Green eyes crawled over the sketches strewn upon every available surface. Every picture was the same, a handsome and lanky man, the majority of them featuring the male topless, and in a good fraction of the sketches man in question was smoking a clay pipe. Or rather, he was merely picturesquely holding the pipe, for there was never any smoke tumbling from the device.
Reaching shakily out, a thin hand clutched a handful of pictures as though they were a last hope for survival. Perhaps they were, in any case this victim would not be able to explain this to us, for these were her last moments.
Calypso ran a finger down a charcoal drawing, smudging the carefully etched details into a grey abyss. A mascara-blackened tear streamed down her cheek in perfect time to the hand motion, leaving a depression in the makeup that had been caked on her visage. She had dressed so terribly pretty for him tonight, had waited just outside of the woods to see his striking figure emerge from the mystical fog that had seemed to fall at just the right moment the last time.
The fog, oh how it must have deceived her judgement that night. On any other occasion she would have sprinted the opposite way from a stranger in the woods, such as what any sane, unarmed female would. In his case, it was unexplainable. His very essence was simply intoxicating.
But tonight he had left her. A simple one night stand was the only theoretical explanation for what had happened. How could she live without him? The answer was unquestionable, she just could not.
With one last glance at the drawings, Calypso lifted the newly sharpened kitchen knife directly above her heart and readied to take the final plunge.
Love is the fastest form of suicide…
Sam stumbled awake from his latest, horror-filled terror that typically invaded him in the form of dreams. He shuddered away the remaining memories of the nightmare and sat up to find his adoring elder brother taking a shot at, a glance at the clock, ten in the morning. Sam shook his head, he should expect it by now.
"Sammy," Dean exclaimed, lacking a slur in his voice due to many years of practice, "Let's hit the road."
Sam groaned, "Now, Dean? I just got up." he hated to think that he had a slight whine in his tone, though he could tell that he did. "Do you have a job?"
Dean carelessly tossed Sam's laptop onto the bed. Sam glared at him and snatched up the computer, anxiously regarding its condition. After satisfying himself that it was still workable, he opened the Internet tab Dean had running.
Busty Asian Beauties homepage flew up, flashing Sam a rather obscene image that he quickly terminated. "Gah! Dean!" Dean snuck a sheepish look at his little brother and continued to pack the duffel bag that was deflated upon the motel bed. Sam huffed and clicked upon another window. This one held the gold.
"Seven women die unnatural deaths this week, all suicides." Sam read aloud, "What could this be, Dean?"
Dean shrugged and headed for the door, "Hell if I know, Sammy, let's hit the road! Arizona is three hours away from here!" Sam sighed and reached under the bad for his own luggage. He shot Deana petulant look as a chuckle sounded from the doorway. Dean held up the tattered bag and threw it towards the Impala. Running a hand through his hair in mild frustration at the lack of respect for his personal items, Sam rose from the bed and headed towards the car.
When they arrived in Arizona, Dean could tell something was up. For one thing, the bar they had stopped at, it had no chicks in it whatsoever! Seriously, it was the biggest sausage fest Dean had stumbled upon… well, ever. He figured that he had better keep an eye out for Sammy, didn't want him to be influenced in any way. That kind of stuff happened after your loved one is killed, Dean had even once saw their father… goodness, the mere memory caused a jutting shiver to course down his spine.
Not even was there a waitress in sight, Dean thought irritably to himself. This job was going to suck.
He watched as Sam chatted away with a bartender (a male one, of course). His little brother smiled, nodded and then retreated back towards the table Dean was sulking at. Dean raised his eyebrows in a way that bore: I don't feel like talking, but tell me what you know. Sam chuckled and sat down.
"Well," he started, glancing over his shoulder at the bartender, "he told me that it was just the seven girls, three guys committed suicide this past week as well." Sam's face reddened for a brief moment, so brief that if Dean wasn't Sam's brother, he wouldn't have noticed. But he was, and he did.
"And… get this," Sam continued, the slightest quaver in his voice, "All the males were, well, gay."
Dean frowned, this was bad. If Sammy was getting uncomfortable talking about sexual orientation… alright, that disturbing thought could wait. "Okay, so what we've got is that all the victims were attracted to men. That doesn't give us much, Sammy."
Sam nodded solemnly, "I know, but check this out," he slid a tattered piece of paper across the table, "Drawn by the latest victim, Calypso. And don't call me Sammy. It's Sam."
"Whatever you say, Sammy," Dean replied absentmindedly, distracted by the picture. It was of a topless man holding a pipe. He was tall, had layered black hair, and grey eyes. Dean could say that he was handsome, but he wouldn't. not with the Sam-issue at hand.
"It's a good drawing," he said. He saw no evidence in it that could lead them to much of anything, except a new lover for his brother. But that was NOT what they were looking for. Sam cleared his throat, and Dean contemplated if the demon powers enabled telepathic powers, that is, mind reading.
"It is," Sam agreed, taking the picture back, "but here's the weird thing, all of the victims were found with sketches along the lines of this one. Even the less artistic ones had features that were comparable."
Dean smiled, "So we find this guy, and we've got our perp?" Sam nodded. "Sounds like it's stakeout time, Sammy, and this bar should be the place to do it in."
Sam's eyebrows scrunched together, "Why here?"
Dean waved for another beer, " Look around you, Sammy, not a gal in sight. When someone shows up this guy wants, he or she will be the one to be kidnapped." Sam nodded, but he really didn't know what Dean was up to.
It was midnight, and Sam was feeling tipsy. The hunt completely forgotten behind a curtain of vodka and beer. He stumbled towards the washrooms, thinking of how very kind it was of Dean to offer being the sober driver. It was Sammy's turn tonight.
He blundered into the washroom, surprised to see a tall man standing there, as though he had been waiting for Sam. His hair was black, his eyes a tint of that. A red clay pipe hung from his fingers as though it simply floated there. A farmers hat sat tilted upon his silky soft hair. His presence was suffocating, and more so, his smell was simply enthralling. Sam tottered closer to the stranger, trying to decipher the scent. It was… it smelled just like what the perfume Jess always wore smelled like. Dancing Dawn.
"Sam." The man said, reaching out towards the drunken character and brushing back a stray look of hair. Sam shivered, the touch of the strangers skin caused a heating infection to spread from the touched patch of skin. Sam sighed wistfully, falling to his knees.
The man bent down and softly placed his lips on Sam's. Sam shuddered and kissed back greedily. A snicker, and the stranger had pulled away. Sam stood and threw himself at the man, screaming with his mind that he wanted to be taken, right there. Right then. Either the man had Sam's mind-reading capabilities or had been thinking the same, for he pulled Sam's mouth to his own and did just that.
Dean sat tensely at the bar table, wondering what was taking Sam so long in the can. He groaned as he stood up, stretching away the tightness that engulfs the body during any stakeout, no matter where. Figuring that it would be a good idea to check in on Sammy, Dean strode towards the washrooms.
Opening the door, he cursed in shock as he drank in the extremely unnerving sight before him. Sam was troublingly naked, leaning against the cold wall with a sappy smile on his face. The man that had been featured in the drawing Sam had obtained was just zipping the fly on his jeans, smirking. Dean pulled a shotgun from his jacket, aimed it, and fired it at his chest.
The man frowned, grimacing, and fled with inhuman speed out the door. Dean swore again as he recalled that the gun was still loading with silver bullets from the last hunt, if it had been steel the son of a bitch would be dead by now. Damn faerie.
Dean hadn't told Sam in the cruel thought of using him as bait, but he knew what this creature was. It was the same one that had seduced his father the last time, the one John couldn't bear to kill. It was a Gancanagh, a faerie from Irish mythology. The faeries skin had a toxin in it that was literally poison to humans, more so to women. He preyed on people who were attracted to his smell, and once they have the taste, they won't want anything else. Most die from over-pining, withdrawal, or even fighting over his love.
And now Sam was infected, and Dean had to kill this creature before Sam ended up like the others.
That is, dead.