shawn noticed them instantly--to a small house behind a park. Sam and Dean smiled at each other grimly.
A giant brown dog suddenly jumped up in the window and started howling and barking at them. “THE BEAR!” Shawn cried, pointing. Gus screamed hysterically, turned and ran through the park at top speed, back the way they came, screaming at a remarkably high pitch and volume all the way, Shawn right on his heels.
After watching them go with bemusement, Sam and Dean looked at each other, taking out their guns and making sure the magazines were loaded with silver bullets. “Kinda looks more like a lion to me,” Dean said, starting their close in on the house.
“It’s a Tibetan mastiff. They actually put that breed of dog on display at a Chinese zoo and tried to pass it off as a lion.”
Dean chuckled, and not just at the idea of some dog sitting in the middle of a big lion enclosure, barking and pissing off zoo patrons. No, he also chuckled because, what a nerd, trotting out the statistics from the news, just like Gus.
“Shawn’s a pain in the ass,” Sam remarked as they got in the Impala and headed out, now that the werewolf was no longer going to be hunting the fine citizens of Santa Barbara. The werewolf had actually turned right in front of them, so there could be no doubt.
“Yes, he is,” Dean agreed with feeling.
“We could never have found that house on our own, though, at least not before the full moon was over.”
“... And Cain would probably have blown our cover by then. But it’s not like Shawn knew what it was or took care of it. He’s gonna take credit for solving the case when his big contribution was running away like a little sissy. He doesn’t even know the words to the last line of ‘Faithfully’!” Dean complained.
“By ... Journey?” Sam asked after a minute, clearly thrown by the sudden change of subject.
“Yeah, he was just singing nonsense!”
“It ... is nonsense. There are no words; he’s just singing.”
“Nuh-uh!”
“Then what are the words?” Sam said, a small smirk dawning on his face.
“They’re ... well, he says, um .... Well, I don’t know, but he’s sayin’ somethin’!” Dean growled.
Now Sam was laughing at him.
“I am not a geek!” Dean insisted shrilly. “They have some good songs!”
“I didn’t say anything,” Sam said, turning his now-wide grin to the window, to hide it from Dean.
“You didn’t have to!”
Dean hummed the tune to that part very softly--hopefully too softly for Sam to hear--to try to remember the words, but a couple of irrepressible snorts coming out of Sam put an end to that. “It’s in my head!” Dean defended. “He sang the whole thing! Really loud, too. Seriously, he’s such a pain in the ass. I don’t know why Gus sticks around and takes his crap.”
Sam shrugged. “I dunno. They’ve been together all their lives, know each other inside and out. I guess he must really love him, in spite of everything.”
Dean glanced at Sam, who continued looking out the windshield diffidently. A smile slowly dawned on Dean’s face. He grabbed the box of tapes out of the back seat and started rummaging. There had to be something in here that Sam really liked. “Guess so.”
~ The End ~
End Notes:
- I had to do the Psych crossover prompt, because I've just been getting into and greatly enjoying Psych. It was a delight to cover all the parallels between the characters on both shows, especially Shawn, Gus and Dean's love of '80's music--AND MINE, TOO!!!
- If anyone can name ALL the referenced bands in the "No D-squared?" section, I will write you a celebratory/congratulatory drabble!
- And, all hail Jonathan Cain of Journey, brilliant songwriter and sweet human being.
Author: brightly_lit
Recipient and Artist: mamapranayama
Fandoms: SPN/Psych crossover
Rating: PG for a teeny bit of language
Genre: gen, humor, resolution fic, case!fic (kinda), brother feels
Characters: Dean, Sam, Shawn, Gus, Lassiter, mention of Cain's bees
Word Count: ~3,400
Summary: Sam and Dean follow a lead on a possible werewolf case in Santa Barbara, where no one seems to be who they say they are at the local police department, especially that Shawn Spencer guy claiming to be a psychic ....
Written for the 3rd annual Spring Fic Exchange over at spn_bigpretzel. With fantastic art from mamapranayama!
Notes:
- Feel free to read even if you aren't familiar with Psych; I don't think it'll infringe on your enjoyment of the fic.
- Setting: late S9 for SPN (so I could have a little fun with Lassiter/Cain), early S2 for Psych (because that's all I've seen of Psych so far!).
- Setting a SPN fic in the latter half of S9 inevitably brings up Sam and Dean's relationship issues--I couldn't avoid addressing them, but a lighthearted fic also gave me an opportunity to handle them in a way that left me feeling happy--hopefully it'll do the same for you!
Sam and Dean, fed suits on, flashed their badges at the local police at the scene where a body was missing its heart. “Agents Cain and Perry,” Dean said gruffly, only to hear someone titter and start singing the chorus to “Any Way You Want It.” Shit. “Yes, yes,” Dean impatiently addressed the guy, whose buddy was now supplying the words for the verse. Lovely, some real ’80’s music afficionados here. “Hilarious. My partner and I were born with these names, and assigned to work together, so we get smart-asses like you making comments sometimes.”
“Really?” said the guy who tittered, looking between him and Sam intently. “Because I feel like you’re more ... brothers.”
Sam and Dean glanced at each other quickly. Sam utilized his impressive stature to try to intimidate the guy into backing off; he dwarfed the dude. “... And you are?” Sam said dangerously.
“I’m Shawn Spencer, head psychic for the Santa Barbara Police Department,” he told them proudly, and gestured to the guy who’d been singing along. “And this is my partner, Gus.”
“Really? Because I feel like you’re more brothers,” Dean said, weathering Sam’s disapproving stare, as Shawn was white and Gus was black, but Dean didn’t think he and Sam looked much more alike than those two wiseasses, so how did he figure out he and Sam were brothers?
Shawn displayed a troubling failure to be intimidated. “We are like brothers,” he conceded, without missing a beat. “Best friends since we were kids, know everything about each other. Just like you.” He beamed impishly at Dean, who turned his back to him to confer with Sam.
“What’s with this guy?” Dean hissed, disturbed.
Sam didn’t seem to find anything amiss. “He’s psychic. Could be useful.”
“He’s not psychic!” Dean protested. “Missouri and Pamela wouldn’t have just looked at us and popped out with something like that. Besides, he wasn’t looking into the beyond; he was looking right at us! At ... our feet. I’m tellin’ you, Sam, something doesn’t feel right. I think this guy’s gonna be trouble.”
“You probably think that because you and he are so much alike,” Sam said mildly, pretending he didn’t expect outrage from Dean at this little bombshell. “And you’re trouble.”
Dean didn’t miss Sam’s slight smirk as he went to talk more to the so-called psychic. Whatever. At least he was keeping that joker out of his way so he could get more information on the case. Dean went up to one of the other cops on the scene and flashed his badge. “What’ve you guys got so far?”
The guy turned around, and Dean staggered back a step. “C--Cain!”
Cain seemed confused. “Cane of what?” he asked, his voice clipped. He looked Dean up and down, but showed no sign of recognition.
Dean took in Cain’s suit, his gun. “I thought you gave up killing!”
Cain lifted his chin, turning all the way to face him. “I use exactly the amount of force that’s necessary and appropriate,” he insisted sternly.
“But--where’d you put the bees?” Dean choked out.
The man frowned deeper. He did look different--different-colored hair, no beard, but Dean could swear it was the same man. Cain drew himself up and flashed his own badge. “I’m Detective Carlton Lassiter, head detective for the Santa Barbara police department. And you are ...?”
After another few seconds of staring, Dean fumbled for his own badge. “Uh--uh-- Agent, uh ... Cain, actually. Really. Uh, FBI.”
Cain/Lassiter frowned. “Why is the FBI interested in this case? I can assure you, we have it well under control.” God, the voice was even the same.
Why was Cain hiding out in such a public position? And why was he keeping up this act? Maybe he didn’t remember Dean? Maybe to a guy that old, faces started running together. Dean unbuttoned his cuff and rolled up his sleeve, surreptitiously flashing his Mark of Cain. Cain’s eyes dropped to it and raised back to Dean’s face, frown somehow deepening even further, though Dean would have believed it would be impossible for anyone to frown more than this guy did with his resting expression. Again, he showed no sign of recognition.
Then Sam was there, catching Dean by the shoulder on the way by and dragging him to an unpopulated corner. “You’re right, the so-called psychic’s lying,” Sam said shortly. “And not just to us; he’s lying to the whole department. I’ll take care of him tonight. You got anything?”
“Th-that’s Cain!” Dean said, pointing at the detective, who was now discussing evidence with his partner, a short blonde woman.
“Cain’s a police officer?” Sam asked incredulously.
“He is now, I guess,” said Dean.
“Well--what’s he doing on this case?” Sam asked, even more bewildered.
“I--I don’t know.”
“Well, did he say anything to you?!”
“No, he ... he doesn’t seem to recognize me. I mean, he looks a little different, but I swear it’s the same guy.”
“Huh.” Sam observed Lassiter for a while. “Maybe just a lookalike. It happens.”
“Shifter?”
“Maybe. If the ‘head psychic’ and the head detective aren’t who they say they are, anyone here may be involved.” They both paranoidly eyed all the CSI people and police milling around. “Let’s get a hotel and I’ll see if I can crack into their database with my laptop, or at least figure out who this guy really is.”
Sam couldn’t get anywhere with his laptop, so after lunch, they split up. Dean dropped Sam off at the police department so he could follow up with Cain, then Dean tailed Shawn and Gus in their ridiculously tiny blue car. They went to a somewhat run-down house by the beach and went inside, while Dean snuck into the backyard and camped out by the back screen door to listen.
“Where’s your dad?” Gus asked.
“I dunno. I just really wanted some Cheetos, and I figured he’d have some,” Shawn said. Dean made a face to himself. He comes all this way just for some Cheetos?? Why didn’t he go to the store? There was the sound of rummaging, then: “No Cheetos!” Shawn whined. Dean shook his head in disgust. What kind of man would go to so much trouble just for some junk food he shouldn’t be eating, anyway? Ridiculous. Reminded, Dean took out his cell phone and texted Sam: BURGERS FOR DINNER. DON’T FORGET FRIES. WITH CHEESE. CHILI IF THEY HAVE IT.
“Why do you think they’re brothers?”
“Body language is too familiar. Nothing either of them says surprises the other. Did you see their shoes? No FBI agent would wear shoes like that, but they were the same cheap brand, so they’re wearing what they think looks like what the people they’re playing would wear, not what they would actually wear. Socks, too. And the cuffs of their pants were dirty, like they haven’t had those suits cleaned in a loooong time. They live together, probably on the road, probably always have. Even their mannerisms are the same.” Dean heard a cabinet close, and Shawn tsked, outraged. “No fruit roll-ups, either?! What does this man eat?!”
“So why are they on this case?” Gus asked. “Who are they?”
“Don’t know ...,” Shawn said, distracted, still rummaging, “but I don’t think they’ll be any trouble. They aren’t cops, and they aren’t psychics, so there isn’t any chance they’ll solve this case before I do. Bingo! Dad had some Planter’s Cheez Balls hiding in the very back! I KNEW I caught a glimpse of the container the last time Dad opened the cabinet! Want some, Gus?”
“Um, no, since they quit making those eight years ago, Shawn. There’s petitions online to bring them back. Even signed one myself, but they aren’t going to work; it wouldn’t be a cost-effective decision for the company, now that they’ve already shut down production.” Dean shook his head, chortling to himself. What a nerd, trotting out the statistics, just like Sam.
Dean heard the sound of crunching. “Still taste pretty good,” Shawn said, then a gagging cough belied the statement.
“I can smell the stale from here, Shawn,” Gus said disapprovingly--just like Sam would.
More crunching. “I just wonder why they’re saying they’re FBI. Kinda risky, impersonating a government agent, especially around Lassie.”
“You gonna turn ’em in?” Gus asked, and Dean tensed.
“Nah,” said Shawn. Crunching. “God, these are stale. Nah, I think they’re gonna be fun. Besides, whatever leads Lassie and Julie have, Winger don’t seem interested in.” Dean, just beginning to relax, tensed again. Winger! “I’d rather follow them around and see what they’re finding out.”
Dean took this as his cue to beat it the hell out of there, because Shawn and Gus were about to go look for his car, and if Shawn was as observant as he seemed, they would soon find it parked just around the corner. Dean sped away, texting Sam again: CHEESE PUFFS IF YOU’RE GOING TO THE STORE.
“Well, it isn’t Cain,” Sam told him when he picked him up. He had a burger waiting for Dean--no fries. Could Sam get any more passive-aggressive lately? He’d even been to the store and did not bring cheese puffs, though he bought himself some of his rabbit food--fruit, mostly, a bunch of strawberries and blueberries, even some pineapple. “His employment records at the Santa Barbara P.D. predate your meeting Cain by a few years. He’s also not a shifter--I saw him, um, handling something silver, and he wasn’t bothered.”
“And you’re sure it was silver?”
“Yeah, I checked, when he, um, left ’em on his desk to go talk to the chief. Sterling.”
“Why? What were they?”
“Um ... earrings.”
“What was he doing with them? Were they evidence?”
“No, he, uh ... when he thought no one was looking, he put one in and checked himself out in a little mirror. He said something to his partner earlier about finding a new style now that he’s ‘back on the market’--I dunno.”
Dean started giggling. The idea of Cain surreptitiously putting in earrings .... “When was the last time a single silver earring was cool? 1983?”
Sam couldn’t hide his smirk, even though he was, bafflingly, trying to be mature about this. Sam just didn’t know how to have fun. “So, um ... anyway, he must just be a lookalike. What’d you find on the ‘psychic’?”
“Just a really observant guy. By the way, he’s totally onto us. And, he and his buddy plan on following us around to see what we find, so ... I guess I should drive around doing boring stuff while you do the real work, take ’em on a wild goose chase. It’s not like I can miss their laser-blue car.”
“Not like they can miss yours, either,” Sam murmured. Passive-aggressive. “’Kay. I’ll hit the morgue, get a look at the body. Drop me off in the back so they don’t see we’ve split up.”
“Great. I’ll go get myself some cheese balls,” Dean said pointedly. Sam didn’t rise to the bait. He never did.
When Dean emerged from the grocery store, he noticed the blue car was no longer in the parking lot. “Shit,” Dean muttered, stuffing some cheese balls in his mouth, and texted Sam: LOST THEM. THEY MAY FIND YOU.
Sam texted back within a minute: ALREADY DID.
There was a sudden knock at Dean’s window, and he started. It was Shawn, grinning in at him. “Hey, ‘Agent.’ ’Sup?” He hurried around the car to the passenger side and got in, ignoring Dean’s protests. “Let’s work together! I noticed you were following up on some different leads than my good buddies down at the P.D.--that’s ‘police department’ in cop lingo--I figured you might not know since you’re not real cops.”
“Just like you’re not a real psychic,” Dean noted dangerously. This could actually work to his and Sam’s advantage--they could get the inside dirt on whatever the cops had and use this guy’s powers of observation, too.
“My powers work in mysterious ways ...,” Shawn intoned, interrupted by Dean’s snort.
“Give it up. My brother and I have worked with plenty of psychics--REAL psychics, and you ain’t one of ’em. What do you got, a photographic memory or something?”
“Nope; just a psycho father who made me do things no child should have to do and turned me into the monster you see today.” He gestured to himself, grinning irrepressibly.
“Like lookin’ into a mirror,” Dean muttered. “So, seriously, though, whaddya got on this case? Because Cai--er, ‘Lassiter’ won’t let me near it.”
“Lassie? Yeah, that’s standard. He tries to do the same thing to me. Don’t sweat it; your bro and my bro are at the morgue, gettin’ a gander at the body. Let’s go! I love the smell of formaldehyde in the morning.”
“It’s afternoon,” Dean noted gruffly.
“It’s even better in the afternoon; takes on a certain pungency ....”
Dean shook his head and grumbled under his breath, but headed for the morgue. It might be easier to get in if someone who officially worked for the local police was with them.
“So, big Journey fan?” Shawn asked knowingly.
“They have some good songs, okay?” Dean said defensively. Shawn grabbed Dean’s shoebox full of tapes and started riffling through it. “Hey!” Dean protested, to no avail.
Shawn tsked. “What, no D-squared? No T-squared? No T-F-squared? No U-squared--I mean, U2?” Dismissively, he tossed the box into the back seat. He gazed silently out the window for only maybe three seconds before he abruptly began yowling nonsense words at top volume. Dean soon recognized the tune of the final, poignant few lines of “Faithfully.” Already in a high register in the original song, Shawn kicked it up a few keys. “FAITHFULLYYYY!” Shawn finished dramatically, drawing out the final note, air-conducting his imaginary band to the song’s conclusion, all while Dean scowled furiously.
“I see why Cain is the way he is,” he growled.
At the morgue, Sam and Gus were happily arguing about quarks. Sam was even smiling. Dean made a mental note to make sure Sam got some time talking to other geeks; maybe geeks formed pods and needed some time with fellow geeks or something, and Sam was suffering from a lack of it. Maybe that was what was wrong with him lately. They all went in and looked at the body. Sam and Dean glanced at each other. It was a werewolf attack, all right.
“But why would somebody cut out a heart?” Gus asked.
“They didn’t cut it out; they ate it out,” Shawn said, uncharacteristically focused, looking intently at the wounds on the body. “It was an animal, like ... like a wolf, but a wolf wouldn’t be strong enough to break through a human ribcage that fast on its own, so ... bear? Are there bears in Santa Barbara?” Gus looked around and behind him fearfully.
Meanwhile, Sam and Dean, having lost interest in the body now that they’d confirmed it was really a werewolf, were flipping through the coroner’s notes. “Where was the body found?” Sam asked with his usual efficiently.
“Right downtown,” Shawn answered.
“Can you take us there?”
Because Shawn and Gus knew Santa Barbara far better than Sam and Dean, they decided to take one from each pair in each car. Dean and Shawn, who rode in the Impala, both burst out laughing as Gus pulled up with Sam in the passenger seat, his knees in his armpits. As Sam clambered out with extreme difficulty, Dean and Shawn both tried and failed to smother their laughter. Ahh ... that was a sight Dean would not soon forget ... or let Sam forget. He couldn’t suppress his titters even as they were examining the crime scene.
“What’s the Super-Sniffer say?” Shawn asked Gus. “Smell any bear?”
Gus sniffed the air. “I don’t know. What’s bear smell like?”
“Like wet dog, only with a heavy musk,” Shawn answered.
“Like you know, Shawn,” Gus said irritably, still sniffing trepidatiously.
Dean realized Shawn and Gus had suddenly become liabilities rather than helpers. It was getting toward evening, and it was still the week of the full moon. Sam and Dean would have to try to keep them safe when they should be putting all their energy toward finding and killing the werewolf. Shawn was still looking for bears; these civilians didn’t believe in the supernatural, so all of Shawn’s observational skills would be useless, since he couldn’t help them find the kind of clues they were actually looking for.
“That’s weird,” Shawn said suddenly, staring at a nearby wall. Dean and Sam followed his gaze. Deep scratches all the way down.
“The bear must have come from there,” Dean said. “We’ll check it out; you go home.”
“It didn’t, though,” said Shawn, his eyes roving over the entire area. “First it was over there, and then there ....” They followed the trail of scratches and pawprints--some of which were far too minute or marred for Sam and Dean to have been able to use for tracking, although Shawn noticed them instantly--to a small house behind a park. Sam and Dean smiled at each other grimly.
A giant brown dog suddenly jumped up in the window and started howling and barking at them. “THE BEAR!” Shawn cried, pointing. Gus screamed hysterically, turned and ran through the park at top speed, back the way they came, screaming at a remarkably high pitch and volume all the way, Shawn right on his heels.
After watching them go with bemusement, Sam and Dean looked at each other, taking out their guns and making sure the magazines were loaded with silver bullets. “Kinda looks more like a lion to me,” Dean said, starting their close in on the house.
“It’s a Tibetan mastiff. They actually put that breed of dog on display at a Chinese zoo and tried to pass it off as a lion.”
Dean chuckled, and not just at the idea of some dog sitting in the middle of a big lion enclosure, barking and pissing off zoo patrons. No, he also chuckled because, what a nerd, trotting out the statistics from the news, just like Gus.
“Shawn’s a pain in the ass,” Sam remarked as they got in the Impala and headed out, now that the werewolf was no longer going to be hunting the fine citizens of Santa Barbara. The werewolf had actually turned right in front of them, so there could be no doubt.
“Yes, he is,” Dean agreed with feeling.
“We could never have found that house on our own, though, at least not before the full moon was over.”
“... And Cain would probably have blown our cover by then. But it’s not like Shawn knew what it was or took care of it. He’s gonna take credit for solving the case when his big contribution was running away like a little sissy. He doesn’t even know the words to the last line of ‘Faithfully’!” Dean complained.
“By ... Journey?” Sam asked after a minute, clearly thrown by the sudden change of subject.
“Yeah, he was just singing nonsense!”
“It ... is nonsense. There are no words; he’s just singing.”
“Nuh-uh!”
“Then what are the words?” Sam said, a small smirk dawning on his face.
“They’re ... well, he says, um .... Well, I don’t know, but he’s sayin’ somethin’!” Dean growled.
Now Sam was laughing at him.
“I am not a geek!” Dean insisted shrilly. “They have some good songs!”
“I didn’t say anything,” Sam said, turning his now-wide grin to the window, to hide it from Dean.
“You didn’t have to!”
Dean hummed the tune to that part very softly--hopefully too softly for Sam to hear--to try to remember the words, but a couple of irrepressible snorts coming out of Sam put an end to that. “It’s in my head!” Dean defended. “He sang the whole thing! Really loud, too. Seriously, he’s such a pain in the ass. I don’t know why Gus sticks around and takes his crap.”
Sam shrugged. “I dunno. They’ve been together all their lives, know each other inside and out. I guess he must really love him, in spite of everything.”
Dean glanced at Sam, who continued looking out the windshield diffidently. A smile slowly dawned on Dean’s face. He grabbed the box of tapes out of the back seat and started rummaging. There had to be something in here that Sam really liked. “Guess so.”
~ The End ~
End Notes:
- I had to do the Psych crossover prompt, because I've just been getting into and greatly enjoying Psych. It was a delight to cover all the parallels between the characters on both shows, especially Shawn, Gus and Dean's love of '80's music--AND MINE, TOO!!!
- If anyone can name ALL the referenced bands in the "No D-squared?" section, I will write you a celebratory/congratulatory drabble!
- And, all hail Jonathan Cain of Journey, brilliant songwriter and sweet human being.