"Got Your Number (2/?)" (PSYCH/SPN, PG13)
Title: Got Your Number
Author: Britani Gael sterlingsylver
Fandom: Psych/Supernatural
Rating: PG13
Words: 3744
Summary: Crossover; while investigating a series of strange deaths, the Winchester brothers head to Santa Barbara, where they seek help from a local psychic, Shawn Spencer.
Author’s Notes: Beta'd by jaxjacoby, written for psychoutnabout.
Part one.
The plan was to talk to Detective Lassiter - meaning the head detective around here, and also the guy in charge of investigating the Rodriguez murders. Meeting with the cops is never the way to make Dean’s day, but they have to start somewhere, and Sam’s already booked the easy job.
Problem is, Detective Lassiter isn’t in. Would it be alright to speak with his extremely pretty partner instead?
Oh, hell, why not?
“I’m sorry.” Detective Juliet O’Hara says, wrinkling her forehead in a way that’s kind of adorable. She’s blonde and cute and definitely a cop, and her eyes are sharp as she looks at him, drumming her fingers on her desk. “I wasn’t even aware that Mr. Rodriguez had any family in the area.” She winces. “I mean, besides…”
“My cousins, I know,” Dean says, fake-suppressing a fake-shudder. “I was heading up here to see if I couldn’t find some work, and I stopped by Uncle Jim’s and…”
“God, I’m sorry,” she says. “Someone should have contacted you.”
“I don’t blame you guys,” Dean says. How could he? Even he didn’t know he was going to be a nephew until this morning. “You must be busy. It’s just… I’d like to know what happened, is all.”
She hesitates.
“I understand,” Dean says, and he does. This is sensitive stuff. He leans back and glances around. “Me and Uncle Jim, we weren’t all that close. But I read what the papers said, and I don’t think he did it.”
O’Hara chews on her lower lip.
Usually cops make the list of Dean’s least favorite things, but at least a couple of them are actually trying to make the world a better place - just like him and Sam - and he doesn’t like taking advantage of the well-meaning people like Detective O’Hara. Problem was, those are the easy ones, and it only takes a word: “Please.”
She pauses a second longer, and then she nods. “Maybe you can help me.”
She pulls a yellow legal pad out of her desk, and a pen to go with it. Dean recognizes that now it’s seriously interview time, even if the pen’s got a pink flower taped to the end of it.
“It’s so no one takes it,” O’Hara says, waving the pen. She must’ve seen him smirk.”
“Ah.”
“Was your uncle involved in any illegal activities, to your knowledge?”
“Nope,” Dean says, which is true. Well, almost. Rodriguez isn’t really his uncle.
“Was any member of the family?”
“Don’t think so.” The trick to an interview is to get information instead of give it - and it’s not as if he can tell her anything that’ll help. Except maybe to watch out for the teeth of the undead. “But,” he says, lowering his voice and leaning forward, “there were always rumors.”
She follows suit, leaning forward and whispering. “What kind of rumors?”
“You know,” he says, knowing she doesn’t. He’s making it up on the spot. “About the occult.”
She blinks.
Okay, no hits there. But she doesn’t think he’s nuts for suggesting it, either, and that’s something. He chuckles half-heartedly. “I mean, I don’t know if it’s even true-if you guys didn’t find anything…”
“We didn’t.” She nibbles on the end of her flower-pen, and Dean kind of whishes she wasn’t a cop. Again. “We didn’t find anything at all.”
He raises his eyebrows, an expression he imagines looks confused, yet thoughtful. “What do you mean?”
“The house was empty. Everything was gone, except for the, ah… victims.”
Aha, he’d like to think. A classic sign of the whatchacallit monster, which has a record in the myths of every culture on the entire freaking planet. But, no. He’s got nothing. “Weird,” he says, shrugs. “Crazy stuff?”
“What kind of rumors have you heard?” she asks.
He doesn’t have to answer that, because the phone on her desk starts jangling.
“This is O’Hara,” she answers. The receiver grumbles something, and she frowns. “Gus? What do you - no? I can’t, I’m with…”
“Oh, don’t mind me.” Dean says.
She doesn’t. She swivels around in her chair so she’s half turned away, which doesn’t make a very good sound barrier. “I know it’s important,” she says, “because it always is.”
The phone grumbles.
“I can’t,” she says. “I mean, I shouldn’t.” O’Hara covers the receiver with her hand. “I’m not going to do it,” she whispers at Dean. “I’m not supposed to.”
That, of course, means she’ll do her friend this favor just as soon as Dean turns away. The corners of his lips twitch. “I won’t tell.”
She talks back into the phone. “Okay, Gus. I’ll try to take care of it later. Just give me the number, and I’ll call you back.” She scrawls it down at the top of her legal pad, and doodles a big boxy rectangle around it. “KAZ 2Y5, okay. I’ll talk to you later.”
She hangs up. It takes her a second, which gives Dean the time he needs to stare at the series of letters and numbers and think, God fucking DAMNIT.
He’s smiling when she looks back at him.
“So,” she says. “Mr. Young-”
This time it’s his phone that rings. He checks the caller ID even though he knows who it is.
“Sam,” he answers. What he really wants to say is where the fuck is my car but he settles for, “Can’t really talk now. I’m at the station.”
“Oh,” Sam says. “How’s that going?”
Dean glances at O’Hara, but she’s on the phone again and not listening. Probably. “Just peachy,” he says. Sam knows that translates to, I’ve got nothing.
“I have something. There’s been another incident, at the morgue. Not far from the police station.” Someone says something in the background. “Three blocks,” Sam says.
“Who’s with you?” Dean asks.
“The psychic. We’re heading over there now, can you get here?”
“The psychic? Is he legit?”
The line’s quiet for several seconds. “I don’t know.”
That’s just… peachy. “Great,” Dean says, forgetting for a second that’s he’s supposed to be too bereaved to use sarcasm. “I’ll head over now.” He moves to hang up, and then thinks better of it. “Sam, before you go.”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure you feed the meter.”
Another pause. “Um, Dean? What are you-”
Dean talks right over him. “Yeah, I seriously can’t afford to get another ticket.” Not one of their code words, but hopefully this would give Sammy some kind of vague warning. “It’s my car, you know.”
Sam’s quiet again, and Dean can hear some kind of pop crap coming in over the radio. Then, “Okay, I’ll take care of it.”
“Right.”
Dean and O’Hara hang up at the same time.
“Listen-” Dean starts.
“I’m sorry,” O’Hara says. “I’ve got to go. There’s been a…” She bites her tongue; that’s probably not the stuff she’s supposed to share. “An incident.”
“Another murder?”
She stares at him, even as she grabs her keys and pulls her bag over one shoulder. “How did you know that?” she asks.
Dean gestures at his phone. “That was my brother. We read in the papers that there was some kinda psychic involved, so he went to see him, and-“
“Shawn?” O’Hara asks. “You mean Shawn Spencer?” She’s got a funny look on her face, like the wheels in her head are turning, and Dean has no idea what the hell that means.
So, “Yeah.”
She gives him a puzzled look.
If she runs the plates this situation could spiral pretty easily - Dean can’t even figure out a way to get the job done while having the dodge the police, too. Things are probably going to get ugly, and fast, and all Dean can think to do for now is to keep O’Hara in his sight.
This probably isn’t going to work, but, hell, anything’s worth a try. “Hey,” he says, catching her just as she starts to walk away. “Do you think I could catch a ride?”
Never in Sam’s life has waltzing onto a crime scene been so easy.
Sam follows as the psychic ducks under the yellow tape and strides through the sea of blue uniforms as if he belongs there - more than a couple of the cops nod approvingly. One of them even smiles and waves.
“Hey, Buzz,” Shawn responds, just as cheerily.
“So,” Sam says. He scans their surrounding uncertainly - there’s for sure a body or two around, but everything looks so… surreal. Maybe it’s just the sunny California weather. “The cops, they’re completely okay with what you do?” Truth is, he’s not even sure what it is that Shawn Spencer does, or if he’s even really psychic.
“Mostly,” Shawn says. He shades his face against the sun and peers at a crowd of people near the entrance of the morgue. “Is your brother on his way?”
Sam hadn’t told him that Dean was his brother. That didn’t mean he’d read his mind or anything, but how else could he have figured it out? This guy was definitely nothing like Missouri. And he still seemed to know things he couldn’t.
“I think Dean’s coming, yeah.”
“Awesome. You want to see the body?”
Want was a strong word. “It’d help. But the police…” They were all over the place, and without a hell of a convincing story he wasn’t going to get close.
Shawn waves his hand casually. “Don't worry about them.” He touches his temple. “Today, they are feeling… kind. Friendly. Open in heart and mind. They wouldn’t think of-”
“Spencer!”
Shawn sighs. “I apologize for my gross generalizations. Allow me to introduce Detective Lassiter.”
Sam recognizes the name - he’s the officer quoted in the paper - and the detective clearly recognizes Shawn. Lassiter approaches with his hands in his pockets and a scowl on his face; however, he doesn’t look remotely surprised. “Spencer, what-who is this?” he asks, casting his glare on Sam.
“My new assistant,” Shawn says. The way he lies without missing a beat reminds Sam a lot of Dean, but it still bothers him.
“Oh?” Lassiter says. “Did the old one decide to get a real job?”
Shawn rolls his eyes dramatically. “Gus has a real job. In fact, he has several.” He raises his hand and begins to count off on his fingers. “He’s a salesman, a secretary, and assistance, a money… counter… person, and I’m told he’s incredibly successful in the art of Internet poker-”
“Spencer, stop.” Lassiter closes his eyes and rubs his temples, and when he opens them again Sam is almost certain the man’s casting a sympathetic look in his direction. “What’re you doing here?” This time the condescension is gone - Detective Lassiter is really asking a question.
“Looking,” Shawn says.
“At?”
“Sir,” Sam interrupts. “I understand that you found some bodies under unusual circumstances just a few days ago.”
Lassiter freezes, and when he answers he’s looking at Shawn but talking to Sam. “How the hell do you know-”
Shawn shakes his head.
“It wasn’t him, Detective,” Sam says. He knows Dean was pretending to be a relative of the deceased as a cover, but here that’s not going to be good enough. “I kind of-I do a lot of research into things like this. I read the story in the papers and thought it sounded real similar to something I researched out in Tucson, Arizona, so I…”
It’s so weak. Dean would kick his ass if he knew he was making up such a pathetic cover, but Shawn and the detective are exchanging another significant glance. At first Sam thinks they’re about to kick him off the crime scene, but then he realizes it’s something else altogether. They know, he realizes. The two of them know something about this is so far off the map they’re never going to be able to chart it.
“And I think I can help,” Sam finishes, lamely.
Detective Lassiter points at him. “You’re with him.” He points at Shawn. “Keep out of the way of real police work, or I’ll have you both arrested.”
As Lassiter walks away, Shawn pumps his fists. “Alright, you’re in,” he says. “Now what?”
Now what? Sam frowns, glances around. He’s still not sure if they should check out the body, and he’s not sure it’d tell him anything anyway. “Do you sense anything here? Any kind of bad energies?”
“Sense. Huh.” Shawn glances around, and then he puts his hand to his temple like a movie psychic. “It’s definitely a repeat of last time, I’m sensing that. Besides, every single cop that was on the last scene is here, too. And they’re keeping the press out. And the body’s in the same position. There’s another one inside. And your brother’s here.”
He’s nothing like Missouri - but how the hell is he managing to figure any of that out? The body’s not even visible, Lassiter didn’t say a word, and there must be thirty or more cops here. Can he really remember every single face?
Sam turns to look for Dean.
No sign of him, but a green VW bug has just pulled up, and a woman with long blonde hair climbs out of the driver’s seat. Shawn starts towards her. He also pulls a chiming cell phone out of his pocket, checks the display, and shoves it back into his pocket without answering.
“Avoiding someone?” Sam asks.
“A couple of them. Jules!” Shawn positively beams, throwing his arms out.
Jules smiles at Shawn, but pauses when she sees Sam. “Where’s Gus?” she asks.
“He’s, well... very busy,” Shawn says. “I’ve hired a substitute for him, today, this is Sam. He’s very good at… seeing over people’s heads. Which is important for detective work and stuff.”
The passenger door opens, and Dean steps out.
Sam blinks in surprise. He hadn’t seen Dean in the car - though he guesses it wouldn’t be impossible to see him from that far away. And also to deduce that Dean is his brother, even if Shawn has certainly never met him and they don’t really look that much alike. Maybe.
Detective Lassiter’s attitude is starting to make a bit more sense. Shawn Spencer is nothing if not a headache.
Sam heads over to Dean.
“Do those two know each other?” he hears Jules ask. “Is that his brother? He mentioned-”
“Ah. No,” Shawn answers. “Definitely not. But I felt a peculiar vibe coming off of that man, and so I sent him over to…”
“So,” Dean says, once Sam’s close enough to hear his hushed tone. “We got more zombies?”
Sam nods. “Looks like two more. And Shawn told me on the way over here, they were definitely dead. The cops aren’t saying anything, but the woman who manages this place was in hysterics.”
“And Shawn’s-”
“The psychic guy, yeah.”
Dean frowns. “So, either we’ve got people coming back from the dead for the fun of it-”
Sam shakes his head. “I’ve never heard of bodies reanimating by themselves, but we could check Dad’s notebook…”
“-Or,” Dean continues. “We’ve got someone on this side of things causing this.”
Sam thinks about it. Having a living, breathing enemy to deal with would be a nice change of things - but the living are harder to deal with, since there’s no magic words you can use to get them to stop. Still, “Yeah,” he says. “Probably that.”
“Well, that’s great,” Dean says sarcastically. “Freaking fantastic.”
Someone screams.
Sam and Dean sprint across the lawn, reaching the door to the morgue just as Shawn Spencer comes careening out of it. He’s stumbling along with his hands out in front if his face and his eyes are rolled back, like he’s sleepwalking, and shouts, “Life! Life!”
Policemen and women scatter out of his way.
“I want-brains, no, wait! Not brains!” He raises his hands above his head. “The feel… of the sun… so nice.” Shawn smiles contentedly. “I didn’t ask for this, no, I want…”
He staggers to the right, and then the left.
“What the hell?” Dean hisses. “He channeling a spirit or something?”
Sam doesn’t dare answer that.
“No, no! Gus, Gus, it’s too strong!” Shawn buries his face in his hands, and behind him, Detective Lassiter is doing something similar. “I can’t-I want-this.” He mimes a beating heart. “It’s all… it’s all wrong. This place, this time-”
“Shawn?” The blond woman, Jules, asks. “What do you mean?”
“It’s not-meant-to be.” Shawn puts his hand to his forehead. “Good-bye-cruel-cruel world-” He collapses to the ground, flat on his back, his position exactly the same as the body not fifteen feet from him.
“Dude,” Dean says. “That was for us.”
He could have sent them an email, Sam wants to point out. It would have been a short note: Check the place and time of death, victim killed by heart attack. That was, if he’s guessed Shawn’s message correctly - but something told him that Shawn wasn’t exactly subtle.
“He’s not psychic,” Sam says. “At least, I don’t think so. He’s just… I have no idea. Not stupid, though. We can’t trust him.”
Jules kneels beside Shawn and tries to shake him back to his senses. Shawn responds by twitching like an epileptic.
“You know what?” Dean says. “I think I like him.”
Gus is waiting for him outside his apartment.
“Really, Gus,” Shawn says. “Rarely are you so proactive.” He’s trying to ignore the death glare and it’s mostly working, even after Gus ripped off his trick. He’s been screening his calls for a reason, after all.
He unlocks and opens his door, and Gus follows him inside.
“Shawn, what’s going on?” he demands.
Shawn drops his helmet and his jacket on his kitchen table, and heads to his fridge for a beer. “You want anything?” he asks.
“Shawn.”
“Fine, I think I’ve got some Dr. Pepper.” He rummages around behind the carton of expired milk. “And honestly, Gus, I have no idea what you’re talking about. There isn’t anything going on.”
“Really?” Gus is still glaring at him. “Then how come you haven’t answered your phone since you ditched me this afternoon?”
Shawn comes out of his kitchen and hands Gus the soda, which he accepts warily. Which Shawn thinks is ridiculous, because how on earth could he tamper with a sealed can like that?
“Dude,” he says, “I didn’t ditch you. I just, you know…” He waves his hand. “I had stuff.”
“Stuff.”
“Yeah, stuff.”
Gus is still looking at him.
“C’mon, man,” Shawn says. “Don’t look at me like that.”
But Gus just keeps staring.
“Okay, alright, fine.” Gus never, ever believes that anything Shawn does could maybe be for his own good. Like tricking him into losing the spelling bee, or stealing that Godawful windbreaker, or not telling him that there was something really wrong going down in Santa Barbara. And not something wrong like it’s raining without there being any clouds or getting pulled over while doing five under the speed limit, which reminds him… “Hey, did you get those plate numbers?”
Gus nods. “Yeah, I gave them to Juliet.”
“What? No! Gus, she’s a cop!”
“Yeah, so?”
Shawn doesn’t see why he needs to explain to Gus how it’s bad for business, having other people figure stuff out before he can. But Jules is pretty busy with the whole zombie uprising thing and won’t get to helping Gus out for at least a day. Probably. Plenty of time.
“Okay, that doesn’t matter right now,” he says, sitting down and tapping himself on the temple. “I’ll just have to figure out a way to work that into my-”
“Shawn!”
Shawn looks up. “Huh? Oh, oh. Yeah. Don’t you think it’s weird? First there’s the thing with the Rodriguez guy, and then those two guys show up to check it out?”
Gus is blanking out. “What two guys?”
Man, he’ll have to go all the way back to the beginning. “Listen, that guy that showed up at the office today? He’s got a brother, and their names are Sam and Dean, and they’re super paranoid. Sam wouldn’t even tell me their last name.”
Gus still has that skeptical expression on his face, but Shawn can tell he’s getting into it. He can’t help it, he’s Gus, and he’s loved solving mysteries ever since they were kids. He slides into the seat next to Shawn - the only other chair in the place - and says, “What, you asked him for his last name?”
“No, but you could tell it was on the tip of his tongue, and he just… anyway, he didn’t tell me much, but it sounds like the two of them just look into stuff like this. They don’t have jobs, this is all they do.”
Gus still isn’t following, though, and Shawn wonders if there’s anything important that he’s left out.
“Stuff like what, Shawn?” Gus asks. “What kind of stuff do they look into?”
Shawn shrugs. “You know. Your kind of stuff.”
Which could mean anything. Books, cartoons, computers, pharmaceuticals, comics, trivia… “What does that mean?” Gus asks, apparently on a similar train of thought.
“You know,” Shawn repeats, making a vague motion with one of his hands that conveys nothing at all. “Ghosts?”
Gus looks at him.
“What?”
“Shawn, that’s not my kind of thing,” Gus says indignantly, sitting up straighter.
“Yes it is! You’re the one with the, the books and the EM whatever reader and the Ghost Hunters DVDs!”
“I got those for Christmas, Shawn! I got those for Christmas from you.” He’s caught up in the argument, narrowing his eyes like he always does when he’s getting annoyed - and that’s great, because he just might forget- “Wait a minute, Shawn, you’re saying these guys… investigate… you know, stuff like that?”
Shawn hesitates.
He’ve got a lot of stories balanced in his head right now. He’s got a hobbyist from Arizona, a cousin who’s never met his brother, two guys who are all business about the dead, psychic powers which only work some of the time, people who don’t stay dead, Lassy’s we don’t say a word, and not all of those are even lies, really, but it’s enough to start confusing even him.
There’s also the truth. As much as he knows, anyway.
He leans forward. “Okay, Gus, it’s like this. How many times did you see Night of the Living Dead?”
Author: Britani Gael sterlingsylver
Fandom: Psych/Supernatural
Rating: PG13
Words: 3744
Summary: Crossover; while investigating a series of strange deaths, the Winchester brothers head to Santa Barbara, where they seek help from a local psychic, Shawn Spencer.
Author’s Notes: Beta'd by jaxjacoby, written for psychoutnabout.
Part one.
The plan was to talk to Detective Lassiter - meaning the head detective around here, and also the guy in charge of investigating the Rodriguez murders. Meeting with the cops is never the way to make Dean’s day, but they have to start somewhere, and Sam’s already booked the easy job.
Problem is, Detective Lassiter isn’t in. Would it be alright to speak with his extremely pretty partner instead?
Oh, hell, why not?
“I’m sorry.” Detective Juliet O’Hara says, wrinkling her forehead in a way that’s kind of adorable. She’s blonde and cute and definitely a cop, and her eyes are sharp as she looks at him, drumming her fingers on her desk. “I wasn’t even aware that Mr. Rodriguez had any family in the area.” She winces. “I mean, besides…”
“My cousins, I know,” Dean says, fake-suppressing a fake-shudder. “I was heading up here to see if I couldn’t find some work, and I stopped by Uncle Jim’s and…”
“God, I’m sorry,” she says. “Someone should have contacted you.”
“I don’t blame you guys,” Dean says. How could he? Even he didn’t know he was going to be a nephew until this morning. “You must be busy. It’s just… I’d like to know what happened, is all.”
She hesitates.
“I understand,” Dean says, and he does. This is sensitive stuff. He leans back and glances around. “Me and Uncle Jim, we weren’t all that close. But I read what the papers said, and I don’t think he did it.”
O’Hara chews on her lower lip.
Usually cops make the list of Dean’s least favorite things, but at least a couple of them are actually trying to make the world a better place - just like him and Sam - and he doesn’t like taking advantage of the well-meaning people like Detective O’Hara. Problem was, those are the easy ones, and it only takes a word: “Please.”
She pauses a second longer, and then she nods. “Maybe you can help me.”
She pulls a yellow legal pad out of her desk, and a pen to go with it. Dean recognizes that now it’s seriously interview time, even if the pen’s got a pink flower taped to the end of it.
“It’s so no one takes it,” O’Hara says, waving the pen. She must’ve seen him smirk.”
“Ah.”
“Was your uncle involved in any illegal activities, to your knowledge?”
“Nope,” Dean says, which is true. Well, almost. Rodriguez isn’t really his uncle.
“Was any member of the family?”
“Don’t think so.” The trick to an interview is to get information instead of give it - and it’s not as if he can tell her anything that’ll help. Except maybe to watch out for the teeth of the undead. “But,” he says, lowering his voice and leaning forward, “there were always rumors.”
She follows suit, leaning forward and whispering. “What kind of rumors?”
“You know,” he says, knowing she doesn’t. He’s making it up on the spot. “About the occult.”
She blinks.
Okay, no hits there. But she doesn’t think he’s nuts for suggesting it, either, and that’s something. He chuckles half-heartedly. “I mean, I don’t know if it’s even true-if you guys didn’t find anything…”
“We didn’t.” She nibbles on the end of her flower-pen, and Dean kind of whishes she wasn’t a cop. Again. “We didn’t find anything at all.”
He raises his eyebrows, an expression he imagines looks confused, yet thoughtful. “What do you mean?”
“The house was empty. Everything was gone, except for the, ah… victims.”
Aha, he’d like to think. A classic sign of the whatchacallit monster, which has a record in the myths of every culture on the entire freaking planet. But, no. He’s got nothing. “Weird,” he says, shrugs. “Crazy stuff?”
“What kind of rumors have you heard?” she asks.
He doesn’t have to answer that, because the phone on her desk starts jangling.
“This is O’Hara,” she answers. The receiver grumbles something, and she frowns. “Gus? What do you - no? I can’t, I’m with…”
“Oh, don’t mind me.” Dean says.
She doesn’t. She swivels around in her chair so she’s half turned away, which doesn’t make a very good sound barrier. “I know it’s important,” she says, “because it always is.”
The phone grumbles.
“I can’t,” she says. “I mean, I shouldn’t.” O’Hara covers the receiver with her hand. “I’m not going to do it,” she whispers at Dean. “I’m not supposed to.”
That, of course, means she’ll do her friend this favor just as soon as Dean turns away. The corners of his lips twitch. “I won’t tell.”
She talks back into the phone. “Okay, Gus. I’ll try to take care of it later. Just give me the number, and I’ll call you back.” She scrawls it down at the top of her legal pad, and doodles a big boxy rectangle around it. “KAZ 2Y5, okay. I’ll talk to you later.”
She hangs up. It takes her a second, which gives Dean the time he needs to stare at the series of letters and numbers and think, God fucking DAMNIT.
He’s smiling when she looks back at him.
“So,” she says. “Mr. Young-”
This time it’s his phone that rings. He checks the caller ID even though he knows who it is.
“Sam,” he answers. What he really wants to say is where the fuck is my car but he settles for, “Can’t really talk now. I’m at the station.”
“Oh,” Sam says. “How’s that going?”
Dean glances at O’Hara, but she’s on the phone again and not listening. Probably. “Just peachy,” he says. Sam knows that translates to, I’ve got nothing.
“I have something. There’s been another incident, at the morgue. Not far from the police station.” Someone says something in the background. “Three blocks,” Sam says.
“Who’s with you?” Dean asks.
“The psychic. We’re heading over there now, can you get here?”
“The psychic? Is he legit?”
The line’s quiet for several seconds. “I don’t know.”
That’s just… peachy. “Great,” Dean says, forgetting for a second that’s he’s supposed to be too bereaved to use sarcasm. “I’ll head over now.” He moves to hang up, and then thinks better of it. “Sam, before you go.”
“Yeah?”
“Make sure you feed the meter.”
Another pause. “Um, Dean? What are you-”
Dean talks right over him. “Yeah, I seriously can’t afford to get another ticket.” Not one of their code words, but hopefully this would give Sammy some kind of vague warning. “It’s my car, you know.”
Sam’s quiet again, and Dean can hear some kind of pop crap coming in over the radio. Then, “Okay, I’ll take care of it.”
“Right.”
Dean and O’Hara hang up at the same time.
“Listen-” Dean starts.
“I’m sorry,” O’Hara says. “I’ve got to go. There’s been a…” She bites her tongue; that’s probably not the stuff she’s supposed to share. “An incident.”
“Another murder?”
She stares at him, even as she grabs her keys and pulls her bag over one shoulder. “How did you know that?” she asks.
Dean gestures at his phone. “That was my brother. We read in the papers that there was some kinda psychic involved, so he went to see him, and-“
“Shawn?” O’Hara asks. “You mean Shawn Spencer?” She’s got a funny look on her face, like the wheels in her head are turning, and Dean has no idea what the hell that means.
So, “Yeah.”
She gives him a puzzled look.
If she runs the plates this situation could spiral pretty easily - Dean can’t even figure out a way to get the job done while having the dodge the police, too. Things are probably going to get ugly, and fast, and all Dean can think to do for now is to keep O’Hara in his sight.
This probably isn’t going to work, but, hell, anything’s worth a try. “Hey,” he says, catching her just as she starts to walk away. “Do you think I could catch a ride?”
Never in Sam’s life has waltzing onto a crime scene been so easy.
Sam follows as the psychic ducks under the yellow tape and strides through the sea of blue uniforms as if he belongs there - more than a couple of the cops nod approvingly. One of them even smiles and waves.
“Hey, Buzz,” Shawn responds, just as cheerily.
“So,” Sam says. He scans their surrounding uncertainly - there’s for sure a body or two around, but everything looks so… surreal. Maybe it’s just the sunny California weather. “The cops, they’re completely okay with what you do?” Truth is, he’s not even sure what it is that Shawn Spencer does, or if he’s even really psychic.
“Mostly,” Shawn says. He shades his face against the sun and peers at a crowd of people near the entrance of the morgue. “Is your brother on his way?”
Sam hadn’t told him that Dean was his brother. That didn’t mean he’d read his mind or anything, but how else could he have figured it out? This guy was definitely nothing like Missouri. And he still seemed to know things he couldn’t.
“I think Dean’s coming, yeah.”
“Awesome. You want to see the body?”
Want was a strong word. “It’d help. But the police…” They were all over the place, and without a hell of a convincing story he wasn’t going to get close.
Shawn waves his hand casually. “Don't worry about them.” He touches his temple. “Today, they are feeling… kind. Friendly. Open in heart and mind. They wouldn’t think of-”
“Spencer!”
Shawn sighs. “I apologize for my gross generalizations. Allow me to introduce Detective Lassiter.”
Sam recognizes the name - he’s the officer quoted in the paper - and the detective clearly recognizes Shawn. Lassiter approaches with his hands in his pockets and a scowl on his face; however, he doesn’t look remotely surprised. “Spencer, what-who is this?” he asks, casting his glare on Sam.
“My new assistant,” Shawn says. The way he lies without missing a beat reminds Sam a lot of Dean, but it still bothers him.
“Oh?” Lassiter says. “Did the old one decide to get a real job?”
Shawn rolls his eyes dramatically. “Gus has a real job. In fact, he has several.” He raises his hand and begins to count off on his fingers. “He’s a salesman, a secretary, and assistance, a money… counter… person, and I’m told he’s incredibly successful in the art of Internet poker-”
“Spencer, stop.” Lassiter closes his eyes and rubs his temples, and when he opens them again Sam is almost certain the man’s casting a sympathetic look in his direction. “What’re you doing here?” This time the condescension is gone - Detective Lassiter is really asking a question.
“Looking,” Shawn says.
“At?”
“Sir,” Sam interrupts. “I understand that you found some bodies under unusual circumstances just a few days ago.”
Lassiter freezes, and when he answers he’s looking at Shawn but talking to Sam. “How the hell do you know-”
Shawn shakes his head.
“It wasn’t him, Detective,” Sam says. He knows Dean was pretending to be a relative of the deceased as a cover, but here that’s not going to be good enough. “I kind of-I do a lot of research into things like this. I read the story in the papers and thought it sounded real similar to something I researched out in Tucson, Arizona, so I…”
It’s so weak. Dean would kick his ass if he knew he was making up such a pathetic cover, but Shawn and the detective are exchanging another significant glance. At first Sam thinks they’re about to kick him off the crime scene, but then he realizes it’s something else altogether. They know, he realizes. The two of them know something about this is so far off the map they’re never going to be able to chart it.
“And I think I can help,” Sam finishes, lamely.
Detective Lassiter points at him. “You’re with him.” He points at Shawn. “Keep out of the way of real police work, or I’ll have you both arrested.”
As Lassiter walks away, Shawn pumps his fists. “Alright, you’re in,” he says. “Now what?”
Now what? Sam frowns, glances around. He’s still not sure if they should check out the body, and he’s not sure it’d tell him anything anyway. “Do you sense anything here? Any kind of bad energies?”
“Sense. Huh.” Shawn glances around, and then he puts his hand to his temple like a movie psychic. “It’s definitely a repeat of last time, I’m sensing that. Besides, every single cop that was on the last scene is here, too. And they’re keeping the press out. And the body’s in the same position. There’s another one inside. And your brother’s here.”
He’s nothing like Missouri - but how the hell is he managing to figure any of that out? The body’s not even visible, Lassiter didn’t say a word, and there must be thirty or more cops here. Can he really remember every single face?
Sam turns to look for Dean.
No sign of him, but a green VW bug has just pulled up, and a woman with long blonde hair climbs out of the driver’s seat. Shawn starts towards her. He also pulls a chiming cell phone out of his pocket, checks the display, and shoves it back into his pocket without answering.
“Avoiding someone?” Sam asks.
“A couple of them. Jules!” Shawn positively beams, throwing his arms out.
Jules smiles at Shawn, but pauses when she sees Sam. “Where’s Gus?” she asks.
“He’s, well... very busy,” Shawn says. “I’ve hired a substitute for him, today, this is Sam. He’s very good at… seeing over people’s heads. Which is important for detective work and stuff.”
The passenger door opens, and Dean steps out.
Sam blinks in surprise. He hadn’t seen Dean in the car - though he guesses it wouldn’t be impossible to see him from that far away. And also to deduce that Dean is his brother, even if Shawn has certainly never met him and they don’t really look that much alike. Maybe.
Detective Lassiter’s attitude is starting to make a bit more sense. Shawn Spencer is nothing if not a headache.
Sam heads over to Dean.
“Do those two know each other?” he hears Jules ask. “Is that his brother? He mentioned-”
“Ah. No,” Shawn answers. “Definitely not. But I felt a peculiar vibe coming off of that man, and so I sent him over to…”
“So,” Dean says, once Sam’s close enough to hear his hushed tone. “We got more zombies?”
Sam nods. “Looks like two more. And Shawn told me on the way over here, they were definitely dead. The cops aren’t saying anything, but the woman who manages this place was in hysterics.”
“And Shawn’s-”
“The psychic guy, yeah.”
Dean frowns. “So, either we’ve got people coming back from the dead for the fun of it-”
Sam shakes his head. “I’ve never heard of bodies reanimating by themselves, but we could check Dad’s notebook…”
“-Or,” Dean continues. “We’ve got someone on this side of things causing this.”
Sam thinks about it. Having a living, breathing enemy to deal with would be a nice change of things - but the living are harder to deal with, since there’s no magic words you can use to get them to stop. Still, “Yeah,” he says. “Probably that.”
“Well, that’s great,” Dean says sarcastically. “Freaking fantastic.”
Someone screams.
Sam and Dean sprint across the lawn, reaching the door to the morgue just as Shawn Spencer comes careening out of it. He’s stumbling along with his hands out in front if his face and his eyes are rolled back, like he’s sleepwalking, and shouts, “Life! Life!”
Policemen and women scatter out of his way.
“I want-brains, no, wait! Not brains!” He raises his hands above his head. “The feel… of the sun… so nice.” Shawn smiles contentedly. “I didn’t ask for this, no, I want…”
He staggers to the right, and then the left.
“What the hell?” Dean hisses. “He channeling a spirit or something?”
Sam doesn’t dare answer that.
“No, no! Gus, Gus, it’s too strong!” Shawn buries his face in his hands, and behind him, Detective Lassiter is doing something similar. “I can’t-I want-this.” He mimes a beating heart. “It’s all… it’s all wrong. This place, this time-”
“Shawn?” The blond woman, Jules, asks. “What do you mean?”
“It’s not-meant-to be.” Shawn puts his hand to his forehead. “Good-bye-cruel-cruel world-” He collapses to the ground, flat on his back, his position exactly the same as the body not fifteen feet from him.
“Dude,” Dean says. “That was for us.”
He could have sent them an email, Sam wants to point out. It would have been a short note: Check the place and time of death, victim killed by heart attack. That was, if he’s guessed Shawn’s message correctly - but something told him that Shawn wasn’t exactly subtle.
“He’s not psychic,” Sam says. “At least, I don’t think so. He’s just… I have no idea. Not stupid, though. We can’t trust him.”
Jules kneels beside Shawn and tries to shake him back to his senses. Shawn responds by twitching like an epileptic.
“You know what?” Dean says. “I think I like him.”
Gus is waiting for him outside his apartment.
“Really, Gus,” Shawn says. “Rarely are you so proactive.” He’s trying to ignore the death glare and it’s mostly working, even after Gus ripped off his trick. He’s been screening his calls for a reason, after all.
He unlocks and opens his door, and Gus follows him inside.
“Shawn, what’s going on?” he demands.
Shawn drops his helmet and his jacket on his kitchen table, and heads to his fridge for a beer. “You want anything?” he asks.
“Shawn.”
“Fine, I think I’ve got some Dr. Pepper.” He rummages around behind the carton of expired milk. “And honestly, Gus, I have no idea what you’re talking about. There isn’t anything going on.”
“Really?” Gus is still glaring at him. “Then how come you haven’t answered your phone since you ditched me this afternoon?”
Shawn comes out of his kitchen and hands Gus the soda, which he accepts warily. Which Shawn thinks is ridiculous, because how on earth could he tamper with a sealed can like that?
“Dude,” he says, “I didn’t ditch you. I just, you know…” He waves his hand. “I had stuff.”
“Stuff.”
“Yeah, stuff.”
Gus is still looking at him.
“C’mon, man,” Shawn says. “Don’t look at me like that.”
But Gus just keeps staring.
“Okay, alright, fine.” Gus never, ever believes that anything Shawn does could maybe be for his own good. Like tricking him into losing the spelling bee, or stealing that Godawful windbreaker, or not telling him that there was something really wrong going down in Santa Barbara. And not something wrong like it’s raining without there being any clouds or getting pulled over while doing five under the speed limit, which reminds him… “Hey, did you get those plate numbers?”
Gus nods. “Yeah, I gave them to Juliet.”
“What? No! Gus, she’s a cop!”
“Yeah, so?”
Shawn doesn’t see why he needs to explain to Gus how it’s bad for business, having other people figure stuff out before he can. But Jules is pretty busy with the whole zombie uprising thing and won’t get to helping Gus out for at least a day. Probably. Plenty of time.
“Okay, that doesn’t matter right now,” he says, sitting down and tapping himself on the temple. “I’ll just have to figure out a way to work that into my-”
“Shawn!”
Shawn looks up. “Huh? Oh, oh. Yeah. Don’t you think it’s weird? First there’s the thing with the Rodriguez guy, and then those two guys show up to check it out?”
Gus is blanking out. “What two guys?”
Man, he’ll have to go all the way back to the beginning. “Listen, that guy that showed up at the office today? He’s got a brother, and their names are Sam and Dean, and they’re super paranoid. Sam wouldn’t even tell me their last name.”
Gus still has that skeptical expression on his face, but Shawn can tell he’s getting into it. He can’t help it, he’s Gus, and he’s loved solving mysteries ever since they were kids. He slides into the seat next to Shawn - the only other chair in the place - and says, “What, you asked him for his last name?”
“No, but you could tell it was on the tip of his tongue, and he just… anyway, he didn’t tell me much, but it sounds like the two of them just look into stuff like this. They don’t have jobs, this is all they do.”
Gus still isn’t following, though, and Shawn wonders if there’s anything important that he’s left out.
“Stuff like what, Shawn?” Gus asks. “What kind of stuff do they look into?”
Shawn shrugs. “You know. Your kind of stuff.”
Which could mean anything. Books, cartoons, computers, pharmaceuticals, comics, trivia… “What does that mean?” Gus asks, apparently on a similar train of thought.
“You know,” Shawn repeats, making a vague motion with one of his hands that conveys nothing at all. “Ghosts?”
Gus looks at him.
“What?”
“Shawn, that’s not my kind of thing,” Gus says indignantly, sitting up straighter.
“Yes it is! You’re the one with the, the books and the EM whatever reader and the Ghost Hunters DVDs!”
“I got those for Christmas, Shawn! I got those for Christmas from you.” He’s caught up in the argument, narrowing his eyes like he always does when he’s getting annoyed - and that’s great, because he just might forget- “Wait a minute, Shawn, you’re saying these guys… investigate… you know, stuff like that?”
Shawn hesitates.
He’ve got a lot of stories balanced in his head right now. He’s got a hobbyist from Arizona, a cousin who’s never met his brother, two guys who are all business about the dead, psychic powers which only work some of the time, people who don’t stay dead, Lassy’s we don’t say a word, and not all of those are even lies, really, but it’s enough to start confusing even him.
There’s also the truth. As much as he knows, anyway.
He leans forward. “Okay, Gus, it’s like this. How many times did you see Night of the Living Dead?”