Shadows of the Night - 3/15 - AU - SPN fic
Title: Shadows of the Night
Author: starpixie16
Chapters: 3/15
Rating: NC-17 [mild language, explicit sexual content (chapter 9)]
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Dean/OFC
Warning/Spoilers: AU, sexual situations; vague allusions to events from season one.
Summary: In September 1932, Sam and Dean Winchester receive a telegram leading them to California. On their last night there, Sam suddenly has a nightmare of a man's death at the hands of a mysterious woman. The brothers investigate, and in the process, Sam learns a few secrets about Dean's past.
Author's Notes: Many huge thanks to elanurel for being my beta. This story also serves as my response to challenge #8 at spn_het_love: Then She Appeared.
<< Previous Chapter
Shadows of the Night
______________________________
Chapter Three
The car that Dean drove was a 1927 model Chevrolet, a gleaming black automobile. There was little space to store their belongings aside from a separate trunk that they had affixed to a rack over the spare tire at the rear of the vehicle. At each stop, the trunk was taken down and lugged into wherever they were staying so that they could have access to the contents, which included their clothing and Sam's large collection of books.
To make up for the lack of storage space for their other items, Dean had taken a cue from the Detroit rumrunners and modified the interior of the car with various secret compartments that would have made even the sneakiest bootlegger green with envy. There were hollow hideaways beneath the floor and seats where the brothers stored their weapons and other hunting necessities. Dean had collected an impressive cache, including crossbows, knives, and even a newly acquired Thompson submachine gun that he had picked up along the way. Sam could foresee no need for the Tommy gun, but Dean liked having it on hand. It was an interesting toy, even if it wasn't practical in their line of work.
At that moment, the Chevy was slowing to a stop in front of the home of the late Donald Metz. It was a modest structure on a neat, tree-lined street. It was a rather new neighborhood, evidenced by the paved streets that provided solely automobile access. Dean studied the immaculate-looking front yard and the bright flowers growing in window boxes as he and Sam came up the steps to the front door.
"A guy could go stir crazy in a neighborhood like this," he commented. Reaching up, he lifted the brass knocker on the door.
"It's not so bad," Sam disagreed casually. "There are worse places to live."
Dean shrugged, gazing around while waiting for an answer to his knock. Sliding his hands into his pants pockets, he wandered over to look down from the porch and around the side of the house. "Wonder how your mystery dame got inside?"
"I don't know. We're not sure what we're dealing with. She could have gotten inside in any number of ways," Sam replied.
The front door suddenly swung open, revealing a woman with short, marcelled dark hair and light brown eyes that scrutinized the strangers before her with suspicion. "Yes?"
Dean turned to her with a charming smile. "We're looking for Mrs. Donald Metz."
"That would be me," she responded, remaining partially behind the door as if it were a shield.
"Allow me to introduce myself," Dean began with a tip of his hat. "My name's Dean, this is Sam. We're reporters with the Daily Chronicle, and we'd really appreciate anything you could tell us about the death of your husband."
Alice pulled back, clearly preparing to shoo them away so she could retreat back into her home. "The police spoke to me yesterday as well as this morning. If you want to know anything, you can go talk to them. I'm in no mood to tell you reporters a single word."
Dean reached out, resting an arm against the doorframe to prevent Alice from closing the door in their faces. Smiling persuasively, he said, "We understand. It's just I hear the cops are giving you a hard time, accusing you of things. If you'd talk to us, maybe we could help clear your name before those bums start trying to frame you for murder."
He seemed to have spoken just the right words. Alice considered the offer, reluctantly opening the door wide to allow them entrance. "Okay," she agreed. "Come in."
"Thanks," Dean replied, crossing the threshold into the house.
Sam followed his brother inside, briefly smiling at Alice as he politely removed his hat. Noticing that Dean was not about to do the same, Sam delicately elbowed him in the ribs.
Dean shot him an annoyed glare, his eyebrows drawn together into an irritated frown, silently conveying a retort of What the hell is the matter with you? Sam's eyes darted pointedly to the charcoal gray fedora on top of Dean's head then down to his own, which was clutched in his right hand. Dean got the hint, quickly reaching up to remove the hat.
"I'll take those for you," Alice offered, extending a hand. She placed their hats on a shelf inside a hallway closet. "Come sit down," she continued, leading them into a nicely furnished living room.
"You have a beautiful home." Sam spoke up conversationally, taking in the contents of the room. The wallpaper was flowered and smooth, matching attractively with the burgundy carpet. A few modern paintings hung on each wall alongside old family portraits. The beige sofa sat diagonally to a stiff-backed wing chair.
"Thank you," Alice said with a smile that seemed to stop at her lips. "My mother helped me decorate this room."
Dean stared at Alice as furtively as he could without the brim of his hat shading his eyes. Her hair was longer than it had appeared at first glance, pinned into a flat knot at the base of her neck. Her lips were full and her figure trim. She wore a belted brown dress with a loose skirt that would have swirled nicely during fast-paced moves on a dance floor. Alice's eyes caught his then, forcing Dean to swiftly turn his gaze elsewhere. He was rarely choosy when it came to attractive women, but even he had boundaries. A newly grieving widow was strictly off-limits.
"Would you like something to drink, gentlemen?" Alice inquired. "I was about to make tea before you arrived."
Dean declined. Tea was never very appealing to him. "No, thanks."
"None for me," Sam added. "But we appreciate the hospitality."
"Would it be all right if I went ahead and had a cup myself then?" Alice pointed toward what must have been the kitchen. "I'd hate to seem rude."
"Oh, not at all," Sam said with a smile. "We wouldn't mind."
Alice nodded, returning Sam's smile with a genuine one of her own. "I shouldn't be long." She turned, disappearing into the next room.
Sam took a seat on one end of the sofa, placing his hands on his knees in an uncomfortable posture. Dean remained standing, roaming the room as if it were his own home. He picked up a framed wedding portrait of Donald and Alice that was perched atop a round table near the fireplace. The newly married couple smiled out from the photograph. A perfectly matched pair, Donald's hair looked to be the same shade as Alice's dark locks and his arm linked to hers at the elbow.
Dean returned the photo to its place, coming over to sit next to his brother. "Something about this Alice looks awfully familiar," he commented.
"Yeah, she was an actress a few years back," Sam observed. "I remember her now. When the talkies came in, she had horrible jitters about the microphones and developed a stutter whenever she delivered her dialogue. She never got over it. The whole thing killed her career. Clearly she got married and retired out here in the suburbs."
"Then I guess it's safe to say I probably have seen her before," Dean remarked. His green eyes shifted toward the kitchen before flicking back to Sam. His voice slightly above a whisper, he changed subjects. "Think I could get upstairs and down before she comes back?"
Sam wrinkled his brow in confusion. "What for?"
"To look for evidence," Dean said. "There might be something up there that the cops missed that could help us figure out who the mystery dame is."
"Not yet," Sam advised. "Wait until we get some answers from Alice before we do any snooping around."
Dean nodded as Alice returned with her cup of tea. She sat in the wing chair facing the brothers. Taking a sip from the cup, she set it aside on a nearby stand. "I'll tell you about Donald. What would you like to know?"
"How he died, mostly." Dean leaned forward in a relaxed manner. "Me and Sam here believe you're innocent. You certainly don't look like a cold-blooded murderess. So who really killed your husband?"
Alice shook her head. "I ... I don't know who did it. It's been so upsetting for me. In fact, I can't even sleep in our bedroom anymore. Yesterday when I woke up, he was lying dead beside me. I never heard a soul come into our room."
"The police say he was smothered," Sam brought up. "Wouldn't he have struggled and woken you?"
"He didn't." Alice clasped her hands together, knuckles turning white from the grip she had on them. "I would have surely heard something." She sniffled quietly. "He wasn't smothered, either. I know that's what the police think, but there was this bruise ..."
Dean exchanged a concerned glance with his brother. "Over his chest?"
"Yes," Alice said, tears glazing her eyes. "How did you know?"
"Just speculation," Dean responded with a shake of his head. "Tell me, was there anything strange going on before your husband died?"
"What do you mean?" Alice inquired, trying unsuccessfully to dab at her eyes with the side of her hand. Sam offered her his handkerchief. She accepted it with a soft 'thank you.'
"Noises, scratching sounds, unexplained drafts in the room? Those kinds of things," Dean elaborated helpfully.
Alice was bemused by the suggestions. "No, there were no things like that." She hesitated, seeming to wonder if she should go on. "But Don did mention having nightmares the week before he died. One night he woke up screaming, saying that there was a woman in the room. I would say that's rather unusual, wouldn't you?"
"Did he describe this woman?" Sam asked with interest.
"He said she had white hair and was wearing a nightgown." Alice distractedly smoothed out a wrinkle in her skirt only to have it appear in another spot. "He'd been under so much pressure lately that I simply thought he was hallucinating. You know he owns a grocery store chain and one of the stores had to close recently. I considered the nightmares a result of all the worrying he'd been doing over the risk of losing the business. Don't you think that could be what it was?"
Dean gave her a small smile. "It could have been."
Alice reached out for a gold cigarette case on the stand next to her chair, retrieving one from it before offering them to her guests. "Cigarette?"
Sam shook his head. "No, thank you. I don't smoke."
Dean took one, despite the fact that they weren't his brand. "Thanks." He took out a book of matches from his jacket pocket. Extending one between his fingers, he flicked the end against his thumb, igniting the tip into dancing flame. "Light?"
Alice nodded, putting the cigarette between her lips as she leaned forward to catch the smoke alight. "Thank you," she said gratefully, taking a puff.
"My pleasure." Dean returned the matchbook to his pocket. "Say, would it be all right if I use your restroom for a minute? Then we'll get out of here and leave you alone."
"Sure," Alice said. "It's the second door on your left."
"Thank you," Dean replied with an appreciative grin. He rose from the sofa and headed upstairs. Once he'd found the bathroom, he turned toward the room on the opposite side of the hall. The door was pushed to, and he cautiously eased it open to see the interior of Donald and Alice's bedroom.
Glancing over his shoulder to see that he was still alone in the hallway, he crept forward into the room, making his way toward the bed. There was nothing remarkable that he could see. The cops had probably cleared away anything that could be of use in the brothers' investigation. Dean looked out of the window near Donald's bedside and down at the roof jutting over the porch. As he returned his gaze inside, he noticed a film of dust across the windowsill. Curiously, he swiped a finger through it, studying it closely. It was highly unlikely that a house as neatly kept as the Metzes would have layers of dust lying around.
Dean didn't even have to bring the substance to his nose to smell the familiar odor of sulfur.
___________________________
FOOTNOTES:
Unfortunately, the 1930s setting means no Chevy Impala. Instead Dean drives a black 1927 Chevy Capitol sedan. Not nearly as flashy as the Impala, but it's big enough to make room for their weapons and luggage with a bit of ingenuity.
The Thompson submachine gun was popular with gangsters of the time and an impressive weapon. To be truthful, I just had to make an excuse for Dean to own one!
Like Alice, many actors and actresses were unable to make a successful transition from silent to sound films because of impediments such as accents, lisps or stutters while others were rejected simply because the public didn't consider the sound of their voice appealing.
Next Chapter >>
Author: starpixie16
Chapters: 3/15
Rating: NC-17 [mild language, explicit sexual content (chapter 9)]
Characters/Pairing: Sam, Dean/OFC
Warning/Spoilers: AU, sexual situations; vague allusions to events from season one.
Summary: In September 1932, Sam and Dean Winchester receive a telegram leading them to California. On their last night there, Sam suddenly has a nightmare of a man's death at the hands of a mysterious woman. The brothers investigate, and in the process, Sam learns a few secrets about Dean's past.
Author's Notes: Many huge thanks to elanurel for being my beta. This story also serves as my response to challenge #8 at spn_het_love: Then She Appeared.
<< Previous Chapter
Shadows of the Night
______________________________
Chapter Three
The car that Dean drove was a 1927 model Chevrolet, a gleaming black automobile. There was little space to store their belongings aside from a separate trunk that they had affixed to a rack over the spare tire at the rear of the vehicle. At each stop, the trunk was taken down and lugged into wherever they were staying so that they could have access to the contents, which included their clothing and Sam's large collection of books.
To make up for the lack of storage space for their other items, Dean had taken a cue from the Detroit rumrunners and modified the interior of the car with various secret compartments that would have made even the sneakiest bootlegger green with envy. There were hollow hideaways beneath the floor and seats where the brothers stored their weapons and other hunting necessities. Dean had collected an impressive cache, including crossbows, knives, and even a newly acquired Thompson submachine gun that he had picked up along the way. Sam could foresee no need for the Tommy gun, but Dean liked having it on hand. It was an interesting toy, even if it wasn't practical in their line of work.
At that moment, the Chevy was slowing to a stop in front of the home of the late Donald Metz. It was a modest structure on a neat, tree-lined street. It was a rather new neighborhood, evidenced by the paved streets that provided solely automobile access. Dean studied the immaculate-looking front yard and the bright flowers growing in window boxes as he and Sam came up the steps to the front door.
"A guy could go stir crazy in a neighborhood like this," he commented. Reaching up, he lifted the brass knocker on the door.
"It's not so bad," Sam disagreed casually. "There are worse places to live."
Dean shrugged, gazing around while waiting for an answer to his knock. Sliding his hands into his pants pockets, he wandered over to look down from the porch and around the side of the house. "Wonder how your mystery dame got inside?"
"I don't know. We're not sure what we're dealing with. She could have gotten inside in any number of ways," Sam replied.
The front door suddenly swung open, revealing a woman with short, marcelled dark hair and light brown eyes that scrutinized the strangers before her with suspicion. "Yes?"
Dean turned to her with a charming smile. "We're looking for Mrs. Donald Metz."
"That would be me," she responded, remaining partially behind the door as if it were a shield.
"Allow me to introduce myself," Dean began with a tip of his hat. "My name's Dean, this is Sam. We're reporters with the Daily Chronicle, and we'd really appreciate anything you could tell us about the death of your husband."
Alice pulled back, clearly preparing to shoo them away so she could retreat back into her home. "The police spoke to me yesterday as well as this morning. If you want to know anything, you can go talk to them. I'm in no mood to tell you reporters a single word."
Dean reached out, resting an arm against the doorframe to prevent Alice from closing the door in their faces. Smiling persuasively, he said, "We understand. It's just I hear the cops are giving you a hard time, accusing you of things. If you'd talk to us, maybe we could help clear your name before those bums start trying to frame you for murder."
He seemed to have spoken just the right words. Alice considered the offer, reluctantly opening the door wide to allow them entrance. "Okay," she agreed. "Come in."
"Thanks," Dean replied, crossing the threshold into the house.
Sam followed his brother inside, briefly smiling at Alice as he politely removed his hat. Noticing that Dean was not about to do the same, Sam delicately elbowed him in the ribs.
Dean shot him an annoyed glare, his eyebrows drawn together into an irritated frown, silently conveying a retort of What the hell is the matter with you? Sam's eyes darted pointedly to the charcoal gray fedora on top of Dean's head then down to his own, which was clutched in his right hand. Dean got the hint, quickly reaching up to remove the hat.
"I'll take those for you," Alice offered, extending a hand. She placed their hats on a shelf inside a hallway closet. "Come sit down," she continued, leading them into a nicely furnished living room.
"You have a beautiful home." Sam spoke up conversationally, taking in the contents of the room. The wallpaper was flowered and smooth, matching attractively with the burgundy carpet. A few modern paintings hung on each wall alongside old family portraits. The beige sofa sat diagonally to a stiff-backed wing chair.
"Thank you," Alice said with a smile that seemed to stop at her lips. "My mother helped me decorate this room."
Dean stared at Alice as furtively as he could without the brim of his hat shading his eyes. Her hair was longer than it had appeared at first glance, pinned into a flat knot at the base of her neck. Her lips were full and her figure trim. She wore a belted brown dress with a loose skirt that would have swirled nicely during fast-paced moves on a dance floor. Alice's eyes caught his then, forcing Dean to swiftly turn his gaze elsewhere. He was rarely choosy when it came to attractive women, but even he had boundaries. A newly grieving widow was strictly off-limits.
"Would you like something to drink, gentlemen?" Alice inquired. "I was about to make tea before you arrived."
Dean declined. Tea was never very appealing to him. "No, thanks."
"None for me," Sam added. "But we appreciate the hospitality."
"Would it be all right if I went ahead and had a cup myself then?" Alice pointed toward what must have been the kitchen. "I'd hate to seem rude."
"Oh, not at all," Sam said with a smile. "We wouldn't mind."
Alice nodded, returning Sam's smile with a genuine one of her own. "I shouldn't be long." She turned, disappearing into the next room.
Sam took a seat on one end of the sofa, placing his hands on his knees in an uncomfortable posture. Dean remained standing, roaming the room as if it were his own home. He picked up a framed wedding portrait of Donald and Alice that was perched atop a round table near the fireplace. The newly married couple smiled out from the photograph. A perfectly matched pair, Donald's hair looked to be the same shade as Alice's dark locks and his arm linked to hers at the elbow.
Dean returned the photo to its place, coming over to sit next to his brother. "Something about this Alice looks awfully familiar," he commented.
"Yeah, she was an actress a few years back," Sam observed. "I remember her now. When the talkies came in, she had horrible jitters about the microphones and developed a stutter whenever she delivered her dialogue. She never got over it. The whole thing killed her career. Clearly she got married and retired out here in the suburbs."
"Then I guess it's safe to say I probably have seen her before," Dean remarked. His green eyes shifted toward the kitchen before flicking back to Sam. His voice slightly above a whisper, he changed subjects. "Think I could get upstairs and down before she comes back?"
Sam wrinkled his brow in confusion. "What for?"
"To look for evidence," Dean said. "There might be something up there that the cops missed that could help us figure out who the mystery dame is."
"Not yet," Sam advised. "Wait until we get some answers from Alice before we do any snooping around."
Dean nodded as Alice returned with her cup of tea. She sat in the wing chair facing the brothers. Taking a sip from the cup, she set it aside on a nearby stand. "I'll tell you about Donald. What would you like to know?"
"How he died, mostly." Dean leaned forward in a relaxed manner. "Me and Sam here believe you're innocent. You certainly don't look like a cold-blooded murderess. So who really killed your husband?"
Alice shook her head. "I ... I don't know who did it. It's been so upsetting for me. In fact, I can't even sleep in our bedroom anymore. Yesterday when I woke up, he was lying dead beside me. I never heard a soul come into our room."
"The police say he was smothered," Sam brought up. "Wouldn't he have struggled and woken you?"
"He didn't." Alice clasped her hands together, knuckles turning white from the grip she had on them. "I would have surely heard something." She sniffled quietly. "He wasn't smothered, either. I know that's what the police think, but there was this bruise ..."
Dean exchanged a concerned glance with his brother. "Over his chest?"
"Yes," Alice said, tears glazing her eyes. "How did you know?"
"Just speculation," Dean responded with a shake of his head. "Tell me, was there anything strange going on before your husband died?"
"What do you mean?" Alice inquired, trying unsuccessfully to dab at her eyes with the side of her hand. Sam offered her his handkerchief. She accepted it with a soft 'thank you.'
"Noises, scratching sounds, unexplained drafts in the room? Those kinds of things," Dean elaborated helpfully.
Alice was bemused by the suggestions. "No, there were no things like that." She hesitated, seeming to wonder if she should go on. "But Don did mention having nightmares the week before he died. One night he woke up screaming, saying that there was a woman in the room. I would say that's rather unusual, wouldn't you?"
"Did he describe this woman?" Sam asked with interest.
"He said she had white hair and was wearing a nightgown." Alice distractedly smoothed out a wrinkle in her skirt only to have it appear in another spot. "He'd been under so much pressure lately that I simply thought he was hallucinating. You know he owns a grocery store chain and one of the stores had to close recently. I considered the nightmares a result of all the worrying he'd been doing over the risk of losing the business. Don't you think that could be what it was?"
Dean gave her a small smile. "It could have been."
Alice reached out for a gold cigarette case on the stand next to her chair, retrieving one from it before offering them to her guests. "Cigarette?"
Sam shook his head. "No, thank you. I don't smoke."
Dean took one, despite the fact that they weren't his brand. "Thanks." He took out a book of matches from his jacket pocket. Extending one between his fingers, he flicked the end against his thumb, igniting the tip into dancing flame. "Light?"
Alice nodded, putting the cigarette between her lips as she leaned forward to catch the smoke alight. "Thank you," she said gratefully, taking a puff.
"My pleasure." Dean returned the matchbook to his pocket. "Say, would it be all right if I use your restroom for a minute? Then we'll get out of here and leave you alone."
"Sure," Alice said. "It's the second door on your left."
"Thank you," Dean replied with an appreciative grin. He rose from the sofa and headed upstairs. Once he'd found the bathroom, he turned toward the room on the opposite side of the hall. The door was pushed to, and he cautiously eased it open to see the interior of Donald and Alice's bedroom.
Glancing over his shoulder to see that he was still alone in the hallway, he crept forward into the room, making his way toward the bed. There was nothing remarkable that he could see. The cops had probably cleared away anything that could be of use in the brothers' investigation. Dean looked out of the window near Donald's bedside and down at the roof jutting over the porch. As he returned his gaze inside, he noticed a film of dust across the windowsill. Curiously, he swiped a finger through it, studying it closely. It was highly unlikely that a house as neatly kept as the Metzes would have layers of dust lying around.
Dean didn't even have to bring the substance to his nose to smell the familiar odor of sulfur.
___________________________
FOOTNOTES:
Unfortunately, the 1930s setting means no Chevy Impala. Instead Dean drives a black 1927 Chevy Capitol sedan. Not nearly as flashy as the Impala, but it's big enough to make room for their weapons and luggage with a bit of ingenuity.
The Thompson submachine gun was popular with gangsters of the time and an impressive weapon. To be truthful, I just had to make an excuse for Dean to own one!
Like Alice, many actors and actresses were unable to make a successful transition from silent to sound films because of impediments such as accents, lisps or stutters while others were rejected simply because the public didn't consider the sound of their voice appealing.
Next Chapter >>