Chapter 1 - Heaven Help My Heart
As Sam sat there, stunned, Cas took charge.
"Take the boys home immediately, please," he said to Gail.
"Uh...we're men, Cas," Eric said irritably, but Gail held her hand up, silencing him. Cas had That Look on his face. She glanced at Sam, and her heart was heavy for him. Quinn was dead. Murdered. How must he be feeling right now?
"Come on, let's go, guys," Gail said. Without waiting for any other protest that might or might not be forthcoming, she moved swiftly to grab both Rob and Eric by the hand, winking them back to Frank's house.
Cas grabbed Sam's cell phone, taking it off Speaker. "How bad is it, Dean?" he asked his friend.
"Bad," Dean said shortly, staring down at Quinn's mutilated corpse.
"Take me over there, Cas," Sam said suddenly. "I want to see her."
"No, he doesn't," Dean said in Cas's ear. "Trust me."
Gail popped back in, and Cas said, "I'll be right there, Dean." He hung up the phone. "Gail, would you please stay here with Sam?"
"Take me over there," Sam said again, his voice louder and more insistent this time.
Cas looked at him sadly. "Sam, there's no need for you to see her like...that."
Sam stood from his chair, closing his laptop with a bang. "Yes, there is, Cas! I need to see her, to apologize. Even if she can't hear me. Don't you get it? I owe her that much. I need to see her, one last time."
"Sam..." Cas tried again, but Sam interrupted him. "If you guys won't take me, I'll drive over there myself," the younger Winchester said stubbornly.
"Of course we'll take you," Cas said, sighing. "As upset as you are, you shouldn't be driving." He took Gail by the hand, and she grabbed Sam's arm, and then the three of them were standing in Quinn's front hallway.
"Aww, geez!" Dean exclaimed. "Cas, I told you - "
"He insisted," Cas said, agitated. "He was going to drive over here, if we didn't bring him."
"Couldn't you have just knocked him out, or something?" Dean asked his Angel friend angrily. "Now, whenever he thinks of Quinn, that's gonna be all he sees! Believe me, I know."
Sam had moved into the living room now, and he got down on his knees beside Quinn's body. Oh, God. Look at her. He was going to be sick. But he made himself take her hand.
"I'm sorry, Quinn. You deserved better," Sam said softly, his eyes filling with tears. "I should have treated you better." He kissed her hand, then laid it gently on her stomach. Then, after a moment, he got up and went back to where the men and Gail were standing.
"Did you call the cops?" Sam asked his brother.
"Not yet," Dean said. "I don't think we should be here, when they get here. One look in Baby's trunk, and we're looking at 15 to life. They always suspect the boyfriend." Gail gasped, and Dean gave her a half-shrug. "Well, they do," he insisted.
Sam was frowning. "I hate to say this, but Dean's right," he said.
"But, you have an alibi," Gail pointed out. "You were in Las Vegas, with us."
"Be that as it may, I think Dean is right, also. I don't think we should be here when the authorities get here," Cas said, looking at her. "Take Sam and Dean back to the bunker. I'll drive the car there. That way, if anyone sees a vehicle driving away from here, it won't be either of you they describe." He put his hand on Sam's arm. "I'm very sorry, Sam, but I think it's for the best. Let the police handle it."
Sam let out a frustrated breath. But he realized that they were right. If the cops did a little digging, they might find out that Quinn's boyfriend had way more weapons than a normal person ought to have. And they might also find out that Quinn's boyfriend had slept with another woman recently, the second her back was turned. Yeah, that would go over real big, wouldn't it? He gazed through the doorway at poor Quinn's bloody corpse. Who would do that to her, and in such a violent way? Quinn had no enemies, none that he knew of. She wasn't like them. She'd just been a normal woman, trying to live a normal life. Well, as normal as a professional psychic's life could be, that was. Had it been one of her clients, angry at the reading they'd received, or something? No; that was ridiculous. She hadn't just been murdered, she'd been hacked to bits. Oh, God, here it came. The nausea, again. Poor Quinn. And now, the guilt started to come. She had needed his protection, and where had Sam been? Sleeping with another woman, and gallivanting around in Las Vegas. His stomach hurt.
"Come on, Sam," Gail said, taking his hand gently. Dean dug into the pocket of his jeans and handed Cas the car keys. If the situation had been less solemn, he probably would have made some kind of joke about Cas treating Dean's Baby like he would treat Gail, only better, but now was not the time. Right now they had to get Sammy home, get him a drink, and get that look off his face. Dean recognized that look. He should; he saw it in the mirror nearly every day of his life. Sam was blaming himself for what had happened here. Well, they needed to nip that right in the bud.
Dean took Gail's hand, and she winked the brothers to the bunker without another word.
Cas walked slowly into the living room and stared down at Quinn's body. He was compartmentalizing his emotions now, viewing the scene as a detective might. Quinn had been stabbed numerous times in and around her torso, and her neck was almost obliterated. This was clearly overkill, on the murderer's part. That usually suggested anger towards the victim. And the concentration on the throat area might signify that whoever had attacked Quinn had wanted to silence her. But in any event, this many stab wounds were completely unnecessary. One through the heart would have sufficed. But, this? This was a bloodbath.
He did a quick search, but there were no other clues to be found. Which, in and of itself, was curious. If the killer had been soaked with Quinn's blood, why would there be no blood trail leading away from the body? There was no blood in the front hallway or even on the porch, now anywhere else in the house. How could that be?
Cas took out his cell phone and placed an anonymous call to the police. Then he got into the Impala, and drove away.
As soon as they'd gotten back to the bunker, Sam sank slowly into a chair at the library table. Gail sat beside him, looking at him sadly. But, she had no words. What did you say in a situation like this? She had no clue.
Dean may not know what to say, but he sure as hell knew what to do. He strode down the hallway to the bar and grabbed a bottle of whiskey with one hand, two glasses with the other, and brought them back to the library. He poured a healthy shot, then a little bit more, and put the glass in front of Sam.
"Drink up," Dean ordered, and Sam looked at him balefully. "Why is it that you think everything can be solved by booze, Dean?" the younger Winchester asked tonelessly.
Dean sighed. "I don't." He sat down next to his brother. "Look, Sam: this sucks. It really, really sucks. I get it. But I'm seeing that look on your face now, the one that says you're scum, and everything is your fault. I know that look. Hell, I INVENTED that look. But this has nothing to do with you, Sam."
"What do you mean, it has nothing to do with me?" Sam said incredulously. "It has EVERYTHING to do with me!"
"No, it doesn't," Dean shot back. "You could have slept with a hundred women, and it wouldn't have mattered. You think you could have protected her? Fair enough. But, the truth is: you can't always protect them. You and I have both learned that the hard way over the years, haven't we? Sometimes, you just can't protect them. Sometimes, bad things just happen, things that aren't your fault. This isn't on you, Sammy."
Sam reached out and grabbed the glass blindly, downing the shot Dean had poured him in a couple of swallows. Dean replenished Sam's glass, and his brother drank again. Dean nodded as if they'd spoken, sitting back in his chair, still regarding his brother.
Gail was staring at Sam too, and she was astonished. Sam was stoic. Calm, even. If that had been Cas on that floor, a broken and bloody mess, Gail would be inconsolable. How could you stand the thought of your loved one being murdered in cold blood like that? How could you?
There was only one answer to that question, then, wasn't there? Obviously, as broken up as he was about her death, Sam hadn't been in love with Quinn. He'd liked her, and been attracted to her, but there was no way he could have loved her. Which, in Gail's mind, made what had happened between Sam and Becky a little more explainable.
By the time Cas returned, the brothers were talking about possible suspects and a motive for Quinn's murder, almost like it was a case they had to solve. And while the concept was really weird to Gail, she supposed it was better than the alternative. Things were bad enough without Sam losing his mind.
Cas handed Dean the car keys, laying a hand on Sam's shoulder before drawing up a chair beside Gail. "The police are there, now," Cas told them. "I popped over there quickly, after I parked the car here in the garage, just to see."
Sam nodded in acknowledgement. "I can't figure out who the hell would want to do this to her, or why. Quinn kept to herself, much of the time. She has - had - a small family, and virtually no friends. She told me it was hard for a psychic to make friends, and harder still to keep them." His face twitched into a wry smile. "We even argued about that, a couple of times. I got the feeling she was 'reading' me sometimes, and I didn't like it." He propped his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. The others glanced at each other. Then Sam wiped his eyes with his hands and continued, "It must have been so hard for her. I guess I never really thought about it from her point of view before."
"Did she have any whacko clients?" Dean asked.
Sam looked at his brother. "What do you mean, 'whacko'?"
Dean shrugged. "I don't know; I'm just spitballing, here."
"Since we seem to be talking about this, I need to talk about the elephant," Gail piped up.
The men looked at her. "Huh? What elephant?"
Really? They had to be kidding her with this. Gail looked at all three of them, gesturing. "Uhh...the obvious suspect would be Becky," she told them.
Cas was nodding now. A part of him had been thinking that very same thing. It would make a horrible kind of sense. The overkill tactic he'd seen suggested that the person who had wielded the knife had felt animosity towards Quinn. Now that Sam had slept with Becky, he had, however unwittingly, given her the impression that the two of them had a relationship. Would not Becky have then wanted to eliminate her rival for Becky's affections?
He voiced these thoughts aloud now, but Dean scoffed at the idea. He didn't believe for a second that Becky had that kind of violence in her. Becky might be a lot of things, but she was no mad dog killer.
Cas wasn't so sure. He remembered that time that Becky had dispatched that man in Africa so coldly and efficiently with the nail file. Becky knew many ways to kill a person. Cas knew that she did, because he had shown Becky most of them himself. Maybe this wouldn't be the best time to bring that up, though. But did Becky really have the temperament to do something like this? Self-defense was one thing, but this murder had been the act of a psychotic.
And there was one other thing: Becky was no longer an Angel; she was a human, now. Quinn had been bigger in stature than Becky. Wouldn't there have been some signs of a struggle? Becky would have tracked blood all over the floor when she went to leave the house, because as a human, she could no longer teleport.
None of it added up. Sam sighed, rising from his chair. "I'm going to try to get some sleep. I appreciate all of you, having my back. But I'm with Dean; I don't think Becky did it, either. But I need to talk to her anyway, so I'll go to her place tomorrow. If she's home, we'll have our talk. But if I get any kind of hinky feeling from her, I'll give her name to the cops."
"Do you want us to go with you?" Cas offered, but Sam gave him a sad smile. "No, Cas. This is my mess, so it's my job to deal with it. Goodnight." Then he went off down the hall to his room.
The next day, after a couple of hours of fitful sleep, Sam got up early and drove over to Becky's house. Assuming she was still modelling, her hours might be flexible, but he wanted to get this over with as soon as possible.
Vincent had expected something like this to happen, even before Becky had gotten all stabby over at Quinn's place. Of course Sam Winchester would show up on innocent young Becky's doorstep. He would want to apologize for his despicable, unforgiveable actions. Vincent smirked. Consciences. What a bitch they could be, sometimes.
But Quinn's murder complicated things, of course. He had initially told Becky not to answer the door. Vincent didn't trust Becky not to blab about their special secret. He couldn't have that happen. It was still too soon for an announcement like that. Besides, now that he'd said it, Vincent really did want the Big Reveal to take place at Christmas. It would be far more hilarious that way.
But Vincent had forgotten that Becky was, first and foremost, an idiot. She had reluctantly agreed not to answer the door when Sam came to call, but she hadn't been able to resist taking a peek out the window at him. Sam had seen the curtains move, and then it was game over.
"I saw you, Becky, and I'm not leaving until you let me in. We have to talk about what happened between us. And we have to talk about Quinn," Sam said through the door.
Quinn?! Becky looked at Vincent, panicked. He grabbed her and pulled her away from the door, out of earshot.
"Don't freak out," Vincent said to the girl. "You look like you're one step away from confessing."
"He knows," Becky said, wide-eyed. "That's why he's here."
"No, it's not," Vincent said, rolling his eyes. "He's here because he's a Boy Scout. He wants to talk about your feelings. It's all very sweet. And very sickening, at the same time. Even if he knows Quinn is dead, he won't tie it to you. He can't. Don't worry. Now, come on. Be the strong woman I know you are. Put your hand on your stomach."
So Becky did, and it was funny: every time she did that, she felt calmer. More confident, somehow. Was this how all mothers felt? It was fantastic. Now she understood all those stories about the mothers who went all nuts when somebody said or did something to hurt their kid. As she felt the baby move, Becky realized that she had just done what she'd had to do at Quinn's place. Quinn had been a threat to Becky and Sam's baby, so she'd had to go. It was as simple as that.
"All right, you can let him in, now," Vincent told Becky. "But unless you want to have your baby in a jail cell and then have him taken away from you, you'd better keep your yap shut. And don't touch your stomach while he's here. It'll look weird. Remember, you're going to wait until Christmas, when you can make the big announcement in front of the entire family. Won't that be great?"
Becky smiled. Yes, it would be. Even if some of them didn't really like Becky, they would have no choice but to accept her as a member of the family, then. And nobody in the God Squad would dare suggest that she get rid of it. That would go against their religion. She giggled, then strode over to the front door and opened it.
"Hi, Sam. How are you?" Becky said cheerfully. "Come on in. I have to go to the studio in a little while, but I can give you about twenty minutes."
Vincent grinned. He'd made himself invisible again. The ingredients for that spell didn't come cheaply or easily, but he'd just had to be here to see this. What was really a shame was that he wouldn't be able to be there at Christmas, for the Big Reveal. But there was no way Vincent was going to be able to even get near Castiel's house. Just like the bunker, it was protected to the hilt. Boy, would that have been fun, though.
But it was important for him to be here now, just in case Becky slipped. He knew she still had the occasional bout of conscience. It would slowly ebb away, a little bit more every day, as The Son took over. But, it was a process. That was why Vincent had been introducing the blood into her system, through the health drinks and the steaks. Eventually, the baby would take over and feed itself, however it needed to.
"Becky, I have some bad news," Sam said, watching her face closely. "Quinn is dead."
"What?!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean, Sam? What happened to her?"
Vincent had to hand it to Becky. When she needed to, she could really pull it together. She was projecting just the right amount of shock, concern, and innocence.
"I think you know what happened to her," Sam said calmly. He was trying the classic investigators' technique now, to see what information she might supply on her own.
But Becky was a lot more savvy than that. "She didn't commit suicide, did she?" she said innocently, and Vincent had to suppress a laugh. Damn, Becky was good.
Sam was astonished. "Why would you think that?"
"Because I did that once, remember?" Becky said pointedly, and if Vincent had had a microphone in his hand, he would have dropped it on the floor, because as the young people said, Sam had just gotten served. When Vincent and Becky had merged together to make The Son, because that was honestly the way that Vincent looked at it, he had seen into her mind. Into every detail of her sad, pathetic little life. So he knew that Becky had committed suicide a number of years ago, because Sam had rejected her. Wow. When Becky decided to burn someone, she threw out the matchbook and used a blowtorch, instead. No wonder there were aspects of her personality that Vincent liked so much.
Sam's mouth closed with a snap, and Becky smiled internally, resisting the urge to put her hand on her stomach. But she could feel a surge of confidence now, anyway. She put her hand on Sam's arm, instead. "Look, Sam. I'm not going to cause you any trouble. I don't know what happened to Quinn, and I'm not even going to ask you, because it's none of my business. What happened between you and me was one of those things that happens to people from time to time when they're vulnerable. I don't know about you, but it was really comforting for me to be with a friend that night. But you've made it very clear that you don't want a relationship with me, and I've gotten the message, Sam. So don't worry about me. You and I are fine. I'm hoping Cas and Gail will invite me for Christmas this year, though, because I'd like to see Jody before - " Becky's voice broke, and she made tears come to her eyes.
Sam felt like a monster, which had been the whole point, of course. He had come here loaded for bear, prepared to tell Becky to leave him the hell alone. But the fact was, she WAS leaving him alone. She was actually being very mature about this whole deal. More so than Sam was.
"It's been good to see you, Sam, but I have a photo shoot to get to," Becky said now. "Take care of yourself, and give Jody my best wishes." Then she shooed a dazed Sam out of her house, and locked the door behind him.
"That was an impressive job," Vincent said, showing himself. "I'm very proud of you, Becky."
She smiled. Actually, she was pretty proud of herself, too. Now that Sam was gone, she put her hand on her stomach again, feeling the reassuring movement of their baby. A part of her really did believe that Sam might still come around, if she handled him right. But even if he didn't, the two of them were bound irrevocably now, because they were going to be parents. It was almost like a romance novel, or a fairy tale.
Becky yawned, and Vincent smiled paternally. "Why don't you go back to bed for a while? I'll come tuck you in, and later, I'll bring you something really good to eat."
She yawned again, and the two of them walked up the stairs together. When they got to her bedroom, Vincent went into the dresser to get Becky a fresh, fluffy nightgown. He helped her to undress. There was nothing creepy about that; he did that all the time. Becky thought it was kind of sweet.
Once she was in bed, Vincent drew the covers up to her chin. "Are you comfortable, Little Mother?" he asked her, and she smiled again, nodding. Her eyelids were already getting heavy.
But then, Vincent put his hand on her stomach, and she felt a violent lurch. For an instant, Vincent's face changed, and Becky's eyes widened. He was pale, with sunken eyes, ancient, cracked skin, and rows of sharp fangs for teeth.
But then she blinked, and he was back to normal. Wow. Holy moly. That had been weird. Vincent had warned her that she might have some weird dreams as the baby got bigger, but she wasn't even asleep yet, was she? Then she shrugged it off. Obviously, she must have dozed off for a minute there. Vincent gave her a gentle kiss on the forehead, and then Becky drifted off to sleep.
Benoit had arrived at Dr. Roarke's lab, in response to the Angel's request to stop by. The testing on all the subjects they'd poached from the compound was nearly complete, and the doctor said that Benoit would be astounded at what he had to show him today.
It had all been pretty impressive so far, but there were more surprises to come. Benoit had been fairly convinced that they had gotten the cream of the crop, considering how little time they'd had to assess them all. He would have liked to have had a psychic or two in the mix, but he supposed you couldn't win them all. He had seriously considered bringing Rob for that very reason, but because Rob came with so much family baggage, he'd decided to leave the young man be. Benoit was trying to be as unobtrusive as he could be right now, considering the fact that he was running for the Presidency of a large European country. The last thing he would need would be to attract the attention of the American Hunters, or worse, the Angels.
"Hello, Toby," Benoit said to one of the subjects, a gangly young man in his mid-20s.
"Hey, Mister Levesque," Toby said affably, in greeting. Benoit gritted his teeth. Why was it that nearly every American insisted on pronouncing the "s" in his last name? At least Michelle hadn't done that, he thought warmly. Of course, by the time she had left Paris, they had been on a first-name basis, anyway. They'd had a few dates before she'd gone back to New Orleans, but even though Benoit had worked very hard at seducing her, Michelle had kept him at arms' length, and for that, he respected her all the more. He'd escorted her to the airport, given her what he'd hoped was a memorable kiss at the gate, and then that had been that. But he'd made it very clear that he would like to see her again.
"Toby has demonstrated a skill set that I thought you would be very interested in seeing," Dr. Roarke told Benoit now. "It's still a little hit and miss, but when it works, it's spectacular. Here. Let us show you." He laid a ruler down on the table. "Now, concentrate, Toby. Don't be nervous."
Toby wished he hadn't said that. It was a little nerve-wracking to try to do something like this anyway, when you weren't sure if it was even going to work. But now, with the boss staring at him, Toby was even more intimidated. But he concentrated dutifully, and the ruler wiggled, and then it changed into...a bowling ball. Dammit!
Benoit stared, saying nothing. Well, that had certainly been different. But did it have a practical application? He supposed it depended on the situation. It bore further study, at the very least.
But then Toby said, "I want to try again. That's not what was supposed to happen."
Dr. Roarke glanced at Benoit, who shrugged. "Why not?" he said. "I've come all this way, anyway."
Thus encouraged, Toby marshalled all his forces of concentration. And when Dr. Roarke placed an apple on the table, Toby scrunched up his face, and changed it into a hand grenade.
Benoit's face broke into a huge grin. He picked it up, examining it. "This looks like the real thing," Benoit remarked. "Have one of your assistants take it outside and test it." Then he nodded his approval at the young man. "Merci, Toby. Keep up the good work."
As Benoit moved on, he felt a thrill of excitement. Imagine having someone on his staff who could make actual, working weapons out of everyday objects. Unbelievable.
"Now, before we get to this next station, I have to tell you that we have had to break a number of eggs to get to this particular omelet," Dr. Roarke said, and Benoit looked at him with a raised eyebrow. That was the expression the Angel used when he was preparing Benoit for the very real possibility that the experiment he was set to perform would result in some deaths. Luckily, the good doctor had a very efficient crematorium on the premises, and he made frequent use of it. That was why the facility was located so far outside the city. The irony was completely lost on Roarke.
"Hello, Lorrie. How are you tonight?" Benoit asked the young woman.
She shrugged. "I'm all right, I guess. How much longer am I going to be cooped up here?"
"Only a few more minutes, my dear," Benoit said smoothly. "If you would be so kind as to demonstrate your skill for me, I will take you out in my limousine, anywhere you want to go. If you wish to go shopping, we'll make sure to slip you a little bonus. Just don't tell the others."
Lorrie dimpled. She had learned as far back as the compound that if she pouted a little, she frequently received things that others did not.
Dr. Roarke frowned. In his opinion, Benoit was far too permissive with the young people in his charge. But then again, he supposed that was easy for him to say. Benoit was a human, not an Angel, and he had eight packages of dynamite at his fingertips. Some of the particular talents these youngsters had were proving to be more lethal than others, and as they had learned at the compound with Jason, situations could turn volatile in a hurry when it came to Vincent's offspring.
And Dr. Roarke wasn't the boss; Benoit was. Roarke didn't mind. He was happy here. He brought Lorrie a plate of food as Benoit looked on curiously.
Lorrie sighed a little. This was the part she didn't like, although she guessed it could be a lot worse. She could be on the other end of that plate of food, she thought with a smirk. She placed her index finger in the centre of the food, which appeared to be some kind of fried rice mixture. She concentrated for a moment, then removed her finger from the plate and cleaned her hand with disinfectant. Roarke gave the plate to an assistant, who walked away with it. Then the doctor placed another plate in front of Lorrie. Benoit didn't recognize the dish, but it smelled very pungent to him. "Full strength, please," the doctor said to her. She repeated the process, and then Dr. Roarke took the plate from her.
"Thank you," Benoit said to her. "You can go and freshen up now, and I'll meet you back here in fifteen minutes." He followed Dr. Roarke to the testing rooms, where they stood behind one-way glass to observe the assistant bring the first subject the plate of fried rice. They had advertised in certain neighbourhoods for taste testers for some new products that were being marketed. Out of the couple of dozen people who had expressed interest, a short list of ethnic individuals had been chosen. They would be paid to try certain foods, and give their impressions. And they would need to sign waivers, absolving the testers of any liability, first.
Not that it ultimately mattered, of course. Everyone who had consumed Lorrie's special dishes had died and gone into Dr. Roarke's crematorium, never to be seen again. Some died quicker than others, depending on how much "oomph" she put into it, but it had never failed to work.
As the men stood there and observed both sets of victims choking and struggling for breath, Benoit was intrigued. How on earth would some of these young people ever have found out that they had the particular talents that they did? Had Lorrie accidentally stuck her finger in a classmate's pudding one day, poisoning the child? It amused him to picture the various scenarios in which those discoveries had taken place.
"An excellent job, as always, Dr. Roarke," Benoit said to the doctor as they watched the bodies of the taste-testers being taken away.
Roarke nodded briefly. He already knew that. He was still an Angel, after all. An evil, amoral one, but an Angel, nonetheless. Benoit was now stating the obvious.
"We have two more of your staff to test, and then we will be done," Dr. Roarke stated dispassionately. "Unless you want me to start on the boy. How is the medication working, by the way?"
"Very well," Benoit advised. "We have had no further household staff injuries." He thought for a moment. "No, we had better save his testing until after the election. I don't want to do anything to upset the apple cart right now."
Dr. Roarke nodded. "All right. I will call you when the teleporters are ready to demonstrate."
Benoit went back to the spot where he'd arranged to meet with Lorrie, extremely pleased at how everything was going.
A week had passed, and Sam was working through the grieving process. Quinn's aunt had come to town and attempted to claim her body for the funeral services. But the police were holding it in the morgue, and they still had the house roped off as a crime scene. The aunt had been mad, according to Sam's contact in the police department.
"You know, I shouldn't be telling you any of this," the Officer had told the younger Winchester. "What I should be doing is bringing you in for questioning."
"Come on, Foley, you know I would never do something like that," Sam said earnestly. "I wasn't even in town the week she got back from the Expo. I was in Vegas, with Dean and two of our friends."
"Then why don't you just come in and give a statement?" Sergeant Foley asked him.
"You know why," Sam said, frustrated. "Dean and I live in a secret bunker, with way too many weapons handy. We have money, but no jobs. There's no way we can start pulling on that thread."
Foley sighed. "Yeah, Sam. I know. But if you and Dean hadn't helped out with that monster problem in my neighbourhood, I might have to insist. I'll keep you posted, if there are any developments." Then he'd hung up.
That had been earlier in the day, and now the brothers, Cas, Gail and Gabriel were gathered around the library table, talking about the upcoming mission to retrieve Gabriel's blade. Their applications for the poker tournament had all come back, approved, and now they were discussing logistics.
"How sure are we that that's my blade?" Gabriel inquired, peering over Sam's shoulder at the laptop screen. "Are there any pictures of it?"
"No," Sam replied, "just a description. Says here it's an odd-looking, large knife, with mysterious markings on it."
"Oh, yeah?" Gabriel sniffed in indignation. "Well, maybe that billionaire guy is odd-looking."
Sam smirked. Angels were sure touchy, sometimes. "But, the article said it was found when they dredged the Mississippi River, and Rob said that's the location his vision showed."
Gabe was thoughtful. "OK, that's gotta be it, then. But why are you guys coming with us?"
Dean stared at him balefully. "Okay, first of all: you're welcome. Second, we're bored. No cases right now. And, third, more chances to win."
Gabriel rolled his eyes, then looked at Cas. "Which brings me to the obvious question: why don't we just steal the damn thing? Actually, it wouldn't even BE stealing. It's mine."
"We're not doing that," Cas said firmly. "The cruise and poker tournament is being held to raise money to build a local childrens' hospital. If we stole the blade, they would have to cancel the tournament. We're not going to negate all the good work that could be done with the money that they're going to raise."
"Besides, we don't even know for sure if it's your blade," Gail added. "We'll see when we get there."
"Don't worry, Brother," Cas remarked, straight-faced. "We'll enter the tournament, we'll help a very worthy cause, and if one of us does not win the tournament, THEN we'll steal the knife."
Gabriel smiled. He guessed he had no problem with that. Cas was a lot more ethical these days, but he still knew how to take care of business.
"Uhh...there's one other thing," Sam said, scrolling down.
"What is it, Sam?" Cas asked.
"All of the attendees have to wear period costumes, from the late 1800s," Sam replied.
Dean groaned. "You've gotta be kidding me," he complained.
"I'm afraid not," Sam said with a half-grin. "Says here that they want the authentic riverboat gambling kind of experience."
"Time to do some research," Gail said, nudging Sam. "I think, as usual, you guys'll get off pretty easily. Just some kind of variation on suits, I'll bet. Meanwhile, I'll have to wear some long, frilly monstrosity, with about fifteen layers underneath."
"What should I look up?" Sam said, starting to type. "Riverboats of the 1800s? Oh, hey; there was a musical called 'Showboat' in the 1950s, I think. Maybe they'll have screen shots of what the people would have been wearing, back then."
"A musical," Dean said with disgust. "Come on, Sammy. You're embarrassing yourself."
Gail and Sam were ignoring him. "Wait; I know!" Gail said suddenly. "Karma Chameleon!"
Gabriel was looking at her strangely. "What kind of ancient language is that?"
But Dean was looking horrified now. He pointed a finger at her. "Don't say it."
She said it. "Boy George. Culture Club."
"OK, I know those are words you're speaking right now, but they're still not making any sense," Gabriel said, puzzled.
"That was a singing group, in the 1980s," Cas said absently. "They made a number of musical videos, based on their songs. 'Karma Chameleon' was one." As Gabriel stared at him, open-mouthed, Cas gave his Angel Brother a half-shrug. "It comes and goes."
Sam was nodding. "That's right. That video had a paddlewheel boat, and they were dressed in period costumes."
Dean was mortified. "OK, this is really bad, now. Now, you're not only embarrassing yourself, you're embarrassing ME. After we do this thing, I might have to take you for a DNA test, to make sure we're really related."
"Pull it up," Gail exhorted Sam, pointing to the computer. "It's been years since I've seen that video. I want to see what everybody's wearing."
"Or you could just look at pictures on Google, like normal people," Dean pointed out, but his protests were falling on deaf ears. Sam put the video on, and he and Gail watched avidly. She began to sway to the music, as Dean rolled his eyes.
Gabriel was peering over Sam's other shoulder again. "Is that a GUY?" he said, puzzled.
Sam's lips were twitching. "Yeah. That's the band's lead singer, Boy George."
"Don't call them a 'band'," Dean moaned.
"Well, at least the costumes are fairly accurate for the period," Gabriel commented.
Sam let the song finish, and then he looked at the others. "So I guess we're going on a field trip to the costume rental place, then?"
Gabriel looked at the younger Winchester. "Seriously, how are you doing, Sam? Cas told me about what happened to Quinn. I know a little something about how that feels. I just wanted to say I'm sorry."
Sam was astounded. He'd never seen Gabe like this before. "Thanks," he said in a dazed voice.
"Come on, Kitten, you can ride with me," Gabriel said, taking Gail by the hand. "We've gotta get you a head start, seeing as you'll be wearing about a dozen undergarments. You ever worn a bustle before?"
"I knew it!" she said, exasperated. "Why do us women always get the short end of the stick?"
"There's a very obvious joke in there, but I'm gonna leave it alone," Gabe said, smirking. "I feel like I need to point out to you that you're never satisfied. Too few clothes in Saqqara, too many clothes here..."
Gail glared at the Archangel. "And yet somehow, you're always involved," she said coolly.
"Just lucky, I guess," he said happily. "Hey, Google-meister, what's the address of the place?" he asked Sam. The younger Winchester told him, and Gabriel smirked again. "Catch you losers later," he said, and he snapped his fingers and winked himself and Gail out of the bunker.
Cas sighed. Gabriel was a work in progress, but he was still Gabriel. He looked at Dean, who fished in his pocket for the car keys. "Let's go get some costumes, boys," Dean said, resigned.