The Mark at the Met
by Halfpint Fountainpen
New York City, NY
Two months after "All Hell Breaks Loose"
Dean slid into the driver's seat with an agitated sigh. Sam looked at him quizzically.
"What?" Dean positively snapped, noticing the expression on his brother's face.
"I should ask you the same question," Sam retorted. "What happened in there that's got you all riled up?"
Dean blew out another gust of hot air as he gunned the Impala's engine, the car waking up with its distinct rumble. As he eased the car away from the curb and into downtown traffic, he replied, "Making an appointment with this curator lady is damn hard! I told her secretary dude about five million times, she was expecting us to arrive some time today, and he wouldn't cut me any slack. Friggin' fairy."
Sam smirked. It sounded as if Dean's first impression at the curator's office was not exactly stellar. "And?" he prompted, settling comfortably into his seat as the Impala inched its way through rush-hour traffic.
"I finally got the appointment. She came out herself, the guy was putting up such a ruckus."
Sam got the feeling that it wasn't just the secretary's fault.
Dean continued, in full swing now. "I thought we were dealing with some stuffy old blue-haired grandma type. That's what I see when I hear 'art curator'. Damn, I was surprised when I saw her for real. I mean, wow, Sam. You sure know how to choose the jobs well."
His brother rolled his eyes. It wasn't really his fault that a number of cases he'd promised to take on involved attractive young women. It just seemed to happen that way. Not that he was a chauvinist or anything.
The older Winchester brother just blathered on. "She's incredibly young, Sammy. She's like, my age, maybe a bit younger? I couldn't believe it."
"Dean," Sam said patiently. "If you had any inclination towards the news – "
"Which I don't," Dean cut in quickly.
" – you'd know that Holly West is the youngest curator in the world to ever be in demand from so many museums and galleries. She's the hottest thing from here to Cairo," finished Sam, not missing a beat.
"I'd agree with that," his brother said with a smirk.
"Dean, I'm serious. Everyone – and I mean, everyone! – wants her on their team. The freakin' Louvre in Paris wants her. There were major museums in Greece and Italy asking for her résumé."
"So?"
Sam was always exasperated with Dean's somewhat limited view of life, but he usually forgot all about it. Now was one of the times it stared him painfully in the face. "What do you mean, 'so'?" he asked, his voice taking on the same tone he'd probably use on an unruly toddler. "Dean, Miss West is good. And not just ordinary good, either. She's practically a phenomenon. She's managed to get major historical artworks for the Met, stuff that nobodyhas been able to get their hands on for any other famous museum in the world. And they've all been trying for years."
It seemed to sink into Dean's a head a bit more. "So she's like, famous. A celebrity in the world of naked statues and weird paintings."
"Well…duh!"
Dean's face broke into a huge grin. "She's hot and famous. I'm beginning to like this job."
Now it was Sam's turn to let out an exasperated sigh. "Just get us back to the hotel, Dean…it's been a long day."
---
Back at the hotel – and Dean still couldn't get over the fact they were in a hotel for once on a job – the brothers showered, changed, and settled down for some light research. Ellen had called them up a couple of days before, telling them somebody had called her asking to connect her with the Winchesters. How Holly West, rising star in the world of art and museum curators, knew about the Winchesters and Ellen Harvelle was beyond any of them.
"It's true, then, that she can find anything," Ellen had remarked over the phone. "She found us, and we're pretty hard to pin down these days. You want her number, Sam?"
Since Dean had been out around town, Sam had taken Ellen's call. Two hours later, when Dean still hadn't shown up, Sam did the math to figure out the current time in NYC, and called up Miss West.
Her predicament was an interesting one. Holly West was having some trouble in the Met. It had all started after she had arrived in NYC after a trip to London, where she'd procured some "truly exquisite" paintings that originated from an old manor house in Canterbury. She'd catalogued the paintings with no evident trouble; it was only once they'd gone on display that things started to get weird. She wouldn't say what had happened, exactly, but Sam had sensed from her tone of voice that it wasn't nice. So, he told Miss West he and Dean would take the case, and would be in New York City in the next couple of days to meet up with her. She gave him the address of her office.
"It's not at the Met at all, but it's on Fifth, too, a little ways down," Miss West had told him. "When you get there, make an appointment for the following day with my assistant, James. We're open from eight to eight."
She had a very British voice, which was odd because Sam could have sworn he'd read in one paper or another that Holly West was from New England. He figured she'd gone to boarding school or something over in the United Kingdom. At any rate, it was a trivial matter.
"Dean and I will be on the road as soon as possible," he'd promised. "We're in Maine right now. We should be in NYC by tomorrow."
"That's wonderful. Have you any accommodation plans?"
That had been something Sam hadn't thought of before accepting the job. A place to stay in New York City was going to be a bit of a problem, especially if they were going to have to be around the Metropolitan a lot. Miss West seemed to have sensed his hesitation, however, because she offered to book a hotel room for them "in a nice part of town."
And so it was. The Empire Hotel wasn't the Waldorf, but even Dean appreciated the place. It wasn't too far from where they had to be, and the place was extraordinary to the usual motels that the brothers were accustomed to staying in. Sam's only worry was that if something should happen at the Met while he and Dean were chilling, they wouldn't get there in time. Dean's only worry was..well, nothing to be exact. He was having the time of his life.
---
Dean scrunched up in a ball and stuck his pillow over his head. The incessant beeping of the alarm clock, however, still penetrated the thick layer of cotton and feathers being clamped down on his head.
"Sam," Dean grunted, "turn off the blasted thing."
The beeping continued.
"Sam!" Dean barked. His head was going through enough without any of that blasted chirping.
The beeping continued.
Dean shot upright, the pillow flying off his head to land on the floor, and slammed his hand down on the alarm clock until it stopped. No point trying to get back to sleep now, he reasoned; all that had woken him up. Grumpy, he looked over to Sam's bed. It was empty.
"Hm..." Dean swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed the sleep out of his bleary eyes. Their appointment was set for one that afternoon, and he looked over his shoulder at the clock again. It read nine, and Dean groaned. After last night's excursion to the bar, this was neither the best time nor the best way to be waking up.
Sam came back into the room, hair damp from the shower and a towel over his shoulder. "Look who's finally up," he remarked as he strode over to his side of the room and began digging in his bag for a shirt.
"Shut up," Dean practically snarled. His head hurt like hell and he didn't want to put up with any more bull.
"You still have to wash the smell of booze off you, and get something into your stomach," Sam continued.
"It's a lunch meeting, for heaven's sake," Dean protested. "I don't need to eat breakfast."
"Yes, you do." Sam gave him a look. "You know just as well as I do how utterly impersonal you get when you're hungover and running on empty."
Dean had to admit that Sam was right. If they were going to do this job, they had to do it right. It wouldn't cut it to go half-assed into the hunt, especially when a person like Holly West was involved. It wouldn't be right, and it definitely wouldn't be fair to her.
He got up and made his way to the bathroom. "Hold all my calls," he tossed over his shoulder, "and round up some chow."
---
The constricting suit that encased Dean was making him feel very vulnerable. It might make him look good, but he preferred his usual attire of a T-shirt, jeans, and leather jacket – that getup made it easier to throw punches and run like hell. The suit jacket, although extremely well-fitting and pristine, felt tight and awkward around his shoulders. The pants were so crease-free that Dean found it damn near impossible to believe Sam hadn't starched the shit out of it. The shiny black shoes on his feet pinched his toes, the white button-down felt too close for comfort around his neck and wrists, and – worst of all – the tie Sam forced over his head felt more and more like a noose as the minutes ticked by at an agonizingly slow pace.
He'd had to wear suits before, to be sure – but this was nothing compared to the ones he'd donned in the past. Those had been office attire. What Sam had practically wrestled him into was something reserved for a dinner served with a hitched lady and good booze instead of a one-nighter and a case of cheap booze.
"I can't believe you made me wear this…thing!" Dean fumed under his breath. They were sitting at the restaurant where Miss West had told them to meet her – the Centolire, an Italian restaurant and bar near the Metropolitan.
"Suck it up, Dean," Sam hissed back. "You made a bad enough impression on her assistant yesterday. Let's not do that again, hm? Especially since it's her we're meeting today."
"She's already met me briefly. What difference does it make?"
"You've still got a pretty good chance at hitting it off well with her. After all, she doesn't really know it was your lack of interpersonal skills that got her assistant all ruffled up."
"Bitch."
"Jerk… I could also add that this place isn't exactly a restaurant where you can get away with jeans and a T-shirt."
Dean stared. "Double bitch!"
Sam rolled his eyes. "Grow up, Dean. And stop swearing. You might get us in trouble."
A few minutes later they were called up. Sam approached hesitantly – Miss West was nowhere in sight.
The maitre d' noticed. "Are you still waiting for somebody? Your table is ready, if you'd like to wait there."
"Thank you," Sam replied politely. "We are waiting for somebody, in fact. Would you be able to inform Miss Holly West that we're here once she's arrived?"
The man nodded. "Certainly, sir."
A pretty hostess brought them to a comfortable table by a window. Dean sat down in his seat and made himself comfortable. He was getting hungry despite his rather ample breakfast of a bagel, muffin, eggs, coffee, and fruit. His stomach rumbled and he silently, albeit half-heartedly, told it to shut up.
A few minutes later, the hostess reappeared with a petite, extremely attractive woman in tow. She wore a cropped black jacket over a black empire-waist dress sprinkled with small white flowers. A wide red patent-leather belt was fastened under her ample assets, matching her high-heeled sandals and purse. Her hair came down to her chin, a sleek curtain of dark, straightened locks falling over either side of her face while the hair in the black flipped out in a sassy manner.
Sam instinctively stood up in a graceful manner, while Dean sort of awkwardly rose, nearly tripping over his feet.
Holly West smiled at them, her perfect white teeth framed by glossy pale pink lips, and shook their hands. "It's nice to meet you at last, Sam," she said warmly. "And Dean – what a pleasure seeing you again. I do hope James didn't give you too much trouble?"
Dean cleared his through. "Uh, no," he managed to get out. "It's nice seeing you again, too."
Sam smirked. "Miss West, we're both delighted and honored."
"Please, do call me Holly. 'Miss West' only takes business lunches with stuffy old gentlemen ready to part with their grand possessions. This is not a business lunch, and you are not stuffy old gentlemen."
Holly's second smile was a little more understated, but her eyes shone brightly with the light she didn't put into it. She had gorgeous eyes – brandy-brown, black-rimmed irises surrounded by feathery lashes and a dramatic sweep of jet-black eyeliner over each set of upper lashes.
"I'm sorry I'm late," she continued as they all took their seats and received menus. "I…ran into a spot of trouble at the museum."
"Oh?" Dean asked, his interest piqued. "What kind of trouble?"
Holly looked at each brother in turn. "It's difficult to explain, but I'll try," she replied."
--- --- ---