Alternate title: Fake Gay Dean

Author's note: To explain the alternate title, Fake Gay Dean is what we called the story most of the time I was writing it, and we couldn't lose it completely when we came up with the "real" name of the story. I saved the file as FGD because it needed to be safe as a file name in my beta/roommate's middle school classroom where she teaches. This led to frequent references to FGD rather than saying it all out. Thus, when the sequel came along (not complete in the slightest), it became known as FGD: LA, along the lines of NCIS: LA. It's a crossover with a crime show set in Los Angeles – not NCIS: LA. Feel free to guess in reviews. If someone gets it, I will let you know at the end of the next chapter.

Also, for those of you who don't remember, the 2009 flu season was the terror-filled season of the swine flu. This story came out of the random discussion question between me and my beta/roommate, "What if one of the boys got the swine flu during the Apocalypse?"

Please note, all pairings have been listed. Do not spend this story hoping for actual Destiel. Not opposed to the pairing, but it doesn't fit into this story.

Set between The Real Ghostbusters (S5E09) and Abandon All Hope (S5E10).

Tags/Warnings: Stalking, Sexual Content, Sexual Violence, Abduction, Night Club Scene, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Gay Bashing, Magic, Hunters & Hunting, Music, Food, Mama Ellen, Thanksgiving Dinner, Family Don't End in Blood, Serial Killers, Family Feels, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gay Waiters, Extreme Bar Tending

Chapter 1

Sam had been driving all day, and he was getting tired. From Bobby's place in South Dakota to Salt Lake City was about thirteen hours, and he was still recovering from the swine flu. It was nuts. Here they were, fighting the Apocalypse, and he was taken out of the game by a stupid virus. It had hit him hard, fever, nausea, coughing, the whole nine yards. They'd been in Illinois, so Dean had pulled an all-nighter – in a surgical mask – to get to Bobby's, and between them, Bobby and Dean had both babied him and avoided him till he was over the worst of it.

Then Cas had shown up with a lead on the Colt, and since Sam was on the road to recovery, he'd told Dean to go with Cas. The lead hadn't panned out, but Dean had run across a hunt on his way back and told Sam to join him when he was feeling better. That had been almost three weeks ago. Sam hadn't heard a word since. He would have come earlier, but Bobby wouldn't let him out of the house until today.

He pulled up outside the club Dean had told him to meet him at. Woody's. There were cars parked all up and down the streets around the place, and no parking in any lots nearby. Sam finally found a spot to squeeze the tiny car that he'd borrowed from Bobby into. It was at least a half a mile walk back to the club. There was a line at the door, and Sam joined it, fuming slightly. They could have met at a diner, or at whatever motel room Dean was staying at, but, no, Dean wanted him to meet him at a club.

"Sam Winchester?" called the guy who was checking IDs. Sam looked up, startled, to find the guy beckoning to him. When he walked up, the guy said, "You Sam Winchester?"

Sam nodded. "That's me."

The guy looked him up and down, then shrugged. "Go on in," he said.

Loud complaints issued from the guys who were first in line, but the bouncer silenced them with the statement, "Guest of the management." Sam glanced at the guys who were glaring at him and realized something suddenly. They were all guys.

Then he was inside, or rather inside the lobby. He checked his coat with a young man near the door, pocketed his stub, and then went into the club itself.

The room was filled with smoke and warring colognes, and he saw guys at tables together, guys sitting at the bar, clearly together, and guys dancing on the floor – together. Three feet from the entrance, a waiter was bent over a table, his ass sticking up in the air, cleaning up a spill between two patrons, and Sam could have sworn he was hitting on them both by the simple act. Both the customers were sure laughing and blushing like he was. Kind of the way Bela had distracted him with the coffee the first time they met. Maybe he was a pickpocket. Whatever, it wasn't Sam's business.

He stared around himself, stunned. Dean had told him to meet him at a gay bar? That was totally not like Dean, and given how often they were mistaken for a couple, it seemed unwise as well. He scanned the dimly lit place, looking for Dean, and noticed that the waiters were all dressed in a sort of half-piratical get up. They all wore tight black jeans, little red aprons that only covered the pelvic area, and white flowing shirts that were open down to the navel, just about. Totally campy, but the patrons seemed to appreciate the look. He wasn't spotting Dean, though. Then the waiter right in front of him stood up, and Sam nearly dropped his teeth at the sight of his brother.

"Sammy!" Dean exclaimed. "You made it. I was afraid I'd wind up waiting for you out on the street."

"In that?" Sam asked incredulously. "Dean, it's snowing outside."

"For real?" Dean asked, his eyes going wide.

Sam rolled his eyes. "Not actually snowing, but there's snow on the ground. Dude, what are you doing?"

Another waiter walked up and gave Sam a critical look. "Is this the ex you've been getting calls from?"

"What?" Dean asked, then he shook himself. "No, Martin, no, this is my brother, Sammy."

"Sam," Sam corrected before this Martin guy could get the wrong idea. "Dean, I don't understand. What's –"

"Hey, Ted?" Dean called over the crowd noise, and the one guy in a pirate hat turned around. "I'm gonna take a break," he said, gesturing towards Sam. Ted nodded and gave Dean a sort of wave towards the back of the bar, and Dean grabbed Sam by the arm. "Come on, Sammy."

Sam allowed himself to be dragged past the bar, where he saw another guy in a pirate hat. This one was also sporting the low-cut shirt and jeans, and he had a stuffed parrot attached to his shoulder. Dean dragged him back through the miniscule kitchen and into a tiny room that clearly served as a break room. It reeked of cigarette smoke and body odor, and there were coffee cans with sand and ash in them on the table and in the corners.

"Dean, what's going on here?" Sam asked. "Why are you working at a gay bar, and who was Martin talking about?"

Dean grinned at him. "Don't I look amazing?" he asked, striking a provocative pose that made Sam's eyes bug out. "Dude, I am one totally hot fake gay guy. I've gotten seven numbers just in the past hour."

Recovering his wits, Sam rolled his eyes at his brother's typical self-aggrandizement. "Okay, apart from the ego boost, why are you working at a gay bar?"

Dean shrugged unrepentantly. "Well, for one thing, gay guys are amazing tippers. Forget credit card fraud, if I'd known this ten years ago, we could have been rolling in dough. Hell, if I'd started waiting tables at a place like this when I was sixteen, we could have retired."

"Except we don't do what we do for money, Dean," Sam said, totally exasperated. "Why are you here?"

"Because the job is here." Dean gestured around himself. "Three of this place's patrons have been found dead in the last year, and they died bloody."

"What do the cops think?"

"They don't know what to think. No evidence was found on the bodies, no leads, they've written it off as gay bashing and upped the number of patrols on this beat. But here's the thing, seven other guys have disappeared in the last four years, from this club and from a couple of others nearby, and that's just the ones who were reported missing."

"You think there are others?" Sam asked.

"I'm sure there are," Dean replied. "Hell, this is a major watering place. If you're driving cross country on Interstate 80, you stop in Salt Lake. Besides, you know the club scene. Lots of guys are around today and gone tomorrow, and no one wonders why. I mean, if every time we up and moved, someone reported us missing, we'd be fending off well meaning cops all over the place."

Sam shrugged. "Okay, that's a point, but why do you think this is a job for us?"

"I think it's a shapeshifter," Dean replied, and Sam blinked at him. "Okay, get this, all ten of the guys I've confirmed as missing or dead were seen with different guys, but the MO is always the same. It's your standard pick up, the vic leaves with the guy and is never seen again."

Sam had to admit that ten guys over four years was pushing coincidence a little far. "And the cops aren't calling it a serial case?"

"I haven't heard that they are," Dean said. "Maybe, I don't know. It's not being reported in the papers that way, that's for sure."

"How'd you come across it?" Sam asked. This wasn't a stumbled on case, this one required serious research to uncover.

"Ellen put me onto it. She and Jo were looking into it, but they realized pretty quick that two chicks nosing around after it were gonna be noticed, but a couple of guys . . . that's a different story."

Sam grimaced. "Especially if one of them is a gossipy, gay waiter?"

"Hey, Sammy, everyone likes to flirt with a cute waiter, am I wrong?"

"I don't."

"You are unnaturally serious, Sammy," Dean said. "There's something wrong with you, some kind of hormone deficiency, I swear."

"Okay, fine. So, where's the motel?"

"Actually, I've got a loft."

"A loft?" Sam repeated, astonished. "You've got an apartment?"

Dean shrugged. "It's furnished in early modern crap, but it's a place to hang my hat."

"Why did you get an apartment?"

"I was staying at the motel that the last of the dead guys was found in. When Jes found out, he about freaked and told me he'd find me someplace."

"Jes?" Sam asked.

"His name's really Jesus, but he doesn't like it when people pronounce his name wrong. He's one of the bouncers," Dean replied. "Big guy, bigger than you, even. Kind of a mother hen, though."

Sam shook his head, absolutely floored by this situation. "You could have warned me," he said.

"I haven't talked to you, Sammy," Dean said. "I thought you were still sick. I didn't even know you were better till Bobby told me you'd headed out this morning. That's why I told Ricky to let you in, otherwise you would have had to wait your turn, pass the looks test – and you're really not dressed for this place, I gotta tell you – and paid the cover charge."

Sam looked down at his jeans and checked shirt and shrugged. "I don't usually drive a thousand miles in clubbing clothes, Dean."

"Dude, you don't own any clubbing clothes," Dean retorted. Sam shrugged, acknowledging the truth of that statement. "And it's not a thousand miles. Nine hundred, tops."

"Whatever, what's the address of your 'loft' so I can go get some sleep? I'm exhausted."

"From driving?" Sam just glowered at him. Dean's brows knit. "Actually, you do look kind of wiped. I bet I could get Ted to give me the rest of the night off."

"Dean that's really not necessary." Sam let the words trail off even though Dean wasn't even in the room for most of them. Evidently Sam's being better hadn't cured Dean of his mother henning, and now that Bobby wasn't doing it for him, he was going to take care of his little brother. Sam rubbed his eyes with his hand. He just wanted to find a flat, reasonably soft surface and sleep, but now he was bound to be plied with chicken soup and hot tea and whatever the hell else Dean thought was good for a sick baby brother. Half the reason he'd sent Dean off with Cas was to get him to go away and leave him alone.

Another waiter walked in, lighting up as he did so. "Hey, you're Little D's brother, aren't you?"

"Little D?" Sam repeated, blinking.

The waiter nodded. "Yeah. I'm Bruce, and you're Sammy, right?"

"Sam," Sam replied. "Nice to meet you, Bruce."

An awkward silence followed the introduction, and Sam wondered what was keeping Dean. As if in answer to prayer, the door opened and Dean came in. "Ted's going for it," he announced, and he walked over to a locker, pulling out a thick jacket and putting it on. "Come on, Sammy."

"My coat's checked in the lobby," Sam said. "I didn't see the car."

"It's around back. I'll meet you in front."

"I parked down a few blocks –"

"We'll pick it up tomorrow, Sammy. It's Saturday, so it won't matter if the meter's fed. Don't go out for a couple of minutes, okay? It'll take me a little bit to get around the block." With that, Dean left the room.

Bruce glanced over at Sam. "Are you sure he's your brother?" he asked. "My brothers were never that nice to me."

Sam shrugged. "I had the swine flu," he said. "He freaked."

Bruce's eyes widened. "Oh," he said in a tone of understanding. "I'm glad you're better," he added. "You are better, right?"

"Totally," Sam said. He gave Bruce an ironic wave and headed back out through the club. He got his coat and went outside. The Impala wasn't out there yet, but he walked out and stood on the sidewalk anyway. A moment later, Dean pulled up and Sam squeezed between two cars that had been parked far too close together and climbed in.

"I told you to wait a few minutes before you came out," Dean said remonstratively.

"Dean, if you don't stop it, I will shoot you," Sam growled. "I'm just tired."

"Bobby should have never let you out the door," Dean said. "I'm going to call him and –"

"I felt fine this morning, Dean," Sam protested. "I've been driving for more than ten hours, and maybe it's taken a bit of a toll, but it's not Bobby's fault."

"You drove for ten hours straight?" Dean exclaimed. "Sammy, you can't do that!"

"We do that all the time, Dean," Sam retorted.

"You're recovering from the swine flu, Sammy. It's not the same. Besides, I do the driving. You sleep."

"Sometimes I drive and you sleep."

"You don't have the stamina right now," Dean said soberly. "You're going straight to bed when we get home."

"Home?"

"The apartment," Dean said. "I've got to call it something."

"How long are we staying for?"

"Till the job's done, Sammy, and that could take a while."

"What about the Apocalypse?"

"It's not going anywhere," Dean said. "And until we have the Colt, going after Lucifer is just going to get us both really dead." Sam didn't argue because that seemed fairly self evident. "Look in the ashtray. There's a spare key in there. I'm going to let you off out front, because there's no way I'll get a close parking spot."

"Dean, I can walk a –"

"Sammy!" Dean said warningly, and Sam rolled his eyes, shutting up. He leaned his head back on his neck, stretching and squeezing his eyes shut. He opened his eyes and glanced incuriously around. They pulled onto a street with another club on it and Sam grimaced. Dean pulled to a stop in front of the entrance, and Sam looked over at him. "Here we –"

"Dean, it's another club!" Sam exclaimed.

Dean rolled his eyes. "See that door to the left of the club entrance?" he asked, and Sam nodded. "That's it."

"You live above a nightclub?"

"Well, I work at one, so I'm usually out during the hours of operation," Dean pointed out. Sam shook his head. "Get out, Sammy. Go inside and wait for me. Second floor."

Sam gave him a dark look, but he got out of the car. Glancing at the still busy line for the club, whose name appeared to be LOL, he opened the door to the left. There were stairs immediately on the other side of it, and he wearily climbed them, actually kind of glad that Dean wasn't following him and commenting on his slow speed.

The stairs continued up another level, but Dean had said the second floor, so Sam turned to the door on the landing and tried the key. It fit, so he opened the door and went inside. Early modern crap was a mild description. The couch looked like it had seen better days, and the TV had a rotary knob. He realized abruptly that he didn't have his bag, and he walked over to slump onto the sofa. Closing his eyes proved to be a mistake because the next thing he knew, Dean was squatting in front of him.

"When'd you get here?" Sam asked him, blinking.

"Dude, you didn't even close the door all the way," Dean said anxiously. "I'm putting you to bed."

"I'm fine here, Dean," Sam muttered, because the effort of getting up sounded just too huge.

Dean wouldn't be denied. Sam's brother levered him up off the couch and walked him up a short flight of three steps to a bed. Sam let Dean drag his coat off and undo his pants, and then he flopped flat on the bed and fell asleep again.

Dean pulled Sam's boots off him and finished getting his pants off before covering his brother up and tucking him in. It reminded him of years long past when his father would drop them at a motel after a long drive, and Dean would have to get his little brother undressed and put him to bed while he lay unresponsive and asleep. That being the case, it pulled up a lot of those long sleeping protective instincts that drove Sammy nuts.

He went over to the kitchenette and picked up the phone, going to the couch and kicking his boots off while he called Bobby. Three rings, then a familiar voice. "Singer Salvage."

"What the hell were you thinking, sending Sam out in this state?" Dean demanded in a low voice.

"What state?" Bobby asked. "He was fine this morning, raring to go, actually."

"I dropped him in front of the building so I could go park the car, and when I got inside, he'd left the door unlatched and fallen asleep on the sofa without even taking his coat off."

"Is he coughing?"

"No."

"Did he sound congested?"

"No."

"He throw up or anything like that?"

"No!" Dean shook his head. "Bobby, he shouldn't be this tired after a little drive."

"No, he shouldn't, but he's going to be a little low on stamina for a while, Dean. I couldn't keep him here any longer, though," he said over Dean's protest. "Not without locking him in."

"Damn it, Bobby!"

"Don't yell at me, boy."

Dean sighed. "Sorry. I just . . ."

"I know," Bobby said. "He'll be fine, Dean. Just give him a little time to recover his endurance. I hoped he'd have the sense to stop somewhere along the way."

"Sense, Bobby? This is Sam we're talking about. There is no sense."

"Yeah, right," Bobby said. "Is there anything else? It's past midnight."

Dean scowled. "No, I guess not."

"How's the hunt going?"

"Slow. I haven't found any signs of a shifter in any of the sewers yet."

"This one may be wise to that method of locating them," Bobby replied. "And that one in Pennsylvania had a house, if you'll recall."

"Yeah," Dean muttered. "That one was whole bucketloads of crazy."

"Well, some guy killing off gay guys at a steady rate ain't exactly stable."

"Not exactly," Dean replied. "Well, I'll keep you up to date. Good night, Bobby."

"Good night, Dean."