Chapter Two
October 31st 2110
He knew it was tonight, knew that his time had come. He had lived long enough, seen enough to know that death was coming for him. He scowled, lifting his drink. All this time, all these years and he'd die in a shitty New York bar.
Death was coming?
Death was already here.
He could see her, nursing a bottle of beer at the bar. Her dark eyes, cold and professional, yet moist with unshed tears.
Busy night.
"Another drink?" The barmaid, standing over his table, a tray clasped under her arm. She looked tired, worn, exhausted with the steady stream of customers, constant calls for her attention.
It had been a busy night for her too. Just like every other night in this bar.
Soon enough, though, it'd be quiet, too quiet, and her last desperate dying prayers would be that it had been just another night.
"Yeah." He smiled up at her, his eyes twinkling, a nest of crows feet creasing the skin. "Can you bring me a whisky as well?"
"Sure, honey."
"Wait." She half turned, glancing back at him over her shoulder. "Make it a double. Get one for yourself as well."
A brief flash of a smile, lightening the darkened room. "Thanks, honey."
He smiled back, his smile fading as she walked away. Lifting his drink, staring at the door. Buying the barmaid a drink was nothing, a futile attempt at saving his own soul.
It wasn't like he'd have to pay for them.
Sam Winchester had just walked into the bar.
xxxXXXxxx
October 31st 2155
Flack slumped at his desk, resting his forehead in his hands, feeling his eye ache, burn, and sting. The noise of the squadroom fading into the background, each individual voice fading away, straining to hear, to catch...
Hers.
But she was gone, silent. Silent forever.
"Flack?"
It had been easier when she had been here. Everything had made more sense. Everything had been....
Easier.
Now he had trouble sleeping at night. Laughter mingling with her screams, slipping, drowning beneath an ocean of blood. All of those names written in red ink, in blood. His cases, his failures.
"You okay, Flack?"
"Yeah." He scrubbed his hands across his eyes, blinking rapidly, focusing on Messer. Hastily looking down at the scattered documents across his desk. Crime scene photos, names and faces burned into his memory, into his conscience. "Just...just thinking."
Messer stared at him, his own eyes red rimmed and bloodshot. He looked as exhausted as Flack felt. Lifting his hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, his wedding ring glinting in the lights of the squadroom.
Not as lonely though. He had Lindsay and Lucy waiting for him when he got home. A warm safe, peaceful heaven, a home with his wife and child.
"You look like shit, Flack."
"Thanks." He rubbed his eyes again, waiting for the sting, the burn to ease, fade away. "We any closer to iding any of the vics?"
"We're still working on that..."
His voice slipping, disappearing beneath the sound of laughter, as blood rushed in to swallow his words.
xxxXXXxxx
"I can't believe this..." Lindsay looked around the small apartment, her eyes lingering on Anna and Lucy, then darting back to Dean. "I can't believe it. Sam?"
"I know, Linds." Dean's voice was cracked, scratched and broken. It had been harder than he had expected to tell her how far Sam had fallen. "I know."
"Shit." She bit her lip, strands of her hair falling loose across her face. He could see the memories running across her face, all those times spent on a Montanan farm, It had been peaceful, one of the few times he could remember. "What's he doing here?"
He sighed, startled out of his own memories. "We're not sure. We've tracked him here from New Orleans. " He smiled bitterly. "He's left a trail a blind man could follow."
"Careless." Her own smile was bitter. "He's run a long way."
"I know."
"Sam doesn't run." Her smile softened, remembering Sam, turning sad, lonesome. "He's not running blind. He's come to New York for a reason."
"I know." He leaned back in his chair, sighing heavily in frustration, nodding at Anna. "We know. We just cant figure out what. Or why."
"He's looking for something." Lindsay snapped her fingers, her face alive with excitement, a cop on the trail. "Or someone."
xxxXXXxxx
October 31st 2115
"You know who I am?"
"Yes."
Despite his best intentions, his hands shook as he lifted his glass. It was hard to meet those eyes, alive and dark, glistening with power, shot through with shards of yellow.
"Who am I?"
"You're Sam Winchester."
He smiled, cold and uncaring, slipping easily into the seat facing him. The girl lingered, standing next to him, like a loyal servant, forgotten like a slave. "You're a hard man to find."
"I like it that way."
"I'm sure you do." He leaned forward, his smile triumphant, mocking. "But I found you."
He forced a calmness he didn't feel, forced his voice not to shake, to sound like he was in control. "So you did."
"You still have them, don't you? After all this time, you still have them."
There was no need to answer. If Sam didn't think he had them, then he wouldn't be here, with his pet demon bitch in tow.
"Give them to me. Give them to me and I'll let you live."
He knew when he was being lied to. God knew he'd lied enough in his life.
"No."
The last thing he saw was Sam Winchester's eyes darkening, flooding with black, his soul flooded with evil and power, swallowing the man whole, burying him beneath the demon.
Then there was only pain.
Death.
Blood.
Laughter.
xxxXXXxxx
November 1st 0002
The vending machine. Worshipped like a God in the depths of a night shift. Especially on a night shift like this one. Even the horrible coffee, sludge like and tarred, enough to help a desperate cop get through the long dark night.
Flack loosened his tie, feeling it tight and constricting around his neck. Sorting through the change in his pocket. Wondering if he had enough for an almost stale sandwich as well.
Angell always brought enough for...
"Don?"
The softness of her voice, brushing across his skin like a delicate touch.
He spun, coffee and hunger forgotten, exhaustion forgotten. Excitement in his face and eyes. He'd waited so long to hear her voice, prayed so long to hear her voice just one last time.
"Jess?"
The corridor empty, mockingly still and silent. Two uniform cop, as worn and drained as he was, walked past him, exchanging quick confused looks at the expression on his face, their conversations picking up as they walked on down the corridor.
She was gone.
xxxXXXxxx
So close.
So close and it was gone. Gone because of his anger, his loss of control.
"I blew it Ruby! I'm sorry, I blew it." He stood up, pacing angrily around the room, clenching and unclenching his fists. "Dammit!"
"It's okay."
"So close. Dammit, Ruby, we were so close." He sat down on the bed next to her, his muscles jumping with nervous, angry agitation. "Why couldn't he just have given it to me?"
"A man like that...he's used to hiding, Sam. Used to lying and hiding. He's hidden from Alasdair, from Heaven...."
"We failed, Ruby." He shook his head. "There's nothing else we can do. We've failed."
"No we haven't." She cupped his face in her hands, kissed him slowly, deeply, tasting blood on his lips. "I know where his shop is."
"His shop?"
She giggled at the expression on his face, running her fingers lightly down his cheek. "Where else would he keep them?"
xxxXXXxxx
"Detective!" A manillia folder was dropped on his desk, heavy and weighty, burdened with names and souls, guilt and recrimination. "We got some ids for you!"
"Where from?"
He hatred himself for even asking that question. Hated himself for having to ask that question.
His failure, haunting him.
"Devils Dancer."
The latest scene. The latest names in red ink on the board beneath his.
He opened the folder, spilling the names and photos over his desk. Sorting through them like a hand of cards, dealing himself out a fresh set of victims.
He needed to know who they were. He needed to know why.
Reading their names, his lips moving in a silent desperate prayer.
Darren Broad
Samantha Barnsford.
Jack Longinus
Liam Whelan
Jessica Whelan.
Anton Cole...
Turning the photos over, more names, more pictures burning their way into his memory. Into his dreams.
xxxXXXxxx
The door shut behind them, solid and defensible, shutting them out of her life.
"Lovely girl. How long have you known her?"
He smirked, giving her one of those patented Dean Winchester grins. "Jealous, Anna?"
"No. Just wondering how she's been able to put up with you all those years."2
"Same reason as you do."
"I have to put up with you." Her smile faded quickly. "Now what?"
"Now we wait." He nodded at the door. "Lindsay'll talk with her husband." He raised his eyebrows, running the sentence through his head again, getting used to it. "See if she can get us something from the Police investigation. Get us something to go on."
He fell silent and she reached out to take his hand, wrapping her long, slender fingers around his.
"I want to see the scene."
He closed his eyes, starting to shake his head. He didn't want to see that, didn't need to see what other sins his brother had committed on his soul.
"I need to see what happened, maybe I can find something the Police missed." She hesitated, then plunged headlong into his silence. "I'll go alone, if you want..."
A token offer. They all knew it was his fault, his responsibility.
His brother....
"No. I'll do it. I'll go see what my brother did."
xxxXXXxxx
It was cold inside the church, the wind blowing, creeping through the old stone building like a hunting beast. Stretching out to seek out the corners of the building with long seeking cold fingers.
Flack shivered, pulling his overcoat closer around his body, the wind rushing past him.
At least it was quiet. At least he had the chance to think, the slow echo of his footsteps resonating like his heartbeat.
He sighed, slipping into the empty pew, looking up at the cross, looming over the church, all seeing, all powerful, all knowing.
All knowing.
Flack grinned bitterly, starting to stand. Then paused, looking up at the cross. He sank back into the chair, folding his hands, bowing his head over them.
"Please, Lord, help me..."
End of Chapter Two.