Disclaimer: Supernatural belongs to Eric Kripke. This story belongs to VivianaStellata of Wattpad.
In an attempt to polish my English before moving to study in Canada, I decided to deliver this gem of Czech Supernatural fanfiction to the wider international audience here at FF, with the consent of the story´s original author.
WINCEST WARNING: I didn´t include a Wincest warning in the summary because I didn´t want to Wincest-bait people who are interested in it and didn´t want to scare off people not interested in it. THIS ISN´T A WINCEST STORY, although there may be ´hints´, so I wanted to warn people. Except there aren´t really. What will ensue is best described in the author´s words: this Wincest-not-Wincest story is my way of dealing with the Wincest phenomenon while staying completely true to the canon characters.
Now
Barstow Freeway, Newberry Springs, Nevada
"You know what they say about Vegas!"
"Dean, seriously, I grasped it the first time around, which was an hour ago. You keep repeating yourself. Can we stop it?"
"What happens in Vegas..."
"Gah!" groaned Sam, leaned further back into the car seat and stuck his gaze into the roof of the Impala. "I get it! We won´t talk about it with anyone ever, okay?!"
"...stays in Vegas."
"Keep going and I will develop a serious urge to have a chat with a shrink."
His brother turned to him with a genuinely terrified expression. "Hey, we just said we won´t ever talk about this to anyone!"
"Great, now stop talking a hole into my head."
Dean scoffed and returned his attention back to the road. The highway to Barstow resembled a straight line in white-hot sand. It sufficed to maintain the direction. Focusing on driving would do nothing to help ease his mind.
Maybe a couple of shots. Or bottles.
"We should find us some normal job." Dean grumbled at last. "At least, our kind of normal. Find a few sons of bitches, gank them and move on."
"Sure. Except you know it always goes wrong."
"This didn´t go wrong," Dean shuddered. "This never happened. Period. We won´t talk about it. Ever."
Sam rolled his eyes.
Everything was going back to the rut.
Two days earlier
Barstow Freeway, opposite direction
"I still don´t think this is our kind of gig."
Considering they already spent a few hours on the road, this was senseless banter on his brother´s side, but it was annoying nonetheless. "Look, for the last time," Sam growled. "Eight suicides in one month-"
"Dude, it´s friggin´ Vegas! Some people don´t know how to lose with grace."
"Eight suicides in one month. I admit, each one was committed in a different manner, but they were all preceded by the same events. And all of them were men."
"Yeah, because chicks don´t have to resort to suicide. When they´re stone-broke, they just have to cling to another guy. And just because some poor losers get lost for a few days before they get plastered enough to find the courage to end it, well, Sammy, it doesn´t exactly sound like a Twilight Zone kind of case."
The younger Winchester sighed and considered getting out of the car mid-ride. Instead, with causticity he fell back to only in self-defense, he retorted: "For your information, Dean – the local police has about as much imagination as you do, so this motive was the first thing they looked for. And you know what? Surprise. None of the dead guys, not one of the eight of them lost more than 20 bucks before they died."
Dean was silent, staring obstinately ahead.
"So? Still feels normal? Not our kind of gig?"
Silence.
"Something killed those eight guys. And not only they don´t deserve for their deaths to be concluded as suicides, not only it needs to be stopped, but it would be nice if you stopped playing it down because you think I´m making a mountain out of a molehill."
"Fine," Dean finally caved in. "You know that when I commit to something, I commit all the way. So I like to be sure that it´s going to be worth it."
"Could you be making sure differently than by doubting everything I say?"
"That way it helps you to bring out best of you, Sammy. Actually, I´m helping you to put everything in line."
"Sure, you´re a total Kwai Chang Caine," mumbled Sam. "How about you rather trust me on doing my job well? You always put on the condescending face of the older and wiser... I´m really tired of it. We´ve been through a lot together, dammit, went through so much crazy to make a smaller town go nuts. Sure, there are thing which even I don´t trust myself to do, but-"
"Sam?"
"Maybe I am predestined to do something horrible, maybe I am really not to be trusted, I don´t know."
"Sammy?"
"But for now I would appreciate if you considered that when I do the damn research, I do it well! What is it?"
"I apologize to you and to those eight poor bastards. Seriously. Can you calm down?"
"I am calm."
"Great. Because I´m getting a headache from all this."
"Ha! And isn´t that because you´ve been living off of coffee, booze and tacos for the last three days?"
"Shut up, nutrition freak!" Dean barked out and clenched the steering wheel more firmly.
"As you wish," his brother replied silently. He turned his head to the side window and proceeded to observe the flat dessert land with feigned interest.
XXXX
The motel room looked schizophrenic. The furniture was simple but lacquered in bright colors. And sequins. There were sequins on the curtains. Together with the claret-colored bedding and a wallpaper filled with phoney pop-art hearts, roses, guns and comics bubbles, it felt like a brothel for confused teenagers.
"Awesome," commented Dean to nobody in particular. While he was unpacking the few things that needed to unpack, he was whistling Ramble On. "Awesome," he repeated at last and jumped on the springy mattress. "So?"
Sam was busy unfolding the gathered research materials on the table. When he turned to his brother, he still had a slightly pissed expression. "So what?"
"Take command," Dean looked straight at Sam. "I trust you."
"God," Sam breathed out. "I knew you´re going to get back at me. Alright. I´ll give you the addresses of the eight dead, four of them are locals. Check if they had any personal problems. The police already went through the trouble but they may have missed something."
"Sure."
"Meanwhile, I´ll just check something in dad´s journal, and then I´ll go to... wait-" Sam scanned through his notes: "Cherry Pies – this bar is probably the only thing these eight guys had in common." He checked his brother´s reaction with somewhat mischievous expectation.
"Okay, I´ll catch up with you once I´m done with mine," Dean smiled. "In the meantime, if you decide to begin some... hmm, relaxation activity, don´t wait for me. I´d say you need to blow off a little steam and by little I mean a lot."
"Mhm. Thanks for the analysis, Freud."
"Anytime." Dean stretched, springing on the mattress. "It´s like a trampoline."
Sam didn´t even raise his eyes from the papers. "Like a kid."
His brother jumped out of the bed, reached out over Sam´s head for the list of the victims´ addresses lying on the table and at the last moment changed to course of his hand before it would ruffle Sam´s hair. Even in his rollicking mood, he felt it would be for the best to not cross certain borders. He resorted to just patting Sam´s shoulder. "Do something for yourself. Get out into that bar ASAP. Vegas, dude, Vegas!"
With a jolly grin, Dean vanished into the shimmering hot air outside, whistling a tune.
The bar was really called Cherry Pies and looked accordingly. Red and white, designed in the style of 80s´ glam rock, and a petite blonde in a fitting, cherry red top behind the counter.
It was early afternoon and the bar was empty, work was supposed to begin once the sun set. The girl behind the bar was polishing glasses and chewing gum so intensely she ran a risk of dislocating her jaw. Her hostile glare was following Sam as he entered the bar and headed to the counter. He tried to smile at her and break the ice, but her face just went from annoyed to bored.
"We ain´t open yet, technically," she announced instead of a greeting. "But I can pour you a drink. Dough ain´t lookin´ at no clocks."
Sam appreciated her philosophy with another smile. "I´m sorry. I didn´t come here to drink, I just have one question for you."
"Jesus," she sighed theatrically. "Shoot."
Sam placed eight photos on the counter.
"Yea," she said without more than a quick glance at the pictures. "The cops´re here already 'bout ´em. Twice. There´re four of us here, sometimes even part-timers, and they harassed us all. What´d they expect we tell ´em?"
"Ehm, I don´t know. What can you tell me?"
"And you´re some kinda detective or somethin´?"
He hesitated for a second. Originally, he wanted to act from the position of federal authority, but after seeing the girl´s attitude... He put on his best Sam Spade face: "I am, let´s say, a private eye."
"Hmm, great," she pulled out the gum out of her mouth and stuck it under the counter with a well-practiced movement. "Look, I ain´t exactly free to chew the fat with you, if you don´t order a drink, at least."
Vegas, dude, his brother´s words rang out in Sam´s head.
"Here Andrew Jackson will take one," he placed the twenty dollar bill on the counter and pushed it in the girl´s direction. Her meticulously shaped eyebrows rose almost to her hairline and she smiled for the first time. "Sure, mister. I´d love to have a chat with a dead president."
"I´ll have a beer," Sam decided. "That is, if they serve me one in a technically closed bar."
"Hmm," she girl dragged out again. "Corona?"
"Do I have a choice?"
She smiled again and flashed her perfectly white teeth. Chewing gum effect, probably.
"So..."
"Cindy," the girl introduced herself as she drafted beer into two tall glasses.
Of course it has to be Cindy, Sam thought. "Okay, Cindy," Sam managed to begin without showing a hint of the weariness that was beginning to take over him. "Can you tell me something about those men? Something the police haven´t found out yet. They were regulars, right?"
"Yessir, detective," she sneered cheekily, pushed Sam´s beer in front of him and sat on the bar stool facing Sam, nursing her own glass. "Look, the only thing nobody here fed the cops was this one tiny detail."
Cindy leaned over the counter and Sam caught a whiff of her mint breath, still without the bitter reek of beer.
"I know, speak well of the dead and all, but every last one of them´re serious assholes. I mean the guys."
"Ah?"
"Just that type of a macho dude. He looks at you – well, not at you, right, you´d have to be a small, sacked blonde – but he looks and you know right away that he only sees jugs on legs." She looked around nervously. The worldly look vanished from her face and suddenly she looked good ten years younger. "Sorry I´m tellin´ you this, I really shouldn´t. But you ain´t a normal bar-fly, yeah?"
"It´s alright," Sam mumbled to his thin beer foam. "Thanks."
"For what?"
"You helped me. You don´t even know how much," he looked at the clock behind the bar. There was still plenty of time left before Cherry Pies woke up and Dean would show up. "Did some of them have any conflict with some of your colleagues by any chance? Or even with the, um, dancers or anyone else."
"The cops asked that too," Cindy scrunched the perfect arches of her eyebrows in thought. "But you ain´t gonna be goin´ around makin´ trouble for anyone, right? After all those poor bastards offed themselves, no?"
"Looks that way." Sam chose not to elaborate.
"Hmm. Look, conflicts is a pretty fancy word for what´s happenin´ here every evening. If you hang around, you´ll see for yourself. I´ll tell Sean, that´s our bouncer, to have a word with you, he´ll listen to me. He doesn´t talk with cops."
"I understand," Sam looked at the clock again. "Would you mind if I stuck around until evening somewhere here? I don´t want to bother you, I´ll be working and wait here for my partner. I can also introduce you to another dead president to not damage the business."
"Mmm," Cindy purred, "god, you´re so sweet, detective."
"I´ll take that as a yes."
She nodded. "Take that box in the corner. Best view from there."
Say once more that my style leads us nowhere, Sam mentally challenged Dean. Now just find out what kind of militant feminist monster here drives chauvinists to kill themselves, stop it and maybe Dean will still have spare time to have fun in Vegas.
There would be dark outside, if something like that stood a chance in Vegas. When Dean opened the door to Cherry Pies, he just traded the stifling and dusty world of neon lights for the stifling and slightly smoky world of fluorescent lamps.
"Classic," he shook his head when his gaze found Sam. It was as if his brother created an islet of his personal Sam-reality. The coffee-stained table in front of him was covered with paper sheets, his notebook haphazardly balancing on a pile of books. Sam was scribbling something furiously into his writing pad and would probably react only if the breasts of some of the ladies present covered his view of the letters.
Meanwhile one of the girls behind the counter, a cute blonde, kept ogling Sam with such covetous eyes that she could as well be holding a huge banner saying "SAM –SEX!"
Which was also probably the only way to get Sam´s attention. Letters.
Dean ordered two shots of scotch, sat down to the table across from his brother and dangled the glass with the amber-colored liquid inside in front of Sam´s eyes.
To his surprise, Sam instantly knocked back the shot.
"Hey, slow down, cowboy," Dean said. "What´s going on?"
"I´m stuck," Sam turned his red-rimmed eyes to his brother, utter discontent with himself etched on his face. "Dean, I talked to anyone who as much as met those damn guys in the restroom and beside the fact that the vics weren´t exactly the nicest people of the world, I couldn´t find anything that would narrow the monster pool down. It can be anything from a vengeful spirit to a demon"
"I see."
"Thing is, I don´t know where else to search. I didn´t find anything about any dead woman – because I think whatever it is, it´s a she, judging by the MO. Didn´t even find out about any living woman that would connect the eight vics. What did you find?"
"Big fat nothing," Dean scoffed. He emptied his glass and gestured to Cindy to bring another round. He rested his elbows on the table and continued: "One of the bereaved almost gouged out my eyes. Which, by the way, she probably wanted to do to the dead guy. Another was in divorce proceedings, but judging from how miffed his ex-wife-to-be was, I´d say he wasn´t exactly upset over it. Two lived quite... well, lonely isn´t the correct word, more like in high style. With a lot of short-term partners. I drove to visit another two that lived near. Same thing in light blue. I checked the last two at least by phone. Sam, I don´t like saying it, but they all were real dicks."
"That doesn´t mean they deserved to die."
"No. And I don´t think those were suicides anymore either. This kind of sons of bitches doesn´t just gank themselves like that. They badger everyone around them while they can."
They both mulled it over for a while. Sam was tapping his lips with the end of his pen, Dean intently watched the scotch he was rolling around the bottom of his glass. As they were lost in thought, what was considered a regular evening in Cherry Pies got underway. Two platforms with dancers were surrounded by onlookers. The now four young waitresses and one slender guy who prepared cocktails were struggling to serve the newly-emerged crowd squeezing together by the bar. Air grew heavy with alcohol fumes, cigarette smoke and sweat.
"It has to do something with this bar," Sam shouted, trying to get his words to Dean over the sound of bass beats blasting from the speakers by the stage. "It´s the only thing connecting the vics aside from being a dick."
"Agreed," Dean nodded. "I suggest we wait and observe the buzz."
His eyes were shining and despite their poorly-progressing case, he looked like he was in his element.
"I see you´re downright suffering," Sam observed.
"Why not combine business with pleasure? You should try it as well, Sammy. I think you made quite the impression on the small blonde behind the bar," Dean winked at him.
"Dammit, Dean, stop trying to set me up with some girl-"
"Hey!" the older brother raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "Alright. Your decision. I´m going to check things out, if you want to join, you know you´re always welcome."
"Thanks," Sam growled. "I need to check if there after all wasn´t some violent death that would explain everything, and try to find a solution."
"You always learn the most curious things at the bar," Dean shrugged his shoulders and stood up to prove his statement in practice.
"Hey, I found a chick who knew all the eight dicks," he breathed into Sam´s ear roughly an hour later. Any lesser drinker would breathe themselves to a decent hangover from the fumes alone. "Personally, Sammy. I´ll investigate it.
"Keys," hummed Sam.
"Eh?"
"Do as you think fit, but I´m not letting you drive."
"Hm," Dean looked him up and down. "Okay." That surprised Sam. "I said that you´re taking command, so sure. Take care of my baby," he added with a dopey smile, then leaned even closer. "Sammy, I´ll need at least one of those trampoline mattresses for my investigation, so..."
"I understand, I´ll make sure to not come in at the wrong time."
"Awesome," Dean gave him a conspiratorial wink and fortunately also the car keys. He also added a pat on the back and then Sam could watch him help a long-legged brunette with large (not only) eyes into her light coat. The woman was laughing at something, completely enchanted by Dean´s charm. Exactly how much they wanted to investigate some dead strangers was painfully obvious to Sam.
He sighed. When he caught Cindy´s gaze, he headed towards her. Not that he intended to listen to his brother and unwind, but he had a few more questions in mind.
"Wait, that brunette with the red coat?" Cindy asked when Sam finally made it through the line. While she talked, she never stopped drafting beer. All of her make-up couldn´t cover the sweat sparkling on her forehead and in her cleavage. "That´s Annina. She´s a regular and she´s really sweet, seriously. Just a bit too much into guys, y´know what I mean."
"No I don´t," Sam knew that this worn out girl behind the bar isn´t exactly excited by him mining for information and that even another slipped bank note won´t fix it. Except he was starting to have a feeling that something was wrong. "I heard that she was close to those eight we talked about."
"Yeah, she´s into those types. But I can´t see her hurtin´ anybody. More like I´m scared for her. She always pulls through, but you know, someday she runs across a real nasty guy..."
"I understand," Sam frowned. He didn´t want to ask the next question, but it could prove essential. "When she left with some of those eight, well... Have you seen him around after?"
Cindy flung her head and pressed her lips angrily.
"Hey, I´m not saying she did something to them, but perhaps I could just-"
"Annina´s the nicest person I ever met, detective," she hissed, the affection she showed towards Sam till now gone without a trace. "She doesn´t deserve someone botherin´ her because of some assholes like those guys were."
"Did they really deserve to die?" Sam asked so quietly that she couldn´t possible hear him in the surrounding noise, except she did. An angrered expression flashed across her face, she slammed the beer glasses on the table, foam splashing around. Without heeding the irritated complains of the surrounding drunkards, she pointed her index finger with a pretty little crimson nail on Sam: "They killed themselves, detective! And maybe you should leave now. I don´t think this place has a good effect on you."
Sam sensed, rather than saw, the bouncer Sean standing behind his back. When he talked with him in the afternoon, he was quite friendly. That was however not the case now. The hulking black man matched Sam in height, looming behind him like an ebony statue, his small black eyes burning a hole in Sam´s back.
"No problem," Sam mumbled, "I am leaving."
Either way, he needed to check Dean asap. And more importantly ´the nicest girl ever´, who was the last to see eight suicide victims alive.
Blurred. Hazy. Vague.
This couldn´t be the scotch´s doing, he definitely didn´t have this much. Still, all he was left with were mere fragments of memories.
SUV Bentley with bloody red varnish, in which he rode shotgun while the most gorgeous woman under the sun was laughing behind the wheel.
The scent. Her scent, stunning and homey at the same time, like a pie straight out of the oven, like sun rays in hair, spices, dirt, water, like two bodies heated up by love-making.
An anonymous room of an anonymous motel. There he remembered his ´trampoline´ mattress and dazedly tried to suggest something, but she didn´t allow him to speak.
The flavor. She tasted like cherries and blood.
The touch. Light tingling in the tips of fingers. He felt her through the entire surface of his body. Wisps of her long, soft hair tickling his chest – he didn´t remember when he managed to get undressed. Tip of her tongue, caressing his most sensitive area.
Whispers. Each sound she breathed against his body took him away from reality into the sphere of pure pleasure. The intensity of the moment, stretched into infinity, almost hurt.
He remembered... Two bodies united into one, the moment of exertion. Almost unbearably delightful spasms. Warmth, waves of soothing warmth emanating from the groin all the way to the head obscured his perception.
"Enjoy it, little one."
He remembered those few words. He just didn´t understand who spoke them and for whom they were meant.
"Enjoy your new self..."
Velvety darkness under his eyelids. The low humming of blood in his temples was lulling him to sleep.
"And be careful. The scent I shrouded you in will lure the entire pack."
Light steps, the sound muffled by the thick carpet. He tried reaching out with his hand, restore the moment in which he was able to forget all of his darkness and guilt and be happy.
But she was gone. And memories faded away along with her...
"Dean?" Sam only saw dark behind the motel room doors and couldn´t hear any sounds, but to be sure he pounded on the door once more and called for Dean. When he received no response, only then he unlocked the door and burst inside.
Nothing indicated that his brother showed up here since the moment he left for research in early afternoon.
"Great," Sam sat on the bed. When the mattress under him sprung, he cringed. "You have time till morning, Casanova," he turned to his brother´s empty bed. "You better show up. We need to look into your friend Annina."
He massaged the root of his nose. He was starting to get a headache. Hell, he would welcome pain connected to a vision if it meant he can get this case moving, but here it just looked like an ordinary migraine.
He still opened his notebook and typed in "annina" at random.
Just as he finished typing the word, he jolted. He jumped up without bothering to go through the search results and feverishly started pulling out papers out of his bag. On the front side of his writing pad, he wrote a single word. A name.
"God, Dean, please don´t let it be this screw-up," he whispered.
The empty room left his words without an answer.
This story will have three parts, published throughout the course of three consecutive days at approximately the same time, so see you tomorrow. Praise will be translated and forwarded to the original author.