Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural or its characters. Takes place after the Season 4 episode "Sex and Violence."
"This is a strange case, man," Dean announced as he shut his book in frustration. "I figure it's gotta be some Eastern European legend... there are a lot of people here with that background. I wish Bobby would call back with the translations. Latin's one thing, but Polish is something else." He glanced at Sam. "You got any ideas?" No response. "Sam?" Still nothing. "Sam!"
"I heard you, Dean."
"And?"
Sam shrugged. "And no, I don't have any ideas… I don't even know why we're here," he muttered.
"What?" Dean said, suddenly at attention.
Sam cleared his throat. "I said, I don't know why we're here. A couple people slip on some ice on their way to church and all of a sudden we're dealing with a violent spirit? Just seems unlikely and irrelevant, considering."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "Considering what, exactly?"
"I think you know," Sam snapped. Casting a glance around the library, he lowered his tone. "Months have passed and we are no closer to finding Lilith or doing a damn thing about the seals. I am so sick of sitting on my ass doing nothing." Dean scoffed. "What's so funny?" Sam asked angrily.
"Oh, it's just that I think your ass has a real interesting definition of doing nothing." When Sam made no motion to respond, Dean sighed and continued. "We are doing something, Sam. We're saving people." He looked up, trying to catch Sam's gaze. "These old folks? You and I both know they didn't just slip. Something bad's at work here. I can tell. But maybe you can't anymore."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Don't be an ass. I know you've been out with that demon bitch the last five nights."
"Dean-"
"Save it, Sam. I don't know what you're doing and you know what? I don't think I really want to. I sure ain't gonna be waking up in the middle of the goddamn night to follow you."
Sam abruptly got up from the table, noisily sliding the chair against the library's marble floor. Placing both palms on the wooden table, he leaned down closer to Dean. "I am going to get a drink," he said, his tone dangerously controlled. "If this keeps up, I think we're both going to say things we regret. If you want to join me, fine, but consider this conversation done." Dean glared at his brother and remained stubbornly in place. Without another word, Sam gathered up his jacket and strode quickly away from the library. It wasn't until Sam was out of sight that Dean allowed his shoulders to slump and began massaging his temples. Dammit, why didn't he know when to stop? Ever since the siren, things had been going to shit. Try as he might, he couldn't just unhear the awful things Sam had said to him. Dean knew that he'd meant every word he'd said to Sam, and had no doubt that there had been truth in Sam's accusations as well.
His life had never been easy, but Dean seriously wondered sometimes how things had possibly gotten this complicated. He'd been excited by this hunt – it was an opportunity to do some good and save some lives. He hadn't counted on a simple library trip spiraling out of control. At least Pittsburgh was a college town, he thought as some pretty coeds walked past his table. There was no way he was going to that bar with Sam, but he was hungry. He'd heard about a sandwich shop in town where they put the fries right on the bread, with the meat and cheese and everything. Dean made a copy of the article he was reading and headed for the Impala. Distracted by thoughts of Sam and sandwiches, he didn't notice a tall man lingering alongside a nearby van. Without warning, Dean's vision went black and he slumped to the pavement, keys still in hand.
Sam downed the last of his beer and wasted no time signaling the bartender over. He needed whiskey, a double shot. Sam closed his eyes and tried to drown out the sounds of the crowded bar. Amazing how a guy can be surrounded by people but feel all alone, Sam thought as he brought his glass to his lips. It tasted good… maybe a little too good. Sam hadn't forgotten how well alcohol dulled his pain, softened up the hard edges of his life. After Dean had died...
Before he knew it, Sam was slamming down his empty glass and motioning for another. As he waited impatiently for the bartender to bring it over, he accidentally caught a glimpse of his reflection in the decorative mirror behind the bar. All at once, he noticed a few things. For one, the bartender's easy smile had disappeared and been replaced by a worried frown as he refilled Sam's glass. Secondly, three barstools over a girl's shirt had slipped so low that Sam could see her pink, lacy bra half on display for the whole bar to see. But most of all, Sam noticed himself. No wonder no one was sitting next to him, even though the bar was crowded. His hair was in his face, hiding his eyes, and something about him seemed dangerous and unpredictable. Before the bartender had a chance to turn back around, Sam had already thrown down a twenty and headed for the door.
It was cold out, and Sam walked quickly to try to generate some body heat. He hoped Dean would be asleep by the time he got back, and they could just wake up tomorrow morning and pretend nothing had happened.
They were good at that.
Dean noticed the pain before he noticed the restraints. His cheekbone ached, and he was sure he felt hardened blood down the side of his face. Gingerly, he tried to test the movement of his limbs, only to find that they were all securely bound to a chair. Dean shivered, and realized he was actually outside. Everywhere he looked, he was surrounded by piles of junk – cans, tires, even some old appliances.
"He's awake!"
Dean tried to turn his head to see where the sound had come from. A large, muscular man dressed in a black leather coat walked toward him menacingly, and Dean wished he could somehow feign unconsciousness just a little while longer. The man drew closer and began pacing in front of him.
"Hello, Dean." Dean swallowed nervously. The man smiled. "Yes, Dean, I know your name. I know a lot about you – Sam, too – and what I don't know, I'm hoping you'll fill in the details."
Here goes nothing, Dean thought as he willed his lips into a smile. "Listen, buddy, you've definitely got the wrong guy. My name's Jimmy Hetfield; I've got my license in my wallet. Can't seem to reach it right now, though. So if you just want to take a look at it, I think we'll have this whole misunderstanding all cleared up and-"
The man backhanded Dean square across the left side of his face. Dean could feel that a fresh wound had opened, and looked on with some amusement as the thug realized he had gotten Dean's blood on his own leather jacket. Clearly upset, the man angrily unzipped his jacket and threw it to the dusty ground. Dean looked up at the man, and was startled to see the small black and white collar he wore around his neck. "You're a priest?"
The man shrugged. "Doesn't matter who or what I am. All you should be concerned with is giving me answers."
"Whoa, whoa, how is this possibly okay? Last I checked, priests didn't go around beating guys up for not answering questions they hadn't even been asked yet."
The man seemed to consider this for a moment. "Fine," he replied. "Where is your brother?"
"I don't have a brother." This time, Dean was expecting the punch. Damn! If this guy was really a priest, he sure knew how to hit.
"Tell me where Sam is, Dean."
Dean remained silent. He wasn't going to give this idiot the satisfaction of a response. A fist to the gut had him nearly puking up his breakfast. For a moment, he was glad he hadn't gotten that sandwich. "Listen, Padre, I don't know what the hell you're talking about. I'm here in Pittsburgh with my show choir from Penn State." The man punched Dean hard in the shoulder, so hard that Dean toppled over. He hit the ground awkwardly, still tied to the chair. The man delivered a swift kick to Dean's ribs.
"That's enough, Father Patrick!" Through his rapidly swelling eye, Dean could just make out the approaching form of a dark-haired woman. "Do you really think he's going to respond to fists?" She eyed Dean carefully, shaking her head. "Please, Patrick. What you're doing is barbaric…and ineffective." Dean was silent, but intrigued. The woman was short but fit – mid-30s, he guessed. She could have been attractive in a serious, academic way, and she had a hint of an accent.
As Dean was taking in the new arrival, Patrick was visibly trying to keep his anger in check. "I was supposed to get the first crack at him. We agreed."
She nodded. "So we did. But I think you've done quite enough. There are other ways to make a man talk than through physical force. In fact," she glanced at Dean curiously, "I think that is quite possibly the last thing to which someone with Dean's… background would respond."
"And what do you suggest, Sister?"
"Sister?" Dean spat out in disbelief. "This chick's a nun?"
The woman ignored him. "Pick him up, Patrick, and bring the chair over here. I have something that I want Dean to see."
Dean gritted his teeth as the priest righted his chair and roughly dragged him over toward the woman... the nun, Dean amended. Wait till Sammy heard that a nun and a priest had gotten the drop on him. "Listen, Sister, the rest of the guys in the choir are gonna be getting worried soon. I have the big solo tonight and-"
The woman cut him off. "Dean, I know that I've just arrived, but I am in no state of mind to listen to your babble," she said coldly. "Do you think this location is coincidental? You've been around junk yards… like Bobby Singer's place?" Dean tried not to flinch. "The upscale ones aren't just full of old hubcaps and tin cans. They have machines. Special machines. You can put a refrigerator in one end, and it comes out crushed so tiny it would fit under your bed back at the motel." She applied pressure to his injured shoulder as she leaned down to whisper in his ear. "Think what else a machine like that could do."
Dean grimaced. "I thought you told Patty over there that physical threats were barbaric."
She withdrew her hand, chuckling. "Oh Dean, I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about your car."
More to come later. Thanks for reading!