Disclaimer: "Supernatural" is not mine. This was written completely for fun.
A/N: The rating is primarily for language, but Sam has an experience that's, well, carnal. Sort of. It's not hugely graphic, but….I'll warn you again before it comes up. There is neither slash nor Wincest, and this is not a deathfic.
Werewolves get a brief mention here, apropos of pretty much nothing, and I'm sure a certain recent "Supernatural" episode changed the concept of werewolves for many of us. Despite that, I decided not to tamper with mine—I left it in the story, and will just say that it has nothing to do with that certain episode. Frankly, it's just a tiny convenience, here. I needed a monster that people who are different from you and me—you know, the ones who don't eat, breathe and sleep monsters—I needed one that they'd recognize.
Many thanks to Sera and Tails for our crazed, exuberant rant-and-rave fests, which I completely adore! You two are aces and lunatics, which is an awesome combination!
There are seven chapters, and updates will be posted regularly, barring any computer catastrophe. I wrote this story for me, but hope that you might enjoy it, too. Please be sure to let me know, one way or the other.
-:- -:- -:-
The Play's the Thing
The cast had taken their bows before an enthusiastic audience, which may not have been sold out, but the new theater was huge and Burlberg was a small town, after all, its residents mostly farmers and merchants, so one could not discount the fact that they were on their feet and clapping. Clapping loudly. It was opening night, the theater was beautiful, the costumes pretty, the actors had remembered virtually all of their lines, and wasn't it just a little bit like heaven to know all those people were applauding you? Luanne and Jerry had lingered backstage with the rest of the cast, stealing glances at one another as flocks of well-wishers congratulated them, congratulated everyone—big-time Chicago thee-ater right here in little Burlberg!, and wasn't it about time we had something modern like this, since it's 1927, after all? Luanne had blushed when Jerry clandestinely winked at her, knowing they were fated to be lovers in real-life just like they were in this play. Too bad Stan had to ruin everything, looking like thunderclouds whenever he saw the two of them together. Wasn't like he'd ever had a chance, or like she'd led him on or anything—no, no, and she hadn't meant to be rude to him, either. Just needed him to understand that he was way too old for her, and there was no hope for Luanne-and-Stan (she giggled at the rhyme, then giggled again just because she was young and giddy and in love)—no hope for Stan-the-old-man, not with Luanne, because now there was Jerry, who was handsome and sweet and strong and talented and her own age. And had she said handsome? Jerry, who this very minute was talking with May Freeman, and if he thought Luanne was going to sit idly by and let him flirt with that hussy, then he had another think coming!
But Jerry wasn't interested in anyone but Luanne, and so they had finally stolen off to the wardrobe closet together as the rest of the cast and the crew and the crowd headed for Mr. Palmer's big house just north of town, headed for the opening-night party and one roaring good time because Palmer was the wealthiest man in five counties and he knew how to throw a fine party even if he was a banker. Heck, the man was a playwright, too, and you couldn't possibly be stuffy and an artiste at the same time!
There had been an awkward moment as the crush of people thinned, when Stan had bumped into Jerry, bumped him hard, almost knocked him off his feet and Jerry's fists had clenched before he thought better of things. Stan had thirty pounds and several inches on him, and if Jerry's lip was swollen or his nose broken, then kissing Luanne for real instead of for play-acting was going to be painful instead of wonderful, so Jerry had given old Stan the fisheye and let the tense moment pass.
But now the theater was empty, no one left but the two of them in the dark confines of the wardrobe closet, Luanne still giggling and Jerry grinning from ear to ear, so pleased to be squiring this girl, so pleased that this theater had been built and Mr. Palmer had written this play and that Jerry and Luanne had been brought together by fate to play two young people falling in love. Their first real kiss was made simpler by the fact that they'd been rehearsing for weeks, pretend-kissing on stage every night as Isabel and Lionel, getting over the awkwardness of kissing a stranger in front of other people, practicing kissing so it looked and felt natural, when neither one of them had had much experience with it at all, not in their real lives. So everything was that much nicer now, because now the kissing was real. Tender lips met tender lips, and then there were murmury coos of sweet nothings and rustles and laughs and little whispery sighs, and they never heard the fire's crackle until the heat in the closet became impossible to miss, and the door—oh, my God, the door wouldn't open--Jerry, please open the door! Open it, now! But he couldn't do it, no matter he was an Iowa farmboy born and bred, couldn't budge the thing, and the coos and whispers became anguished screams and curses among the flames, and within a few horrific moments, the young lovers were dead, and it wasn't at all romantic.
-:- -:- -:-
The Impala was humming smoothly along an old truck road in north-central Missouri, speckled by the rain that had fallen intermittently since they'd left Kansas City that morning. The Winchester brothers had just finished three days of R&R following a surprisingly eventful werewolf hunt, so the long scratches down Sam's chest had scabbed over nicely; and while Dean's cracked rib still made him flinch sometimes, when he moved wrong and Sam wasn't looking, his black eye was mostly green and yellow now. The sun was at least temporarily out, they had a good breakfast in their bellies, and Zeppelin thumped heavily on the car stereo. Sam had been cruising the Internet while Dean crooned quietly to himself.
"Dean, I think I've got something here."
"So soon?" The older Winchester grimaced in mock disappointment. "Man, whoever figured Missouri for a hotbed of supernatural activity?"
Sam shook his head. "This is in Iowa, actually—in Burlberg. It's a small town just a couple hundred miles from here. Apparently, they have a haunted theater."
"What, spirit's possessed the popcorn machine?" Dean cast Sam an inquiring look. "Ghost projectionist keeps showing old black and white movies instead of Drew Barrymore's latest?"
"It's not that kind of theater—it's the kind where they do stage performances. You know, plays and musicals and stuff."
Dean's expression soured. "Oh, God, not actors. Dude, those people are all friggin' weird!"
Grinning, Sam adjusted his long legs in the passenger-side foot-well. "As I recall, you didn't think that actress in Atlanta was so weird."
"That's true," his brother admitted, running his tongue along his lower lip at the memory. "She was more kinky than weird. Oh, good times in Atlanta, Sammy! But I didn't know she was an actress when I met her, or I might have had second thoughts."
Sam rolled his eyes, adjusted the screen on his laptop as a curve in the road brought the hazy sunlight in at a different angle. "We both know it wasn't your brain that did your thinking in Atlanta, Dean. Now listen to this. 'Palmer Theater Haunted by Past. A series of unexplained events has caused consternation among cast and crew'—huh, this reporter sure likes alliteration—'among cast and crew of 'Rochester Romp,' which opens next week in the newly refurbished Palmer Theater. Director Daniel R. Jones said that several of his actors have reported mysterious cold spots in their dressing rooms, and a brand new light-board repeatedly shorts out, although technicians have been unable to find anything wrong with it.'"
"Oh, come on," Dean said skeptically. "They've had some recent construction—could be they just had a crappy contractor. How's that for alliteration?"
Sam shot his brother a look, noted the smug expression on Dean's face, snorted a laugh. "And you're calling actors weird. Dean, you know remodeling can stir up old energies. Anyway, the article says that the director called in a local psychic, who told them that three spirits haunt the theater. Let's see…." Sam scrolled through the article again, refreshing his memory, sharing the key details aloud. "The Palmer Theater was originally built in 1927 by town bigwig Chauncey Palmer. It was only used for one performance—the backstage inexplicably caught fire on opening night, and two of the actors were killed when they were trapped in the theater. Stagehand Stanley Williamson went missing after the fire, and police decided that he had torched the place for some unknown reason, then left town. They quit trying to find him after a couple of years."
Dean sniffed and shifted in his seat, working not to wince as his rib protested. "Ain't exactly screaming to me that this is our kind of gig, Sam."
"It gets better. The theater was hardly used for decades after the fire, but when the renovation was done last year, construction workers opened a wall in the old backstage area and found a skeleton. Guess whose?"
"Stan the Stagehand." Dean was suddenly a little more interested.
"Bingo. They think he died from smoke inhalation the night the theater burned. Now his family is saying that that's proof he never started the fire, but got trapped inside, just like the two actors. So, three deaths—psychic says three spirits. And, Dean, here's the weird thing. Chauncey Palmer, the guy who built the theater, also wrote that play they were doing back in 1927. It's his granddaughter, Sharon Palmer, who renovated the building, and she's producing the play that opens next week." Sam paused, and Dean looked over at him curiously, recognizing his little brother's tell when he thought he held a winning hand at the poker table.
"And?"
"And it's the same play they were doing when the theater burned."
-:- -:- -:-
Burlberg was completely typical of the small towns of southern Iowa—most of Iowa, for that matter, and the surrounding Midwestern states. The brothers had driven for several hours to reach it, traveling along the old highway which passed through fields dotted by farm houses and barns and silos. The road widened occasionally for roadside produce stands advertising plenty of fresh corn, and finally intersected with another old truck route in the center of Burlberg, at one of the town's three traffic lights. A couple of signs posted by the local Kiwanis and Elks had welcomed the Winchesters to Burlberg ("We put the heart in the Heartland!"), urging them to obey the speed limit and to pray for the country. There were plenty of churches, almost as many bars, two elementary schools and one high school, three banks, a drugstore, four mom-and-pop groceries, at least one diner, a garage and several real estate offices—all the regular trappings of middle America.
The Palmer Theater was a stately granite building which firmly anchored the south side of Main Street between Elm and Finch, next door to Suzie's Dress Shop and just across the alley from the Yolks on Us Café, directly opposite the South Central Iowa Merchants Bank & Farm Trust. The theater marquee proudly announced "Opening Soon! Burlberg Players Present 'Rochester Romp.' Reserve Your Tickets in Advance. " Dean pulled the Impala into a diagonal parking space directly in front of the theater, took in a deep breath and said, "This one's all yours, Sammy. You know I don't speak the language."
Amateur publicity photos for the upcoming production were artistically arranged in display cases surrounding the art deco-style admission booth, and the Winchesters surveyed them briefly. Judging from the costumes, 'Rochester Romp' appeared to be a period piece from the 1920's; judging from the actors' various poses, it was either a light comedy or a very odd murder mystery. Possibly both.
"I'll bet nobody gets naked in this play," was Dean's only comment, and Sam didn't bother to respond.
The center door was ajar, and the brothers entered the lushly carpeted lobby, again done in the art-deco style, lit by daylight and period wall sconces and a massive chandelier. Potted ferns dangled from graceful hangers, adorned corners in large brass planters. To the right were the men's and ladies' rooms; to the left, a small refreshment area. Two curtained doorways on either side led into the theater itself, and the brothers could hear voices coming from within.
"Alexander! What on earth has become of the book I was just reading?" a woman's voice inquired loudly, accent wavering somewhere between British and upper-class Philadelphian.
A man's voice boomed in response, distinctly British, at least on a solid eighty percent of the words. "Why, I don't know, Penelope, darling. It was here just a moment ago. I saw it on the chair, right where you left it."
"Well, someone's moved it, because it isn't there any more," the woman replied.
"Kill me now," Dean muttered, and Sam drew in a long-suffering breath.
The Winchesters pushed through the right-hand curtain to find themselves twenty rows back from a spacious proscenium stage decorated with a couch, several arm chairs, a desk, a bookcase, a fireplace, and various other furniture pieces suggesting the living room of a well-appointed house from the 1920's. There were three doors in the back and side walls of the set, plus an unadorned window on the left which currently revealed the series of ropes and cables used to open and close the plush red velvet stage curtains.
An auburn-haired woman, probably in her late forties and wearing a flowing blue dress with a deep neckline, sat on the couch at center-stage, while a shortish man of about the same age stood behind her, just to her left, holding an empty brandy snifter, dressed more casually in slacks and a polo shirt. The French doors in the set's back wall opened inward as an attractive young couple in their early or mid-twenties stepped inside, both wearing jeans and t-shirts, his sporting the word "Wicked" across the front.
"Oh, Mother, we know who took your book," the blonde girl said, her voice chirping innocently, and the boy nodded with vigor.
"Yes, Mrs. Robinson. The butler did it!"
Both of their accents were decidedly Midwestern.
"—And the audience goes 'ha ha ha,' and that's the end of scene two." A tall, dark-haired man in his thirties stood up in the middle of the theater, where he'd been sitting with two women, one older and one younger, the three of them whispering together, the younger woman taking notes. "Christopher and Geneva, you've got to make that entrance right at the end of Zandra's line. Pick up that cue, please."
"Sorry, Daniel," the boy called. "The doorknob stuck, and I couldn't get it open."
"So that would be the director," Sam murmured to Dean, indicating the tall man with a thrust of his chin. "Daniel Jones."
The director turned slightly to the young woman sitting beside him. "Hallie, see that that door gets taken care of, would you? Zandra, the blue dress is marvelous, if not precisely period—you're wearing silver, yes?"
On the couch, the auburn-haired woman held up her left hand. "My wedding ring, darling," she announced, "and I have a wonderful brooch that I intend to use, since one can never be too careful!"
Dean gave Sam a 'what-the-hell?' look, and Sam shrugged.
"Superstition, I think," the younger Winchester said in a whisper. "Blue's supposed to be an unlucky color for actors. Maybe silver counteracts it."
"Friggin' theater people," Dean muttered.
"All right, my love, why don't you change out of your costume so Hallie can hem it tonight," the director continued, and the woman on the sofa stood gracefully and disappeared into the left-side wings.
"Daniel? When am I going to have something real for the brandy?" The man in the polo shirt raised his empty snifter high. "You know it helps to have all the props as early as possible, and we open next week."
"You're right, Randall—Hallie will be sure to have that ready for rehearsal tomorrow."
Hallie was scribbling furiously in her notebook as Daniel leaned down to examine something she had written. "No, Hallie, I said I want them entering from the stage-left door," he corrected her, indicating a spot on the paper before straightening again and raising his voice. "Okay, where are Philip and Carl? Gentlemen, could I have you on stage, please?"
Two more actors appeared from the darkness off stage, one in his forties and one closer to seventy, when the blonde girl shaded her eyes with her hands and looked out over the rows of seats at the Winchesters as they stood in the theater aisle.
"Daniel, I think we have company," she called, pointing with a languid wave of her hand.
Daniel turned to look at them in surprise, as did the two women seated beside him. The older woman got to her feet.
"May I help you?" she asked. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, this is a closed rehearsal. We're not ready for an audience yet."
Dean crammed his hands in his jacket pockets, his impatience not quite disguised as he bounced a little on the balls of his feet. He and Sam assumed roles all the time, pretended to be things they weren't—federal agents, college students, talent scouts, doctors—but they were hunters, and it was all part of the job. But actors—hell, God only knew why they did what they did, dressing up, painting their faces, playing make-believe in front of a lot of people on purpose, for fun. Freaks of nature, the whole bunch of them. True to his word, Dean turned to Sam, pointedly yielding the floor to his brother.
Sam took a deep breath, donned his earnest choirboy smile and turned up the charm. "Hi—uh, no, we know you're still in rehearsal. I'm Sam, this is Dean. We're here representing Midwest On Stage, an arts journal out of Milwaukee." He held up a notepad, waved it at the members of the theater company briefly. "Is Ms. Palmer here, the producer? She should be expecting us—we have an appointment for an interview this afternoon, for this quarter's issue."
"I'm Sharon Palmer." The older woman was probably pushing fifty, trim and businesslike, wearing a navy suit and pumps, her dark hair cut short. "I'm sorry, I'm not familiar with your publication, and I don't remember anyone asking for an interview."
Her tone left no doubt that her apology was sincere, and Sam suspected she would leap at any chance to promote her show and her theater, especially in a regional magazine. He moved down the aisle, Dean ambling along on his heels, as she came over to greet them. Sam shook her hand cordially and Dean flashed a smile that never reached his eyes.
The young woman had also stood, trailing after the Palmer woman and the director. Dean appraised her dispassionately—close to Sam's age, brownish long hair and plain features, not unattractive, dressed in jeans and a baggy gold sweatshirt that did nothing for her figure, with the University of Iowa's Hawkeye mascot on the front. She clutched her notebook to her chest timidly, edging closer to the director when she realized Dean was giving her the once-over.
"This will be our first issue," Sam told Sharon Palmer, ignoring his brother's aloofness and settling easily into his story, although he had concocted it on the fly. "We're trying to cover the smaller or newer venues, like yours—which is beautiful, by the way—and we'd read about the revival you're doing of your grandfather's play. Seemed exactly like what we're looking for, for our premiere publication. I'm sorry about the interview—I don't know what happened."
"It's no problem," Sharon assured him. "We'd love the publicity. Let me introduce our very talented director, Daniel Jones; and our assistant director and stage manager, Hallie Fontana."
Sam shook hands all around while Dean just nodded his greeting, keeping his hands in his pockets. By this time, the cast had also gathered around them, requiring more introductions, which Daniel handled with such rapidity that Dean didn't even try to keep track of which names belonged to the actors, and which belonged to the characters they portrayed. It was enough to know that there were four men and two women—the hot blonde and the older one off changing her clothes somewhere—in addition to the producer, the director, and the stage manager chick. Sam could track the details.
"—plays Mr. Robinson's business partner, Major Brickley. Philip's actually the best doctor in Burlberg! Christopher here plays our young male love interest, Lionel, of course; and this is Geneva, who plays our delightful ingénue, Isabel." Daniel finished the introductions by placing a proprietary hand against the small of the blonde actress's back.
There was a sudden loud clang from backstage, like a steel door slamming shut, causing several members of the theater company to flinch slightly as Sam and Dean exchanged glances. The auburn-haired actress appeared abruptly at the left side of the stage, now wearing a blouse and slacks that skimmed her curves closely, and Dean bounced again on the balls of his feet, just once, not so impatiently this time.
"Daniel, darling," she called, "that wasn't me, I swear."
"I'm sure it was nothing, Zandra," Sharon Palmer called back to her, just a trace of unease in her voice as she looked to Sam and Dean for their reactions.
"Zandra, dear, come down here," Daniel said, casually snaking his arm around Geneva's waist as he turned. "These two gentlemen are from a new arts journal, and they're here to do a piece on our show."
"I'm sure it's going to be excellent," Sam said, amping the enthusiasm in his voice. Geneva was eyeing him with cool appraisal, a slight smile on the ingénue's face as she brushed a strand of pale blonde hair off her forehead, and Hallie's eyes darted nervously between Sam and Daniel. Sam smiled disarmingly at each of them in turn. "How exciting to be doing a piece written by the man who built this magnificent theater. You know, Ms. Palmer—may I call you Sharon?—we really don't want to interrupt the rehearsal, so maybe we could just watch for a while, get a feel for the production and for the space. Then we could talk with you and Daniel and everyone else a little later, get you to fill in the blanks for us. Don't you think that's the way to go, Dean?"
His brother had been watching the older actress make her way across the stage, down the steps and up the theater aisle toward them, threading between the company members until she stood directly in front of him and smiled up into his eyes, dropped her gaze lazily to his mouth, raised it back to his eyes. Dean grinned, recognizing the moves of a kindred spirit with similar talents and interests, for all that she had twenty years on him. The allure wasn't so much in the package, he decided, but in the way she sold it. Admittedly, the package was pretty good, too. He took his hands out of his pockets.
"Sam, Dean, this is Zandra Stewart, our principal actress," Sharon said, the introduction all but superfluous by this time.
"Enchanté," Zandra said, her voice low and throaty, never taking her eyes off Dean, moving in close to take his hand.
"I'm Dean."
"Of course you are. How could you possibly be anyone else?"
Sam caught Geneva rolling her eyes, and one of the actors—Randall, the leading man—seemed annoyed.
"Excuse me?" Dean found it interesting to be the one hunted, for a change; found it kind of stimulating to watch a brazen master at work. Maybe more than kind of stimulating. His grin widened.
"I just mean that whoever you are, whatever you are, I can tell that you're probably the very, very best at it. Daniel, can we move on to our next scene, please? I'm looking forward to finishing early, so Dean can—" there was a slight pause as she gave his hand a little squeeze—"interview me."
She released his hand, still keeping her eyes on his as she stepped back and finally turned away, moving down the aisle toward the stage. Dean knew she knew he was watching her ass, and he finally had to wipe off his smile with his hand as Sam glared at him and—what was his name? Randall?—openly bridled at the little performance they had just witnessed.
Sharon seemed flustered. "It's fine for you gentlemen to watch the rehearsal," she finally managed, "if it's all right with Daniel."
"Hmm? Oh, of course," the director said, turning to the blonde woman at his side. "Geneva, your work in that last scene was brilliant, just spot on. And you looked luminous. All right, everyone, let's get go—"
The sconces along the theater walls flickered briefly, then came back full strength as the actors and crew froze, became completely silent. Sam looked at Dean, and Dean sucked thoughtfully on the inside of his cheek, watching the faces of the theater company.
Among them, Daniel recovered first. "Let's get going, people. We have a lot of work to do tonight, and I want to be sure we run through the first act entirely. Chop chop!"
-:- -:- -:-
The Winchesters took seats behind and to Hallie's right, the girl scribbling furiously as the rehearsal proceeded. Twice she opened a small white container and took out a tablet of something, swallowing it down with bottled water. Craning his neck, Sam read the label on the container—"Echinacea 450 mg."
Daniel was up and down the theater aisle, calling directions and encouragement, repositioning furniture on the stage, momentarily taking over a role to show his actors how he wanted a scene done. Sharon never moved except once, to throw a nervous smile back at Sam and Dean, smile freezing when she saw Dean with his head back and his mouth hanging open, asleep in his seat. Sam gave her a series of happy nods and an encouraging thumbs-up before elbowing Dean in the side.
"Dude!" Dean hissed, almost forgetting that Sam didn't know about his rib. "What'd you wake me up for? This play is crap, Sam—they'd better get used to their audiences falling asleep."
Sam had to admit his brother was right. 'Rochester Romp' was a trite drawing-room comedy with virtually nothing funny in it, although Sam had grown amused by the leading man's inability to remember his lines. Apparently a large part of the comedy was meant to come from the characters' reactions to things the family butler had done—in almost every scene, someone cried, "The butler did it!" Oh, yeah, hilarious. America's sense of humor had come a long way since the 1920's.
When Daniel finally called for a short break, the director took Hallie's notebook and joined his actors on stage for some quick notes. Sam took advantage of the time to speak with Sharon, while Dean prowled through the rows of seats, ostensibly stretching his legs, but on the alert for anything unusual. He made his way up to the balcony area and leaned over the rail, thinking that if he had any popcorn, he could probably toss a handful or so into the hood of Sam's jacket before his brother knew what was going on. The theater looked new and felt new, but that had been fear on Sharon's face when the lights flickered, and no one had even questioned the banging door backstage, when everyone except Zandra had been out front. Something weird was definitely going on in this place.
-:- -:- -:-
"I see you're taking Echinacea." Having finished with Sharon, Sam turned his gentle attention to Hallie, trying not to make her more skittish than she already seemed. She had something in her hands, ribbon or cord or something, and she seemed to be braiding it.
"Oh, I use it so I won't catch a cold," she explained, looking surprised that he would speak to her. "It seems like I always get one just before we open a show."
"You take a lot of notes, and I know you're going to be fixing that door, and hemming Zandra's dress—sounds like you're pretty indispensable around here."
"Oh, no—Daniel's the indispensable one. I'm just a go-fer." Hallie ducked her head, smiling shyly at the floor. "See? I even have time for my macramé. I'm making a belt."
She held up a narrow, web-like strap of red fabric ribbon, braided, knotted and beaded, for him to see, and Sam nodded his approval.
"Nice. I thought macramé was done with jute or cord—I've never seen anyone use ribbon before."
"Oh, you can always trust Hallie to come up with something offbeat," came a voice to his side, and Sam turned to find Geneva standing in the aisle, holding a soda can in one hand and what was probably coffee in the other. "Your choice," the blonde actress offered. "Come on, leave Hallie to her little art project and let's go catch some fresh air before Daniel gets things rolling again."
"Hey, watch it!" a man's voice called in alarm, and they looked to the stage to see the actor playing Major Brickley make a frantic grab for a flower vase as it teetered alarmingly on an end table, then plummeted to the floor with a crash.
"Philip!" Daniel chided.
The 40-something actor held out his hands to both sides. "I swear I didn't come within two feet of it!"
"Well, never mind. Just try to be more careful." The director tented a hand over his eyes and called out across the rows of seats. "Hallie! We need another vase, now. Can you clean this up before break's over?"
"Thank goodness for Hallie," Geneva said coolly as Hallie stuffed her macramé into the book-bag under her seat, rose wordlessly but with a tentative look up at Sam, and went to make things right on the stage.
"Hallie, I hope we'll have another chance to talk," he called after her, before Geneva tugged at his sleeve.
"Come on, Sam. There are chairs in the alley, and I need some fresh air. Let's go get to know one another, shall we?"
Sam unfolded himself from the soft, faux-velvet seat and followed her down the theater aisle to the side door. She flashed a smile back at him over her shoulder, and he reached around her to push the crash-bar for her.
"Thank you, kind sir," she drawled, voice gone Southern as she batted her eyelashes at him and laughed. "'I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers.' Now, what will you have, cola or coffee?"
She preceded him out the door and into the cool night air of the alley. Sam looked back to find Dean sitting near the rear of the theater, saw Zandra making a languorous beeline for him (if there was such a thing), saw Dean get to his feet and answer her smile of greeting with one of his own. The woman was old enough to be their mother, for God's sake! Sam's lips thinned momentarily, then relaxed. Dean was many things, and an equal opportunity Lothario was one of them. Whatever. Sam followed Geneva out into the alleyway.
-:- -:- -:-
In Chapter 2, the brothers encounter the spirits of the Palmer Theater. For Sam, it's a terrifying encounter he won't soon forget—assuming he survives.
