What's a Little Interdimensional Cyber Crime Between Friends?
[Directly after this.]
Dean is the only person Angela has ever seen who can give the appearance of pacing while sitting. He's constantly in motion -- tapping his foot, drumming his fingers to what she eventually recognizes as "Paranoid," or fiddling with a knife that would impress even that Australian guy in that movie she can't remember because it's so not the point at the moment.
The calls to the hospitals went quickly and didn't turn up anything about Sam. The hacking is going more slowly.
Angela sits crosslegged on one of the motel room's beds in front of the laptop, fingers tapping the home row keys too lightly to actually type anything for a moment, staring at the screen and thinking.
"You need anything?" he asks. He has asked every time she has stopped typing for more than about thirty seconds.
"I'm good, thanks," she says, not looking up.
"Because if you need something . . ."
"I'm good," she repeats, and tries the next option for hacking into the local law's records.
(She's a little out of practice at this stuff -- she doesn't have to hack into this sort of thing at home. People just let her look.)
Dean gets up, checks the lines of salt across the door and window he laid down when they arrived, looks around the room again, moves the dresser and the table, searching for . . . well, anything worth finding.
Five minutes, and then Angela hits another dead end. "Damn it," she mutters, and Dean stops what he's doing and comes over. He looks over her shoulder at the screen, which would be flashing a taunting "ACCESS DENIED" if this were a movie. As it's not, it's just telling her that her password cannot be recognized.
"Next time," she tells him, "just take me to a bar and let me seduce an off-duty cop who has the passwords."
"Hey, if you can't--"
"I didn't say I can't," she interrupts. "I just . . . haven't yet."
"Right."
Angela rubs her eyes and starts back in. Five minutes go by, and Dean is still there, watching everything she tries over her shoulder.
"Sweetie?" she says, without turning around. "You're driving me a little crazy. I will tell you the second there is news."
"Yeah," Dean says. He gives up on any semblance of being productive and just paces.
Which is about as distracting as the staring, really, but then . . .
"Hey," she says, and Dean stops. "I think we're in. What are we looking for?"
Dean comes over, dropping back on his heels next to the bed, and Angela angles the laptop so he can see the screen. "Anything from the last twelve hours that matches his description. Any names I know he uses. Any names you put on those IDs. Stolen cars. And other reports of anything else weirdass."
There's nothing. No one matching Sam's description. Nothing beyond the usual small town stuff -- a DUI arrest, a domestic dispute (for a couple that seems to have a history of them), a teenager picked up for shoplifting.
There's one stolen car called over from a town ten miles away, a black Honda Civic.
"Sam's kind of car," Dean says.
"Yeah, but it looks like it's already been recovered. And I'm betting the thief has been grounded for a long time for borrowing her dad's car without permission, but I don't think it's gonna help us."
"Fuck," Dean says.
"I'm sorry, Dean," she says. "We can try the Feds now."
Dean scrubs his hand over his face. "Hey, if you don't mind, I ain't gonna stop you."
"Just give me a minute first," she says, standing and trying to stretch the knots out of her back. "And . . . I don't suppose there's any chance of coffee? Or, well, anything with caffeine would be helpful."
'I'm pretty sure there's a vending machine in the parking lot. Tell me you're not gonna want some girly diet crap."
"No, today I want sugar," she says.
"Awesome," Dean says, and opens the curtain. "Stay where I can see you," he says.
It seems a little excessive to her, but she's hardly going to argue about it. Dean's world, Dean's crisis, Dean's rules. She just nods.
He's back in under a minute, with Coke.
"Thanks," she says.
"Sure."
She drinks half of it in one go, and then settles in to deal with the FBI's database. This, she thinks, should go easier, unless it's wildly different than the one she's used to.
"Hey, Angela," Dean says, and she looks up again. "Thanks."
Angela nods. "Sure."
Dean closes the curtain again and sits back down at the table to clean a gun she's pretty sure he's already cleaned once, and maybe twice, since she got here.
Angela flexes her fingers, thinks for a moment, and starts typing.
Dean is the only person Angela has ever seen who can give the appearance of pacing while sitting. He's constantly in motion -- tapping his foot, drumming his fingers to what she eventually recognizes as "Paranoid," or fiddling with a knife that would impress even that Australian guy in that movie she can't remember because it's so not the point at the moment.
The calls to the hospitals went quickly and didn't turn up anything about Sam. The hacking is going more slowly.
Angela sits crosslegged on one of the motel room's beds in front of the laptop, fingers tapping the home row keys too lightly to actually type anything for a moment, staring at the screen and thinking.
"You need anything?" he asks. He has asked every time she has stopped typing for more than about thirty seconds.
"I'm good, thanks," she says, not looking up.
"Because if you need something . . ."
"I'm good," she repeats, and tries the next option for hacking into the local law's records.
(She's a little out of practice at this stuff -- she doesn't have to hack into this sort of thing at home. People just let her look.)
Dean gets up, checks the lines of salt across the door and window he laid down when they arrived, looks around the room again, moves the dresser and the table, searching for . . . well, anything worth finding.
Five minutes, and then Angela hits another dead end. "Damn it," she mutters, and Dean stops what he's doing and comes over. He looks over her shoulder at the screen, which would be flashing a taunting "ACCESS DENIED" if this were a movie. As it's not, it's just telling her that her password cannot be recognized.
"Next time," she tells him, "just take me to a bar and let me seduce an off-duty cop who has the passwords."
"Hey, if you can't--"
"I didn't say I can't," she interrupts. "I just . . . haven't yet."
"Right."
Angela rubs her eyes and starts back in. Five minutes go by, and Dean is still there, watching everything she tries over her shoulder.
"Sweetie?" she says, without turning around. "You're driving me a little crazy. I will tell you the second there is news."
"Yeah," Dean says. He gives up on any semblance of being productive and just paces.
Which is about as distracting as the staring, really, but then . . .
"Hey," she says, and Dean stops. "I think we're in. What are we looking for?"
Dean comes over, dropping back on his heels next to the bed, and Angela angles the laptop so he can see the screen. "Anything from the last twelve hours that matches his description. Any names I know he uses. Any names you put on those IDs. Stolen cars. And other reports of anything else weirdass."
There's nothing. No one matching Sam's description. Nothing beyond the usual small town stuff -- a DUI arrest, a domestic dispute (for a couple that seems to have a history of them), a teenager picked up for shoplifting.
There's one stolen car called over from a town ten miles away, a black Honda Civic.
"Sam's kind of car," Dean says.
"Yeah, but it looks like it's already been recovered. And I'm betting the thief has been grounded for a long time for borrowing her dad's car without permission, but I don't think it's gonna help us."
"Fuck," Dean says.
"I'm sorry, Dean," she says. "We can try the Feds now."
Dean scrubs his hand over his face. "Hey, if you don't mind, I ain't gonna stop you."
"Just give me a minute first," she says, standing and trying to stretch the knots out of her back. "And . . . I don't suppose there's any chance of coffee? Or, well, anything with caffeine would be helpful."
'I'm pretty sure there's a vending machine in the parking lot. Tell me you're not gonna want some girly diet crap."
"No, today I want sugar," she says.
"Awesome," Dean says, and opens the curtain. "Stay where I can see you," he says.
It seems a little excessive to her, but she's hardly going to argue about it. Dean's world, Dean's crisis, Dean's rules. She just nods.
He's back in under a minute, with Coke.
"Thanks," she says.
"Sure."
She drinks half of it in one go, and then settles in to deal with the FBI's database. This, she thinks, should go easier, unless it's wildly different than the one she's used to.
"Hey, Angela," Dean says, and she looks up again. "Thanks."
Angela nods. "Sure."
Dean closes the curtain again and sits back down at the table to clean a gun she's pretty sure he's already cleaned once, and maybe twice, since she got here.
Angela flexes her fingers, thinks for a moment, and starts typing.