Fanfic - SPN: Plain Gold Band - Ch. 5 - The Boy
Title: Plain Gold Band [Evil!Sammy Universe]
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
Chapter Five: The Boy
[037.Envious]
That night, they strolled into Kismet just after dinner and midway through the nightly introduction of the band. An overly animated man with his bow tie undone had wrestled the mic away from the voluptuous vocalist leaning against the piano and was gesturing to match his best Rat Pack inspired emceeing.
The sluggish bit of uneasiness dragging down Dean's back like slime, however, wasn't from the cheesy stage antics. Suicide songs might still be the answer, but there had to be more to it than that. He could feel the not-quite-rightness filling the space as they walked deeper into the din.
Ordering a couple of beers from the bar, Dean leaned in, nonchalant but a little hopeful, to ask the barkeep the crucial question of the night: "Do they, uh, play 'Gloomy Sunday' here? Billie Holiday used to sing it sometimes." Or so Sam had told him.
The bartender's eyebrows angled upwards as he looked them both over and passed them their beer, as if ruffians like them couldn't possibly be into jazz. He shrugged, though, with a shake of his head after Sam's exasperated 'do they play it here or not?'
"Not that I know of. I mean … I've only heard it once or twice before, but … I don't think I've ever heard it here."
"Were you working last night?" Sam's suspicious tone even made Dean uncomfortable and he couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy being interrogated.
"Yeah and I don't think they played it then either. They don't really take requests, but … maybe you could ask the band leader about it when they take a break."
"Alright. Thanks."
Dean gave half a sympathetic smile with his nod and swiped his beer, headed for the back of the room. He cringed internally as he realized that they were nearly back at square one again and his mind turned to the list of more convoluted solutions as they shimmied their way around tables to slide into a rounded booth just left of center on the rear wall.
"So …" Dean started the inevitable discussion, as both he and Sam moved to lounge in the back of the booth, a respectable distance apart but close enough to actually talk over the soundtracked roll call of the band.
"Does this place feel a little off to you?"
"Yeah. Can't tell why yet, though."
"We can scan for EMF."
"We can try. Sure." Dean shrugged and reached into his pocket to fiddle with the homemade EMF-reader.
He snuck the earpiece into his ear, only half-listening to the string of fifteen-second introductory solos. When Sam bristled, though, as the spotlight shifted, Dean redirected his attention to the stage.
"And … our own little Richie Cunningham tinkling the ivories."
The boy who ran his fingers up the piano keys looked awfully young, barely old enough to be in a bar, let alone playing with such finesse, but he was clearly a natural. The mop of hair on top with bangs enough to obscure half his face implied to Dean that he was definitely an artsy type and either had women hanging on his every word or had just as difficult a time keeping a girlfriend as the original Richie Cunningham. He was just a kid with some talent, or that was how it seemed at first, but as he finished his solo, his fingers sped off the piano and he turned to regard the audience.
His eyes were hooded, but there was something too old, too worldly in his expression, and his smile was so hollow that it hurt to watch it spread across his face as if his mouth were full of glass. Even when the spotlight shifted and he melted back into the relative darkness of the rest of the stage, he seemed out of place, a piece of metal stuck in a sand dune.
Dean could feel his brother's mood like heat against his skin before he'd even turned to look at him, but having done so, he couldn't help but wonder if Sam knew the kid from somewhere. Sam's face was tense beyond a feeling of unease to one of barely contained rage.
"Do you know him?"
"Who?"
"The guy you're trying to melt with your high beams."
Sam turned his full attention away from the stage and Dean wasn't sure that was better, his mind working double-time to quiet his body's desire to jerk away. "No. Do you?"
"No, but I'm not the one staring him down."
Sam's eyes blinked their way back to something less heated and flicked down to his empty glass. "I think I just need more beer. You should pick up some refills on the way back from the EMF sweep."
Dean grunted, taking the hint, and climbed out of the booth to make the rounds, the EMF meter's electronic gears sending a soft hum to his ears. Circling the room then winding between tables was an interesting logistical and social feat but it wasn't interesting on the meter. There were no spirits zipping around this place getting people to kill themselves unless they'd somehow managed to bewitch the sound system, which was possible but seemed unlikely.
He'd originally planned to go around twice, but the occasional screech from the box in his hand every time he passed a speaker was starting to injure his brain. He shut the meter off and headed back to the table. Square one indeed.
A hand grabbed him from the first dark booth he passed and he hit back, hard, sending some big guy sprawling into the booth with an 'oof'. Then he leaned in to look at the guy and recognized the grin of the man he'd messed around with the night before. It should've made him feel better about the grab, at least he kind of knew the guy, but really he only felt worse, wondering if Sam, three booths down the row, had seen him duck in, if Sam would know he'd made contact again. The situation could very easily end up worse than bad.
"You want another go?" The guy leered at him, eyes seeming unnaturally bright in the haze of the room. Then he licked his thumb and brushed it over his lip, his other hand visibly shifting to cup his crotch. "Hell, I'm up for another round already."
"No. Sorry." Dean pulled his head out of the booth, his eyes darting up the walk to the spot he'd been sharing with Sam. He could already taste the oily cologne when he inhaled and the scent of old garbage slid in right under the surface until he nearly gagged, remembering Sam's quip about unwashed bodies. In a minute, he'd be tainted by it and Sam would be gunning for the both of them.
His gaze swung back to the sleazy alley guy, but all Dean could say before he turned away again was, "Don't ever fucking touch me again."
The man's deep laughter followed him until the music finally drowned it out and Dean was grateful to plant his ass safely back beside his brother. These days that was saying a lot. Sam was kind of staring at him, though, as he sat, not maliciously, thank god, but expectantly.
"What?"
"Beer?"
"Shit. Sorry, I'll- …"
Sam shook his head with a snort as he slid out of the booth. "Nevermind. I'll get it myself."
Dean nodded quickly as his brother walked away, but his hands felt slimy all of a sudden. He was as sick with plain old nausea as he was with guilt, but both were more present than he'd've liked. If Sam found out that 'the nasty guy' was three tables down, there'd be a riot in here for sure and anything that had almost maybe been sort of mended today would fall to pieces again. Not that all that much, or really anything, had been fixed between them, but they weren’t at the bottom of the hole just yet, so they could still go crashing down another few feet at least.
There was nothing Dean could really do about the situation, though, unless he could get Sam to leave and that seemed unlikely since they were technically working and had only just arrived. Sam would know something was up if he suggested an early night, even with what must've been a poor sleep night for them both. So, Dean just took a deep breath and tried to let the music soothe him as his mind tumbled through the options they had left.
With the evidence they had and the lack of EMF readings of interest, there weren't really too many possibilities still on the table, but none of them would be easy to find the source of nor would they be easy to fix. If there was some kind of non-human intervention going on that couldn't be distinguished from the sound system-based electronic interference, then they were in a pretty serious bind. If it was human mind control, though, whether via innate ability or black magick, then it would be tough to trace, due to the changing base of patrons milling around the club. But, there would be something physical for them to start with and someone physical for them to stop.
They'd just have to find a living person with grudge enough to make themselves into a supernatural serial killer. Technically, that sent them back to their initial theory about locals wronged by cheating spouses only now those locals would need to be living. But, to further complicate the issue, it could also just be some moralist vigilante with a hard-on for adulterers. That wouldn't be a stretch either. It had sure as hell happened before. It didn't help that the only obvious bit of information connecting all the victims was the most happening spot in town. Dean wasn't quite sure where to head from here, but he hoped Sam's brain and beer for both of them would help.
Sam swaggered back to the table and set down the beers he had in tow before squirming back into his seat with a sigh that was more resignation than frustration. "Nothing on the EMF meter huh?"
"Not unless the speakers count, or maybe the microphones."
"Oh yeah." Sam seemed to laugh and groan at the same time. "Well, it was worth a shot, right? I mean now … fuck … this is gonna suck."
"Yeah."
Dean scanned the room as he sipped at his beer, exhausted by the mere thought that any regular in the crowd, tonight or any other night, could be behind all the supposed suicides. At a glance it seemed a nearly impossible task and he tried not to imagine himself breaking into a dozen dozen houses to look for tomes of evil and bloodstained altars. It just wasn't going to work.
The music wasn't helping, though. There was nothing soothing about the blues-based dirge winding its way through him and dragging his gaze to the stage. The piano boy was just starting his solo, but it seemed almost like there hadn't been a song playing before then, that maybe there wouldn't be one after, even. It took up so much space in Dean's head that he couldn't hum half a tune from anything else he'd heard that night, distracted or not.
As the notes flowed over and around him, it was like he was standing in a river of sorrow, or drowning in it. It made him ache all the way to his bones, thinking about Mom and Dad, about the long road ahead, about losing Sam and maybe losing the war. It was hard to have hope when he heard the desperation and fatalism coating every tone of the scale. It reminded him a little of Metallica's "Fade to Black" in a way and he almost, almost, wondered why he'd never paid much attention to jazz before. But then he realized that he really must be losing his mind.
He turned to look at his brother, a sad, self-mocking laugh struggling to leave his mouth, but Sam seemed almost out of sync with the dark rhythm of the music, unaffected or affected differently. His head was bobbing in time with something, but there was a smug upward tilt to his lips as if the music was just good and he owned it, as if the music didn't hurt. The emotions playing across his features had moments of anger and longing, but there was no weighted heartache lingering there. Dean hoped it would stay that way.
When the kid on stage finished his solo, Dean still felt caught up in the ache of it, but Sam's mouth was moving and the sound of his voice gradually began to impact Dean's ears. "I'd thought it might be one of the regulars, but, realistically, it could be anybody. I mean the culprit could just watch this place and keep tabs on whoever comes in with someone else's husband or wife. In which case, we've pretty much got nothing. There are probably thousands of victims of cheating around here and thousands who are pissed off by it just on principle."
Sam said it all with a shrug but the prospect made Dean's head hurt. He hated not being able to fix things and a handful of suicides a week sounded like something that desperately needed fixing. "That's not a good thing, Sam."
"No, but it does mean that there's no reason to worry about seemingly random investigations. Almost anything is going to narrow the field at this point but still probably leave a ton of other potential suspects." Sam nodded slowly as he spoke, purposefully still watching the stage as if anyone could hear what they said or actually cared. "So, you know what? I think it's someone in the band. And, if that doesn't give us a lead, then we should check out the local magick and spirit-action folks."
"Right." Dean blinked and breathed deep as he tossed out his answer, but he wasn't wholly committed to that plan, honestly. Besides that one strange piano guy, he just wasn't immediately sure why the band should be their first group of suspects.
"You don't have to agree with me, but you don't really have a better plan and if you took a minute to focus, you'd come up with the same plan."
Dean quirked an eyebrow at Sam's implication, but as he looked over the room again slowly, he felt it, a tugging of wrongness that made him double check the people on stage as if a three-headed monster might pop out of someone's collar any minute. He didn't quite know what that meant, but his father had always told him to trust his instincts and, excluding things with Sam, he thought they'd been doing a fair job lately. "Fine, we start with the band. You want to start when they break next or ... ?"
"Tomorrow. We should start fresh, get our story straight, ya know?"
"Sure- … Oh, wait." Dean was about to agree and suggest they adjourn to the motel, but he noticed the band starting to step down for their break. "We're here and they're already going into a break, so why don't we just poke around a bit. I mean, I have cop ID on me from yesterday. Bet you do too. So, we already have a story, Sam."
Sam was shaking his head, eyebrows bunched in and down before Dean was even close to done. "No. ... We need to observe them more tonight and, come on, these guys might be jazz players, but they're musicians. They'd probably laugh us out of the building if we went in with drummer names."
"Fine." Dean sniffed, but he didn't care all that much for going right into deeper investigation tonight, so he wasn't going to fight for it. What he did want, though, was to get out of the club as soon as possible so they could avoid a run-in with the sleazy guy three booths away. "But what is there to observe, Sam? Why don't we leave after the break?"
Sam didn't quite seem convinced, but he shrugged with a half-nod anyway. "I'm okay with that."
Sighing, Dean tried to focus his attention on the band members who were all grabbing drinks and mingling with the crowd. Nothing seemed especially sinister about it, but when he looked over at his brother, Sam was watching the piano player again, his eyes squinting up as the boy slid into a seat at the bar to sip what looked like rum and coke. "Do you think it's him?"
"Not necessarily more than anyone else."
"Then what's all the tension for?"
Looking away for a moment, teeth grinding, Sam slowly tipped his head side to side, seeming to mull over his phrasing before he opened his mouth. "Umm. Different people have different kinds of energies and sometimes they clash, like people talk about personalities doing. Sometimes that clashing is about alignment, as in the people involved really are or should be natural enemies, but they could also be on the same side and just have really different approaches. It probably explains the kind of sixth sense you have that lets you know when something supernatural is nearby, even if it's theoretically friendly." Sam grinned, predatory intent darkening his eyes. "Like me."
The rub of Sam's leg, warm and purposeful against his, made Dean shift, not quite away but not encouraging either. It unnerved him, the way Sam could so easily make him anxious as much from sexual interest as hunting-honed fear. It was bad enough that he couldn't trust his instincts when it came to Sam. Having to deal with his body's problematic reactions wasn't something he wanted to do and he thought he'd sated those needs the night before, even paying in spades for that wanton expending of energy.
Maybe he wasn't as kind as he could've been when he decided to speak, but Sam kept cornering him in so many ways and it was hard for him to not come back with something equally aggressive. "I thought you said you were trying not to tip anyone off, Sam."
"There's no one here except you. And, honestly? It's kind of a rush to have this effect on you. It's like making a girl blush, only …" Sam's calf pressed more firmly against Dean's, heel hooking behind Dean's as he reached for Dean's wrist and gave it a squeeze. "You know I won't hurt you."
Dean tried to snatch his wrist away, but Sam's hand came with it. "Sam- …"
"Or maybe you don't." A smirk dominated Sam's face and one eyebrow lifted to add to the atmosphere of mystery.
"Sam, stop." Dean could practically feel himself bruising as Sam squeezed tighter and tighter around his wrist, but the ache from there twisted into something more exhilarating as it traveled through him. His mind remembered those hands around his wrists, pinning him down as Sam's body crushed into his, but he worked to forget it.
"Why? You like it. You're not breathing hard because you think I'm going to kill you in some overdone supernatural way. You're breathing hard because you think I might fuck you until you collapse in a boneless heap of sweat and come."
He shuddered, but shook his head, trying to pull his arm out of Sam's grip again. "I don't- …"
Sam just held on even tighter, though, shifting to lean over the table as he extended his reach to address Dean's pull and capture his eyes with the ownership in his own. "Yes, you do. More than you'd like to admit. You crave the fight in the sex sometimes. I get that, I do, and if memory serves, there were always plenty of bruises for you to admire after we'd fucked around, so … what's the big deal?"
"We already talked about this and we're not doing it. Period." Dean channeled his nerves and conflicted emotions into something he knew, anger and aggression, finally managing to yank his arm away and unhook his leg from Sam's. He recoiled as Sam chuckled, sinking back into his seat, and tried to brush fingers over his skin. "Stop."
"Why? You love it!"
"No. It makes my fucking stomach roll over. So, seriously? Stop!"
He saw Sam double blink over an ocean of anger and hurt before Sam turned away to look at the empty stage, his voice suddenly soft enough to get lost in the din of the room. "Right."
"Sam, I wasn't- … I didn't mean it like that, okay?"
Shrugging with faked nonchalance, Sam slid out of his seat. "No, you meant exactly what you said. I make you sick." Sam wasn't actually looking at Dean as he spoke, more letting his eyes wander the room, but he nodded as he took a step towards the bar, his body stiff with tension. "I'm gonna grab some beer. Be right back."
Sam was gone before Dean could formulate something better to say, but he leaned out of the booth enough to watch his brother cross the room and order at the bar. The redheaded librarian from this morning or perhaps a similarly pretty redhead slid up next to Sam, a hand at his back in a gesture of comfort as he spoke to her about something Dean couldn't read on his lips. The beer came, or so Dean surmised by the cash Sam dropped, though he couldn't see it past the curves of the woman's frame. He saw Sam almost smile, his body language including her in an easy way that hid just how pissed he was, and Dean tried not to categorize the pang in his chest as he turned back to study his empty glass on the table, wondering if Sam had a library rendezvous earlier after all.
When Sam came back to the booth some minutes later, the band was already back on stage and playing their little hearts out on an upbeat tune, but Dean couldn't get into it at all. Sam passed him a fresh beer as he sat, but didn't say anything, preferring the not-quite-silence of jazz in the background.
"I didn't- …"
"Shut up."
"Sam, come on. It wasn't like- …"
"Shut up and drink your beer." Sam continued to watch the stage, but closed his eyes as he slammed back three quarters of his beer, guzzling it down.
Dean shook his head, but looked down at his third beer of the night. He wasn't particularly thirsty, but he was barely warm from alcohol let alone tipsy or drunk and Sam was making it pretty clear that tonight wouldn't be all that much easier than the night before. He lifted his glass to gulp down half of it, before setting it back down and wondering aloud. "I thought we were gonna leave after the band's break."
"Changed my mind." Sam's eyes blinked Dean's way for a second, checking his half-empty glass as he swallowed the rest of his own beer. "You done yet?"
Dean's huff was as much farce as frustration as he tipped his head back to drink down his remaining beer. With the way things were going, he honestly couldn't figure out if the alcohol would be helpful or not, but if they drunk themselves mellow enough to not keep hurting each other tonight, then maybe they could both survive long enough to come up with a more long term solution tomorrow.
Sam seemed to note the newly empty glass, but didn't immediately rise for more refills, instead, watching his fingers tap against the glass between his hands. When he smirked, though, eyes still trained downward, Dean knew things were going to get ugly. "You know … I'd ask if the guy you fucked is here, but I figure I'd've smelled him by now, so I'm guessing not. I did smell him in the car, though. All. Day. Did he give you enough bruises to get you off for a week? 'Cause … that's how long the leather's gonna stink."
Dean took a deep breath then let it out slowly. "Sam- …" The words halted in his mouth as Sam's eyes snapped up to his.
"He is here, isn't he?"
"No." Dean held Sam's gaze, not allowing himself to waver. He might not like the guy he'd messed around with, but it wouldn't do for Sam to make a scene while they were in the middle of a case. "Haven't seen him since yesterday."
Sam nodded slowly, watching Dean intently. "Just tell me where. I'm not gonna start anything in here. I'm no amateur, Dean. I know we've still got work to do. I just want to see him. Probably won't even say anything. Okay?"
"Look who's lying now."
Managing a tight laugh, Sam relaxed deeper into the built-in cushion behind him. "I'm not lying. I'll leave him alone while we're working."
"And as soon as we're not, you're going to break his nose."
Sam's head angled off to the side as he hummed. "Hmm. Probably not his nose. He really shouldn't get a reprieve from smelling himself."
"I'm not gonna tell you, Sam. So, just let it go."
Sam smirked again, the edges of his lips turning into sharp points that looked like they'd cut if kissed. "I can look for him myself, but that would involve sniffing a lot of people, so I'd imagine that would cause much more of a scene than if you just pointed him out."
Dean nearly growled at his smugly wicked brother, trying not to think about Sam walking around the room, leaning in to smell every person he passed. "Fuck. Fine! But keep your head together, alright?"
"Fine." Sam turned, jutting his chin toward the crowd between them and the stage. "So, which one is he?"
"I don't think he's out there."
"Why not?"
"He's been sitting in a booth down the walkway all night. I haven't seen him really leave it."
"And you've been watching him why? So you can time your bathroom breaks accordingly?"
"No, I've been checking because I didn't want any trouble."
"Right." Sam pursed his lips as he nodded in faux agreement before slipping out of the booth and raising an eyebrow in Dean's direction. "Why don't you show me where the little punk is hiding?"
Dean gave Sam a hard look, but scooted out and onto his feet, heading towards the third booth down and the dreaded confrontation that would surely happen there. When they got there, though, the guy was nowhere to be found, but there was a folded note with Dean's name on it sitting in the center of the table.
"Look. He left you a note. How sweet."
Dean reached for the note and opened it with confusion and no small bit of trepidation. "I never gave him my name."
This note isn't really for you, but I wanted you to see it anyway. Ask him about it. See if he trusts you.
Hey,
The guys back home miss you and all your skills. Just wanted to make sure you made the right choice. We're still not sure that you did. You could go damn far if you wanted. I heard you might've had a change of heart today, though, so I guess you're not quite sure about that decision either. PBC and TRIA. You remember, don't you? The gate's always open and with legs like yours, you can probably take the stairs two at a time.
See ya.
Dean passed the folded paper to Sam, his head aching as he tried to make it make sense. "What does this mean, Sam? What is he talking about?"
Sam twitched twice as he read the letter, but he quickly shook it off, pocketing the note as he spoke only loud enough to be heard and looked everywhere but Dean's eyes. "What did he look like?"
"Tallish, wide, dark hair - longer than mine but shorter than yours - fair skin, dark eyes like- ..." Dean paused, losing himself in the memory of those eyes, trying to find words as he felt himself fall into them again. "I don't know. He was just ... intense, like really intense ... and a damn smug bastard too."
"Did he pursue you or was it the other way around?" Sam's breathing was clipped as he continued scanning the room and waited anxiously for Dean's answer.
Dean rewound back to that moment in the bar. He'd made eye contact with the guy, but he hadn't intended to even try for anything until the guy had come up and propositioned him. "He pursued me. … I think."
"Fucking asshole. I'm gonna fucking- …"
"What?" Sam looked like he could snap something in two right then and Dean still had no idea why.
The flickering heat of Sam's gaze hit Dean like acid rain and he blinked repeatedly, instinctually, as if that could shield him from the force of his brother's emotions. "He knew. He knew who you were when he decided to go after you."
"Who's 'he'? And how would he know me?" His eyebrows pressed in towards the center of his forehead, a throb setting up shop at his temples. None of this made any sense. "I'd never seen him before in my life and if he was a cop then- …"
"No, that's not- … Mel said Brandon, the guy you- … whatever, that he mentioned seeing us out this way, which was why she called." Sam's voice softened some with the lift of his shoulders as his breath came in a little less shallow and went out slower than it had before.
"But who is he and why would he know me?"
"He's- …" Sam cut himself off before he'd really started, glancing off over the crowd as if he wanted to stop there, but he just sighed like this really wasn't what he wanted to be doing right then and kept talking. "He's one of the guys that I used to work with, and as for him knowing you, I don't know if he actually knows who you are, but he could've figured it out from seeing us together. I mean …" Sam swallowed and continued with his explanation, even softer this time. "I talked about you sometimes and … it wasn't really a secret where I'd head if I wanted some space from the organization."
"Are you telling me that I- …"
Sam's eyes flashed to Dean's and the intensity almost burned. "Don't! I do not want to know what that fucking- …" His jaw tightened, but he took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. "I just don't want to know."
"That's fine, but … are you saying that he specifically sought me out because of my connection to you?"
"Yeah. That's exactly what I'm saying."
"That's fucked up."
"That's Brandon."
"Why would he do that?"
Sam looked away, staying silent for a long moment, and Dean was just about to ask again when Sam decided to finally speak. "The organization is like this … tight-knit family. Most people don't really have anybody, so … the crew and the work are … everything … and when you join up … you give everything you've got and they multiply it when they give it back to you." He paused, mouth working subtly and soundlessly for a moment before the words began to pour out again, quieter and more hesitant this time. "You don't- … You don't keep things for yourself. Sharing is the norm … at least until you get pretty high up in the ranks and even then, it's like- … it's like show of faith or some shit to … share."
Dean ran through the words twice in his mind, watching his brother wince with his own thoughts. "Did you just say what I think you said?"
"Probably." Sam lifted his eyes to find Dean's again, a shrug in his shoulder even though Dean could tell it wasn't a thought Sam could really brush off that easily.
"I thought you said you were doing construction work."
"I was."
"That doesn't sound like a construction company, Sam. It sounds like a cult."
"Yeah, well, it wasn't … but I'm thinking more beer would be good right about now." Sam nodded to himself and pushed past Dean, heading back the way they'd come.
Dean grabbed Sam's arm as he passed, but immediately felt a jolt of something that made him let go as Sam's head whipped around to look at him.
"Don't touch me." Sam's voice was raspy and just under the anger Dean could see a hint of the fear from the night before.
"Sam, talk to me. What the hell is going on?"
Sam shook his head, pulling away as his breathing sped up, tears threatening to break through the blanket of his restrained violence. "I can't- …" He sucked in breath, closing his eyes for a minute as he grounded himself. "It'll be better with beer, okay? Just- … I'll be right back."
"Okay." Dean nodded and let him go, watching Sam dart down the walkway toward the bar. Then he ran his fingers through his hair and walked back to their booth, trying not to be as freaked out as the situation seemed to warrant.
Sam's mood swings were intense and unpredictable. One minute he was this arrogant guy always on the verge of taking what he wanted and the next he was this little boy torn to pieces by the life he had to lead. Sam had never been a wholly mellow guy. He was always the sweet innocent type who, when pushed, had absolutely no problem getting in their father's face and yelling down the house. But, this was beyond his natural extremes and it made him so damned unstable.
Dean rubbed fingers across his forehead and tried not to dwell on the fact that the brother he'd known wasn't easy to find in the mess of these moods. With anyone else, he'd probably wonder about drugs, but with Sam he knew it was far more likely to be stress. Problem was, they couldn't really fix this stress any easier than they could fix a drug problem. Sam was changing in ways neither of them could do anything about. It wasn't anyone's fault, it was just a fact, and Dean needed to get his shit together so he could be supportive. Period.
He felt Sam's presence before he saw him, Sam walking up to stand next to the table without moving into his seat. Dean didn't look up, though, his eyes watching his fingers roll over the wood of the table.
"Thought we'd try something different." Sam took a shaky breath before he set two dark beers on the table, sliding one to Dean and wrapping a hand around the other as he dropped onto the leather bench of the booth.
Dean just shrugged and took a swig, not actually caring what kind of beer they drank right now as long as it had a reasonable alcohol content. His tongue did knock at the roof of his mouth as he tried to place the aftertaste, but really, the beer was fine. Sam, though, didn't seem quite as fine. He'd already downed half his beer, washing away his uncertain frown and replacing it with a fresh new smirk.
"So …" Dean didn't know quite how to start things, or maybe continue things would be a better way to think about it. Sam could easily blow up in his face in a variety of very negative ways and it would be like he'd never tried to be supportive at all.
"You have more questions."
"Yeah, I do." Dean breathed deeply, trying to figure out how to phrase things in the least interrogative way. "This guy, Brandon, he mentioned a choice you made and … he mentioned that you might've changed your mind about that today. So … I guess … what does that mean?"
"They like everyone they train to fight their way up in the organization and … I just wasn't really that interested. As long as I wasn't on the bottom, I was okay and I thought I could keep my ties minimal if this worked out."
Sam swallowed some more of his beer and Dean followed suit, licking his lips as he spoke. "What changed?"
"I wasn't sure if this was really working out."
"So you would've gone back to this … construction cult thing … if you stopped hunting with me?"
Sam watched Dean warily for a moment, but quickly laughed. "Dean, if I wanted to lose you, you'd just lose me."
"Yeah, I noticed that." He drank more, as if that would lessen the scowl on his face. "What about all the abbreviations and stuff at the end of the note? More construction cult jargon?"
Sam looked at him for a long time, but still tossed back the last of his beer before answering. "Yeah. They're just- … projects that I was- … working on."
Dean nodded slowly, his eyelids sticking closed before lifting again. "In Minnesota or out here?"
"All kinds of places. I moved around a lot. They've got connections worldwide."
"That didn't mess with your research?"
Sam's blinks seemed long but he shook his head. "No, it was- … I was always learning. Wherever I was." He nodded his head some, breath coming a little faster as an awkward silence fell, Dean unsure just where this conversation was taking his brother.
There was so much Sam wasn't saying, Dean knew that, but there were pieces of truth all over the place. They were just mixed in with stress and fear and a bunch of other things that circled quietly in Sam's eyes. He wondered just how lost Sam had to have felt to fall in with a crowd that was anything like the one he was describing. It seemed like Sam had found some kind of safety there, enough to return to, but it was the kind that runaways found in prostitution, street youth in drugs, beggars in bus station corners. It was an ugly kind of safehaven that wasn't really safe at all, but the consistency always seemed two crumbs better than the chaos of nothing.
What had he left Sam to when he'd let him walk away? And how could he help Sam see that going back to that organization was crazy? Maybe- … He didn't know. His head hurt and he just wanted his brother back. Why was this all so damn hard to figure out? It felt like every time he grabbed at a possible solution it slipped away from him or fell to pieces in his hands. He had no idea what was going on in Sam's head or what had gone on in Sam's life while they were apart. There had to be a way to get to the meat of the issues without pushing Sam away, right? Ri- … Fuck. He moved to grind the heel of his hand into his right temple, closing his eyes against the stabbing pain that shot to his brain like an amped up ice cream headache. It stopped an instant after it had started, though, and he tried to think of something, anything, to say.
"You okay?"
"Yeah." Dean opened his eyes, but after the extended lull in the conversation, his tongue felt thick in his mouth, moving slowly enough to distort the sound as it hit his ears, and he shook his head to clear it, taking another swig of beer. "So … you were pretty … tight … with these construction guys … huh?"
Sam kept his smirk, but his eyes slipped away, eyebrows tipping down in distress for a moment before coming back. "Yeah. We- … Yeah. I guess you could say that."
"But … you were still pissed that he … you know … even though that's kinda … how they work … or something … right?" Dean's vision blurred briefly and his stomach threatened to respond, but he held back, deciding to push the last third of his beer away as if he'd had a lot to drink when he was fairly sure he hadn't. He worked to keep both hands on the table and away from his head. Pressure wasn't helping. It was probably just his earlier tiredness catching up with him.
"I don't have to agree with them on everything to know that working with them can take me far."
Nodding slowly, Dean blinked and blinked, but it wasn't getting better and, really, they didn't have to stay here to have this conversation. "You know what? I'm really zoning here. Sorry. Do you think- … fuck … I'm obviously not a- … whatever-the-fuck-kinda-beer-that-was guy, 'cause … I'm all fucked up. Can you- … Are you good to drive?"
"Yeah, sure."
Sam watched him with concern, but Dean tried to wave him off as they both stood and began working their way to the door. He tripped in the parking lot, catching himself on the hood of his car and feeling his way to the passenger door with Sam at his back, ignoring his slurred string of 'I'm okay's.
He didn't really remember the car ride, half of it spent sort of sleeping, the other half spent trying to keep dinner down when all the world was a painful blur. When he finally stumbled into the room, Sam's arm around his back, he all but fell into bed, clothes only half off, and his eyes slammed shut like a vault going into automatic lockdown.
The feel of his brother standing over him was the last thing that drifted through his mind as everything went dark.
Prologue - One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven - Eight - Epilogue
Author: eboniorchid
Full Header for the Series
Chapter Five: The Boy
[037.Envious]
That night, they strolled into Kismet just after dinner and midway through the nightly introduction of the band. An overly animated man with his bow tie undone had wrestled the mic away from the voluptuous vocalist leaning against the piano and was gesturing to match his best Rat Pack inspired emceeing.
The sluggish bit of uneasiness dragging down Dean's back like slime, however, wasn't from the cheesy stage antics. Suicide songs might still be the answer, but there had to be more to it than that. He could feel the not-quite-rightness filling the space as they walked deeper into the din.
Ordering a couple of beers from the bar, Dean leaned in, nonchalant but a little hopeful, to ask the barkeep the crucial question of the night: "Do they, uh, play 'Gloomy Sunday' here? Billie Holiday used to sing it sometimes." Or so Sam had told him.
The bartender's eyebrows angled upwards as he looked them both over and passed them their beer, as if ruffians like them couldn't possibly be into jazz. He shrugged, though, with a shake of his head after Sam's exasperated 'do they play it here or not?'
"Not that I know of. I mean … I've only heard it once or twice before, but … I don't think I've ever heard it here."
"Were you working last night?" Sam's suspicious tone even made Dean uncomfortable and he couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy being interrogated.
"Yeah and I don't think they played it then either. They don't really take requests, but … maybe you could ask the band leader about it when they take a break."
"Alright. Thanks."
Dean gave half a sympathetic smile with his nod and swiped his beer, headed for the back of the room. He cringed internally as he realized that they were nearly back at square one again and his mind turned to the list of more convoluted solutions as they shimmied their way around tables to slide into a rounded booth just left of center on the rear wall.
"So …" Dean started the inevitable discussion, as both he and Sam moved to lounge in the back of the booth, a respectable distance apart but close enough to actually talk over the soundtracked roll call of the band.
"Does this place feel a little off to you?"
"Yeah. Can't tell why yet, though."
"We can scan for EMF."
"We can try. Sure." Dean shrugged and reached into his pocket to fiddle with the homemade EMF-reader.
He snuck the earpiece into his ear, only half-listening to the string of fifteen-second introductory solos. When Sam bristled, though, as the spotlight shifted, Dean redirected his attention to the stage.
"And … our own little Richie Cunningham tinkling the ivories."
The boy who ran his fingers up the piano keys looked awfully young, barely old enough to be in a bar, let alone playing with such finesse, but he was clearly a natural. The mop of hair on top with bangs enough to obscure half his face implied to Dean that he was definitely an artsy type and either had women hanging on his every word or had just as difficult a time keeping a girlfriend as the original Richie Cunningham. He was just a kid with some talent, or that was how it seemed at first, but as he finished his solo, his fingers sped off the piano and he turned to regard the audience.
His eyes were hooded, but there was something too old, too worldly in his expression, and his smile was so hollow that it hurt to watch it spread across his face as if his mouth were full of glass. Even when the spotlight shifted and he melted back into the relative darkness of the rest of the stage, he seemed out of place, a piece of metal stuck in a sand dune.
Dean could feel his brother's mood like heat against his skin before he'd even turned to look at him, but having done so, he couldn't help but wonder if Sam knew the kid from somewhere. Sam's face was tense beyond a feeling of unease to one of barely contained rage.
"Do you know him?"
"Who?"
"The guy you're trying to melt with your high beams."
Sam turned his full attention away from the stage and Dean wasn't sure that was better, his mind working double-time to quiet his body's desire to jerk away. "No. Do you?"
"No, but I'm not the one staring him down."
Sam's eyes blinked their way back to something less heated and flicked down to his empty glass. "I think I just need more beer. You should pick up some refills on the way back from the EMF sweep."
Dean grunted, taking the hint, and climbed out of the booth to make the rounds, the EMF meter's electronic gears sending a soft hum to his ears. Circling the room then winding between tables was an interesting logistical and social feat but it wasn't interesting on the meter. There were no spirits zipping around this place getting people to kill themselves unless they'd somehow managed to bewitch the sound system, which was possible but seemed unlikely.
He'd originally planned to go around twice, but the occasional screech from the box in his hand every time he passed a speaker was starting to injure his brain. He shut the meter off and headed back to the table. Square one indeed.
A hand grabbed him from the first dark booth he passed and he hit back, hard, sending some big guy sprawling into the booth with an 'oof'. Then he leaned in to look at the guy and recognized the grin of the man he'd messed around with the night before. It should've made him feel better about the grab, at least he kind of knew the guy, but really he only felt worse, wondering if Sam, three booths down the row, had seen him duck in, if Sam would know he'd made contact again. The situation could very easily end up worse than bad.
"You want another go?" The guy leered at him, eyes seeming unnaturally bright in the haze of the room. Then he licked his thumb and brushed it over his lip, his other hand visibly shifting to cup his crotch. "Hell, I'm up for another round already."
"No. Sorry." Dean pulled his head out of the booth, his eyes darting up the walk to the spot he'd been sharing with Sam. He could already taste the oily cologne when he inhaled and the scent of old garbage slid in right under the surface until he nearly gagged, remembering Sam's quip about unwashed bodies. In a minute, he'd be tainted by it and Sam would be gunning for the both of them.
His gaze swung back to the sleazy alley guy, but all Dean could say before he turned away again was, "Don't ever fucking touch me again."
The man's deep laughter followed him until the music finally drowned it out and Dean was grateful to plant his ass safely back beside his brother. These days that was saying a lot. Sam was kind of staring at him, though, as he sat, not maliciously, thank god, but expectantly.
"What?"
"Beer?"
"Shit. Sorry, I'll- …"
Sam shook his head with a snort as he slid out of the booth. "Nevermind. I'll get it myself."
Dean nodded quickly as his brother walked away, but his hands felt slimy all of a sudden. He was as sick with plain old nausea as he was with guilt, but both were more present than he'd've liked. If Sam found out that 'the nasty guy' was three tables down, there'd be a riot in here for sure and anything that had almost maybe been sort of mended today would fall to pieces again. Not that all that much, or really anything, had been fixed between them, but they weren’t at the bottom of the hole just yet, so they could still go crashing down another few feet at least.
There was nothing Dean could really do about the situation, though, unless he could get Sam to leave and that seemed unlikely since they were technically working and had only just arrived. Sam would know something was up if he suggested an early night, even with what must've been a poor sleep night for them both. So, Dean just took a deep breath and tried to let the music soothe him as his mind tumbled through the options they had left.
With the evidence they had and the lack of EMF readings of interest, there weren't really too many possibilities still on the table, but none of them would be easy to find the source of nor would they be easy to fix. If there was some kind of non-human intervention going on that couldn't be distinguished from the sound system-based electronic interference, then they were in a pretty serious bind. If it was human mind control, though, whether via innate ability or black magick, then it would be tough to trace, due to the changing base of patrons milling around the club. But, there would be something physical for them to start with and someone physical for them to stop.
They'd just have to find a living person with grudge enough to make themselves into a supernatural serial killer. Technically, that sent them back to their initial theory about locals wronged by cheating spouses only now those locals would need to be living. But, to further complicate the issue, it could also just be some moralist vigilante with a hard-on for adulterers. That wouldn't be a stretch either. It had sure as hell happened before. It didn't help that the only obvious bit of information connecting all the victims was the most happening spot in town. Dean wasn't quite sure where to head from here, but he hoped Sam's brain and beer for both of them would help.
Sam swaggered back to the table and set down the beers he had in tow before squirming back into his seat with a sigh that was more resignation than frustration. "Nothing on the EMF meter huh?"
"Not unless the speakers count, or maybe the microphones."
"Oh yeah." Sam seemed to laugh and groan at the same time. "Well, it was worth a shot, right? I mean now … fuck … this is gonna suck."
"Yeah."
Dean scanned the room as he sipped at his beer, exhausted by the mere thought that any regular in the crowd, tonight or any other night, could be behind all the supposed suicides. At a glance it seemed a nearly impossible task and he tried not to imagine himself breaking into a dozen dozen houses to look for tomes of evil and bloodstained altars. It just wasn't going to work.
The music wasn't helping, though. There was nothing soothing about the blues-based dirge winding its way through him and dragging his gaze to the stage. The piano boy was just starting his solo, but it seemed almost like there hadn't been a song playing before then, that maybe there wouldn't be one after, even. It took up so much space in Dean's head that he couldn't hum half a tune from anything else he'd heard that night, distracted or not.
As the notes flowed over and around him, it was like he was standing in a river of sorrow, or drowning in it. It made him ache all the way to his bones, thinking about Mom and Dad, about the long road ahead, about losing Sam and maybe losing the war. It was hard to have hope when he heard the desperation and fatalism coating every tone of the scale. It reminded him a little of Metallica's "Fade to Black" in a way and he almost, almost, wondered why he'd never paid much attention to jazz before. But then he realized that he really must be losing his mind.
He turned to look at his brother, a sad, self-mocking laugh struggling to leave his mouth, but Sam seemed almost out of sync with the dark rhythm of the music, unaffected or affected differently. His head was bobbing in time with something, but there was a smug upward tilt to his lips as if the music was just good and he owned it, as if the music didn't hurt. The emotions playing across his features had moments of anger and longing, but there was no weighted heartache lingering there. Dean hoped it would stay that way.
When the kid on stage finished his solo, Dean still felt caught up in the ache of it, but Sam's mouth was moving and the sound of his voice gradually began to impact Dean's ears. "I'd thought it might be one of the regulars, but, realistically, it could be anybody. I mean the culprit could just watch this place and keep tabs on whoever comes in with someone else's husband or wife. In which case, we've pretty much got nothing. There are probably thousands of victims of cheating around here and thousands who are pissed off by it just on principle."
Sam said it all with a shrug but the prospect made Dean's head hurt. He hated not being able to fix things and a handful of suicides a week sounded like something that desperately needed fixing. "That's not a good thing, Sam."
"No, but it does mean that there's no reason to worry about seemingly random investigations. Almost anything is going to narrow the field at this point but still probably leave a ton of other potential suspects." Sam nodded slowly as he spoke, purposefully still watching the stage as if anyone could hear what they said or actually cared. "So, you know what? I think it's someone in the band. And, if that doesn't give us a lead, then we should check out the local magick and spirit-action folks."
"Right." Dean blinked and breathed deep as he tossed out his answer, but he wasn't wholly committed to that plan, honestly. Besides that one strange piano guy, he just wasn't immediately sure why the band should be their first group of suspects.
"You don't have to agree with me, but you don't really have a better plan and if you took a minute to focus, you'd come up with the same plan."
Dean quirked an eyebrow at Sam's implication, but as he looked over the room again slowly, he felt it, a tugging of wrongness that made him double check the people on stage as if a three-headed monster might pop out of someone's collar any minute. He didn't quite know what that meant, but his father had always told him to trust his instincts and, excluding things with Sam, he thought they'd been doing a fair job lately. "Fine, we start with the band. You want to start when they break next or ... ?"
"Tomorrow. We should start fresh, get our story straight, ya know?"
"Sure- … Oh, wait." Dean was about to agree and suggest they adjourn to the motel, but he noticed the band starting to step down for their break. "We're here and they're already going into a break, so why don't we just poke around a bit. I mean, I have cop ID on me from yesterday. Bet you do too. So, we already have a story, Sam."
Sam was shaking his head, eyebrows bunched in and down before Dean was even close to done. "No. ... We need to observe them more tonight and, come on, these guys might be jazz players, but they're musicians. They'd probably laugh us out of the building if we went in with drummer names."
"Fine." Dean sniffed, but he didn't care all that much for going right into deeper investigation tonight, so he wasn't going to fight for it. What he did want, though, was to get out of the club as soon as possible so they could avoid a run-in with the sleazy guy three booths away. "But what is there to observe, Sam? Why don't we leave after the break?"
Sam didn't quite seem convinced, but he shrugged with a half-nod anyway. "I'm okay with that."
Sighing, Dean tried to focus his attention on the band members who were all grabbing drinks and mingling with the crowd. Nothing seemed especially sinister about it, but when he looked over at his brother, Sam was watching the piano player again, his eyes squinting up as the boy slid into a seat at the bar to sip what looked like rum and coke. "Do you think it's him?"
"Not necessarily more than anyone else."
"Then what's all the tension for?"
Looking away for a moment, teeth grinding, Sam slowly tipped his head side to side, seeming to mull over his phrasing before he opened his mouth. "Umm. Different people have different kinds of energies and sometimes they clash, like people talk about personalities doing. Sometimes that clashing is about alignment, as in the people involved really are or should be natural enemies, but they could also be on the same side and just have really different approaches. It probably explains the kind of sixth sense you have that lets you know when something supernatural is nearby, even if it's theoretically friendly." Sam grinned, predatory intent darkening his eyes. "Like me."
The rub of Sam's leg, warm and purposeful against his, made Dean shift, not quite away but not encouraging either. It unnerved him, the way Sam could so easily make him anxious as much from sexual interest as hunting-honed fear. It was bad enough that he couldn't trust his instincts when it came to Sam. Having to deal with his body's problematic reactions wasn't something he wanted to do and he thought he'd sated those needs the night before, even paying in spades for that wanton expending of energy.
Maybe he wasn't as kind as he could've been when he decided to speak, but Sam kept cornering him in so many ways and it was hard for him to not come back with something equally aggressive. "I thought you said you were trying not to tip anyone off, Sam."
"There's no one here except you. And, honestly? It's kind of a rush to have this effect on you. It's like making a girl blush, only …" Sam's calf pressed more firmly against Dean's, heel hooking behind Dean's as he reached for Dean's wrist and gave it a squeeze. "You know I won't hurt you."
Dean tried to snatch his wrist away, but Sam's hand came with it. "Sam- …"
"Or maybe you don't." A smirk dominated Sam's face and one eyebrow lifted to add to the atmosphere of mystery.
"Sam, stop." Dean could practically feel himself bruising as Sam squeezed tighter and tighter around his wrist, but the ache from there twisted into something more exhilarating as it traveled through him. His mind remembered those hands around his wrists, pinning him down as Sam's body crushed into his, but he worked to forget it.
"Why? You like it. You're not breathing hard because you think I'm going to kill you in some overdone supernatural way. You're breathing hard because you think I might fuck you until you collapse in a boneless heap of sweat and come."
He shuddered, but shook his head, trying to pull his arm out of Sam's grip again. "I don't- …"
Sam just held on even tighter, though, shifting to lean over the table as he extended his reach to address Dean's pull and capture his eyes with the ownership in his own. "Yes, you do. More than you'd like to admit. You crave the fight in the sex sometimes. I get that, I do, and if memory serves, there were always plenty of bruises for you to admire after we'd fucked around, so … what's the big deal?"
"We already talked about this and we're not doing it. Period." Dean channeled his nerves and conflicted emotions into something he knew, anger and aggression, finally managing to yank his arm away and unhook his leg from Sam's. He recoiled as Sam chuckled, sinking back into his seat, and tried to brush fingers over his skin. "Stop."
"Why? You love it!"
"No. It makes my fucking stomach roll over. So, seriously? Stop!"
He saw Sam double blink over an ocean of anger and hurt before Sam turned away to look at the empty stage, his voice suddenly soft enough to get lost in the din of the room. "Right."
"Sam, I wasn't- … I didn't mean it like that, okay?"
Shrugging with faked nonchalance, Sam slid out of his seat. "No, you meant exactly what you said. I make you sick." Sam wasn't actually looking at Dean as he spoke, more letting his eyes wander the room, but he nodded as he took a step towards the bar, his body stiff with tension. "I'm gonna grab some beer. Be right back."
Sam was gone before Dean could formulate something better to say, but he leaned out of the booth enough to watch his brother cross the room and order at the bar. The redheaded librarian from this morning or perhaps a similarly pretty redhead slid up next to Sam, a hand at his back in a gesture of comfort as he spoke to her about something Dean couldn't read on his lips. The beer came, or so Dean surmised by the cash Sam dropped, though he couldn't see it past the curves of the woman's frame. He saw Sam almost smile, his body language including her in an easy way that hid just how pissed he was, and Dean tried not to categorize the pang in his chest as he turned back to study his empty glass on the table, wondering if Sam had a library rendezvous earlier after all.
When Sam came back to the booth some minutes later, the band was already back on stage and playing their little hearts out on an upbeat tune, but Dean couldn't get into it at all. Sam passed him a fresh beer as he sat, but didn't say anything, preferring the not-quite-silence of jazz in the background.
"I didn't- …"
"Shut up."
"Sam, come on. It wasn't like- …"
"Shut up and drink your beer." Sam continued to watch the stage, but closed his eyes as he slammed back three quarters of his beer, guzzling it down.
Dean shook his head, but looked down at his third beer of the night. He wasn't particularly thirsty, but he was barely warm from alcohol let alone tipsy or drunk and Sam was making it pretty clear that tonight wouldn't be all that much easier than the night before. He lifted his glass to gulp down half of it, before setting it back down and wondering aloud. "I thought we were gonna leave after the band's break."
"Changed my mind." Sam's eyes blinked Dean's way for a second, checking his half-empty glass as he swallowed the rest of his own beer. "You done yet?"
Dean's huff was as much farce as frustration as he tipped his head back to drink down his remaining beer. With the way things were going, he honestly couldn't figure out if the alcohol would be helpful or not, but if they drunk themselves mellow enough to not keep hurting each other tonight, then maybe they could both survive long enough to come up with a more long term solution tomorrow.
Sam seemed to note the newly empty glass, but didn't immediately rise for more refills, instead, watching his fingers tap against the glass between his hands. When he smirked, though, eyes still trained downward, Dean knew things were going to get ugly. "You know … I'd ask if the guy you fucked is here, but I figure I'd've smelled him by now, so I'm guessing not. I did smell him in the car, though. All. Day. Did he give you enough bruises to get you off for a week? 'Cause … that's how long the leather's gonna stink."
Dean took a deep breath then let it out slowly. "Sam- …" The words halted in his mouth as Sam's eyes snapped up to his.
"He is here, isn't he?"
"No." Dean held Sam's gaze, not allowing himself to waver. He might not like the guy he'd messed around with, but it wouldn't do for Sam to make a scene while they were in the middle of a case. "Haven't seen him since yesterday."
Sam nodded slowly, watching Dean intently. "Just tell me where. I'm not gonna start anything in here. I'm no amateur, Dean. I know we've still got work to do. I just want to see him. Probably won't even say anything. Okay?"
"Look who's lying now."
Managing a tight laugh, Sam relaxed deeper into the built-in cushion behind him. "I'm not lying. I'll leave him alone while we're working."
"And as soon as we're not, you're going to break his nose."
Sam's head angled off to the side as he hummed. "Hmm. Probably not his nose. He really shouldn't get a reprieve from smelling himself."
"I'm not gonna tell you, Sam. So, just let it go."
Sam smirked again, the edges of his lips turning into sharp points that looked like they'd cut if kissed. "I can look for him myself, but that would involve sniffing a lot of people, so I'd imagine that would cause much more of a scene than if you just pointed him out."
Dean nearly growled at his smugly wicked brother, trying not to think about Sam walking around the room, leaning in to smell every person he passed. "Fuck. Fine! But keep your head together, alright?"
"Fine." Sam turned, jutting his chin toward the crowd between them and the stage. "So, which one is he?"
"I don't think he's out there."
"Why not?"
"He's been sitting in a booth down the walkway all night. I haven't seen him really leave it."
"And you've been watching him why? So you can time your bathroom breaks accordingly?"
"No, I've been checking because I didn't want any trouble."
"Right." Sam pursed his lips as he nodded in faux agreement before slipping out of the booth and raising an eyebrow in Dean's direction. "Why don't you show me where the little punk is hiding?"
Dean gave Sam a hard look, but scooted out and onto his feet, heading towards the third booth down and the dreaded confrontation that would surely happen there. When they got there, though, the guy was nowhere to be found, but there was a folded note with Dean's name on it sitting in the center of the table.
"Look. He left you a note. How sweet."
Dean reached for the note and opened it with confusion and no small bit of trepidation. "I never gave him my name."
This note isn't really for you, but I wanted you to see it anyway. Ask him about it. See if he trusts you.
Hey,
The guys back home miss you and all your skills. Just wanted to make sure you made the right choice. We're still not sure that you did. You could go damn far if you wanted. I heard you might've had a change of heart today, though, so I guess you're not quite sure about that decision either. PBC and TRIA. You remember, don't you? The gate's always open and with legs like yours, you can probably take the stairs two at a time.
See ya.
Dean passed the folded paper to Sam, his head aching as he tried to make it make sense. "What does this mean, Sam? What is he talking about?"
Sam twitched twice as he read the letter, but he quickly shook it off, pocketing the note as he spoke only loud enough to be heard and looked everywhere but Dean's eyes. "What did he look like?"
"Tallish, wide, dark hair - longer than mine but shorter than yours - fair skin, dark eyes like- ..." Dean paused, losing himself in the memory of those eyes, trying to find words as he felt himself fall into them again. "I don't know. He was just ... intense, like really intense ... and a damn smug bastard too."
"Did he pursue you or was it the other way around?" Sam's breathing was clipped as he continued scanning the room and waited anxiously for Dean's answer.
Dean rewound back to that moment in the bar. He'd made eye contact with the guy, but he hadn't intended to even try for anything until the guy had come up and propositioned him. "He pursued me. … I think."
"Fucking asshole. I'm gonna fucking- …"
"What?" Sam looked like he could snap something in two right then and Dean still had no idea why.
The flickering heat of Sam's gaze hit Dean like acid rain and he blinked repeatedly, instinctually, as if that could shield him from the force of his brother's emotions. "He knew. He knew who you were when he decided to go after you."
"Who's 'he'? And how would he know me?" His eyebrows pressed in towards the center of his forehead, a throb setting up shop at his temples. None of this made any sense. "I'd never seen him before in my life and if he was a cop then- …"
"No, that's not- … Mel said Brandon, the guy you- … whatever, that he mentioned seeing us out this way, which was why she called." Sam's voice softened some with the lift of his shoulders as his breath came in a little less shallow and went out slower than it had before.
"But who is he and why would he know me?"
"He's- …" Sam cut himself off before he'd really started, glancing off over the crowd as if he wanted to stop there, but he just sighed like this really wasn't what he wanted to be doing right then and kept talking. "He's one of the guys that I used to work with, and as for him knowing you, I don't know if he actually knows who you are, but he could've figured it out from seeing us together. I mean …" Sam swallowed and continued with his explanation, even softer this time. "I talked about you sometimes and … it wasn't really a secret where I'd head if I wanted some space from the organization."
"Are you telling me that I- …"
Sam's eyes flashed to Dean's and the intensity almost burned. "Don't! I do not want to know what that fucking- …" His jaw tightened, but he took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. "I just don't want to know."
"That's fine, but … are you saying that he specifically sought me out because of my connection to you?"
"Yeah. That's exactly what I'm saying."
"That's fucked up."
"That's Brandon."
"Why would he do that?"
Sam looked away, staying silent for a long moment, and Dean was just about to ask again when Sam decided to finally speak. "The organization is like this … tight-knit family. Most people don't really have anybody, so … the crew and the work are … everything … and when you join up … you give everything you've got and they multiply it when they give it back to you." He paused, mouth working subtly and soundlessly for a moment before the words began to pour out again, quieter and more hesitant this time. "You don't- … You don't keep things for yourself. Sharing is the norm … at least until you get pretty high up in the ranks and even then, it's like- … it's like show of faith or some shit to … share."
Dean ran through the words twice in his mind, watching his brother wince with his own thoughts. "Did you just say what I think you said?"
"Probably." Sam lifted his eyes to find Dean's again, a shrug in his shoulder even though Dean could tell it wasn't a thought Sam could really brush off that easily.
"I thought you said you were doing construction work."
"I was."
"That doesn't sound like a construction company, Sam. It sounds like a cult."
"Yeah, well, it wasn't … but I'm thinking more beer would be good right about now." Sam nodded to himself and pushed past Dean, heading back the way they'd come.
Dean grabbed Sam's arm as he passed, but immediately felt a jolt of something that made him let go as Sam's head whipped around to look at him.
"Don't touch me." Sam's voice was raspy and just under the anger Dean could see a hint of the fear from the night before.
"Sam, talk to me. What the hell is going on?"
Sam shook his head, pulling away as his breathing sped up, tears threatening to break through the blanket of his restrained violence. "I can't- …" He sucked in breath, closing his eyes for a minute as he grounded himself. "It'll be better with beer, okay? Just- … I'll be right back."
"Okay." Dean nodded and let him go, watching Sam dart down the walkway toward the bar. Then he ran his fingers through his hair and walked back to their booth, trying not to be as freaked out as the situation seemed to warrant.
Sam's mood swings were intense and unpredictable. One minute he was this arrogant guy always on the verge of taking what he wanted and the next he was this little boy torn to pieces by the life he had to lead. Sam had never been a wholly mellow guy. He was always the sweet innocent type who, when pushed, had absolutely no problem getting in their father's face and yelling down the house. But, this was beyond his natural extremes and it made him so damned unstable.
Dean rubbed fingers across his forehead and tried not to dwell on the fact that the brother he'd known wasn't easy to find in the mess of these moods. With anyone else, he'd probably wonder about drugs, but with Sam he knew it was far more likely to be stress. Problem was, they couldn't really fix this stress any easier than they could fix a drug problem. Sam was changing in ways neither of them could do anything about. It wasn't anyone's fault, it was just a fact, and Dean needed to get his shit together so he could be supportive. Period.
He felt Sam's presence before he saw him, Sam walking up to stand next to the table without moving into his seat. Dean didn't look up, though, his eyes watching his fingers roll over the wood of the table.
"Thought we'd try something different." Sam took a shaky breath before he set two dark beers on the table, sliding one to Dean and wrapping a hand around the other as he dropped onto the leather bench of the booth.
Dean just shrugged and took a swig, not actually caring what kind of beer they drank right now as long as it had a reasonable alcohol content. His tongue did knock at the roof of his mouth as he tried to place the aftertaste, but really, the beer was fine. Sam, though, didn't seem quite as fine. He'd already downed half his beer, washing away his uncertain frown and replacing it with a fresh new smirk.
"So …" Dean didn't know quite how to start things, or maybe continue things would be a better way to think about it. Sam could easily blow up in his face in a variety of very negative ways and it would be like he'd never tried to be supportive at all.
"You have more questions."
"Yeah, I do." Dean breathed deeply, trying to figure out how to phrase things in the least interrogative way. "This guy, Brandon, he mentioned a choice you made and … he mentioned that you might've changed your mind about that today. So … I guess … what does that mean?"
"They like everyone they train to fight their way up in the organization and … I just wasn't really that interested. As long as I wasn't on the bottom, I was okay and I thought I could keep my ties minimal if this worked out."
Sam swallowed some more of his beer and Dean followed suit, licking his lips as he spoke. "What changed?"
"I wasn't sure if this was really working out."
"So you would've gone back to this … construction cult thing … if you stopped hunting with me?"
Sam watched Dean warily for a moment, but quickly laughed. "Dean, if I wanted to lose you, you'd just lose me."
"Yeah, I noticed that." He drank more, as if that would lessen the scowl on his face. "What about all the abbreviations and stuff at the end of the note? More construction cult jargon?"
Sam looked at him for a long time, but still tossed back the last of his beer before answering. "Yeah. They're just- … projects that I was- … working on."
Dean nodded slowly, his eyelids sticking closed before lifting again. "In Minnesota or out here?"
"All kinds of places. I moved around a lot. They've got connections worldwide."
"That didn't mess with your research?"
Sam's blinks seemed long but he shook his head. "No, it was- … I was always learning. Wherever I was." He nodded his head some, breath coming a little faster as an awkward silence fell, Dean unsure just where this conversation was taking his brother.
There was so much Sam wasn't saying, Dean knew that, but there were pieces of truth all over the place. They were just mixed in with stress and fear and a bunch of other things that circled quietly in Sam's eyes. He wondered just how lost Sam had to have felt to fall in with a crowd that was anything like the one he was describing. It seemed like Sam had found some kind of safety there, enough to return to, but it was the kind that runaways found in prostitution, street youth in drugs, beggars in bus station corners. It was an ugly kind of safehaven that wasn't really safe at all, but the consistency always seemed two crumbs better than the chaos of nothing.
What had he left Sam to when he'd let him walk away? And how could he help Sam see that going back to that organization was crazy? Maybe- … He didn't know. His head hurt and he just wanted his brother back. Why was this all so damn hard to figure out? It felt like every time he grabbed at a possible solution it slipped away from him or fell to pieces in his hands. He had no idea what was going on in Sam's head or what had gone on in Sam's life while they were apart. There had to be a way to get to the meat of the issues without pushing Sam away, right? Ri- … Fuck. He moved to grind the heel of his hand into his right temple, closing his eyes against the stabbing pain that shot to his brain like an amped up ice cream headache. It stopped an instant after it had started, though, and he tried to think of something, anything, to say.
"You okay?"
"Yeah." Dean opened his eyes, but after the extended lull in the conversation, his tongue felt thick in his mouth, moving slowly enough to distort the sound as it hit his ears, and he shook his head to clear it, taking another swig of beer. "So … you were pretty … tight … with these construction guys … huh?"
Sam kept his smirk, but his eyes slipped away, eyebrows tipping down in distress for a moment before coming back. "Yeah. We- … Yeah. I guess you could say that."
"But … you were still pissed that he … you know … even though that's kinda … how they work … or something … right?" Dean's vision blurred briefly and his stomach threatened to respond, but he held back, deciding to push the last third of his beer away as if he'd had a lot to drink when he was fairly sure he hadn't. He worked to keep both hands on the table and away from his head. Pressure wasn't helping. It was probably just his earlier tiredness catching up with him.
"I don't have to agree with them on everything to know that working with them can take me far."
Nodding slowly, Dean blinked and blinked, but it wasn't getting better and, really, they didn't have to stay here to have this conversation. "You know what? I'm really zoning here. Sorry. Do you think- … fuck … I'm obviously not a- … whatever-the-fuck-kinda-beer-that-was guy, 'cause … I'm all fucked up. Can you- … Are you good to drive?"
"Yeah, sure."
Sam watched him with concern, but Dean tried to wave him off as they both stood and began working their way to the door. He tripped in the parking lot, catching himself on the hood of his car and feeling his way to the passenger door with Sam at his back, ignoring his slurred string of 'I'm okay's.
He didn't really remember the car ride, half of it spent sort of sleeping, the other half spent trying to keep dinner down when all the world was a painful blur. When he finally stumbled into the room, Sam's arm around his back, he all but fell into bed, clothes only half off, and his eyes slammed shut like a vault going into automatic lockdown.
The feel of his brother standing over him was the last thing that drifted through his mind as everything went dark.
Prologue - One - Two - Three - Four - Five - Six - Seven - Eight - Epilogue