Authors' Note - Set after the events of Season 9, Episode 11, but before the events of Season 9, Episode 15. Your choice as to where in that time frame this falls. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy - May have somewhat slow updates, but don't forget to drop a line and tell me what you think!
Warnings: Hookers, mentions of drug deals, and saggy tits. Warning level 1/10.
Walking into a place like this was usually a fifty-fifty shot with Dean; sometimes the women were amazing, beer chilled perfectly, with great food to back it all up - others often ended up experiences he'd rather not remember. Looking through the windsheild at the front of what looked more like an old gas station than 'Morgana's Gentleman's Club', as their partially lit, flickering sign claimed, he had a strong sensation this wouldn't be one of his better times.
"More like 'Morgana's B Stars'..." he mumbled, peering out his closed window at two older women showing off large chunks of liposuctioned skin, wrinkled with bad life decisions.
They stood just outside the door, blatently ignoring the no smoking signs litering the door and windows visible, with cigarettes brandished daintily by too slim fingers, waving about in the air as they whispered animatedly to each other. Grimacing heavily, Dean sighed to himself, flicking the keys out of the ignition and stepping out of the vehicle with a fluid ease that came from years of familiarity. It took the slam of his door to draw the women's attention, both women instantly flicking their cigarettes behind their backs, patting themselves down in an attempt to look better than they already didn't. Swallowing back the few snacks he'd had today, he tried to keep his gaze focused on the brunette's over-styled curls as he reached into his jacket, pulling out his badge. Flicking it open, he watched their broad smiles turn quickly to suspicion and wariness as he spoke.
"Agent Jacob Darlton, FBI." There was a quick flash of realization on the brunette's face, and with narrowed eyes, Dean gave her more concideration as he spoke. "I'm here about the body found out back a week ago. Either of you know anything?"
The two shared a quick look, Dean's eyes narrowing as he noticed both reach into the large designer handbags superglued to their sides. He could feel every muscle in his body tense as he readied himself for a fight, almost willing one of them to make that choice. Heart pounding, fingers itching closer to his palms, he barely heard the blonde speak through the high pitched hum that had settled deep in his eardrums.
"Can we just... take you to our boss? She's the one that talked to all you guys last time. We don't know nothing anyway, I swear."
Sucking in a deep breath, he tried to focus around the compelling urge to beat the obvious lies out of the two women. Eventually, he settled for rolling his eyes, forcing a grin onto his face and turning his attention to the save'n'gas turned dollhouse.
"Then lead the way."
His tone belied his impatience, fueling their hurried movements as they scuttled over each other in too-high heels to open the door for him and usher him inside. Just stepping into the place was like an instant blast into the past; between the myriad of cancer-inducing smoke that lingered like a haze about waist level, the grungy background music that was just loud enough to to drown the world outside away, and the sleezy aroma of sweat, money, and good-old-fashioned georgeous women dressed in tacky, trashy clothing;- or, if you were lucky, nothing at all- Well, he felt more in his element now than he had for a long while. With the mark pushed back to the deeper recesses of his mind, he turned a hunter's eye on the people around him as he followed the two once-upon-a-time-milfs.
By no means crowded, there was still a fair number of girls wandering around for the few sorry blokes who were slunk down in their lonely seats, nursing tankards of their choice of brew as they poorly hid their camera phones from a few shameless, late thirty-somethings who were making a lewd show of themselves by the rundown jukebox while the stage remained empty, despite the large tip jar plastered to the decaying wood that proudly proclaimed 'LILY' scrawled in large pink, glittery scribbles. However, as he was led across the scuffed hardwood floors to the back of the building, where the poor state of the bar was overshadowed only by the cringe-worthy selection of alchohol, he watched every pair of eyes in the place catch sight and follow his trek to the bar, leaving the hairs on the back of his neck standing at attention. Upon approaching the bar, the young man standing behind the counter, staring at them like a deer in the headlights whose appearance said his voice hadn't dropped and he listened to too much P!nk, finally jumped into action after his eyes settled on Dean. With the blood still draining from his face, he pulled the brunette off to the side, whispering feverishly to her while sending several sharp glances toward the blonde, who hastily excused herself with the goal of finding their boss.
If the weird-o-meter hadn't sparked before now, there was a winner this time.
Groaning from exhaustion and raking a hand through his hair, Dean strained his ears for the conversation between the bartender and the brunette, only to be startled by the sound of a half-full whiskey glass plunking down on the counter in front of him. Looking up, he was overwhelmed by the intensity of obviously dyed fire engine red hair, extensively curled and held with enough hairspray he could smell the fumes over everything else in the place. When she spoke, her voice was gruff, roughened by too many cigarettes.
"On the house. ...If," her hand was quick, blocking Dean from taking the offered glass as she stared him down with mousy brown eyes. "You make this quick as possible, agent."
Narrowing his eyes, he studied the woman for a moment, taking in the caked-on foundation and make-up that did nothing to hide the wrinkles of an aging face, and the beautifully patterened leopard print dress that clung to folds and creases like an un-opened, melted chocolate bar that had been squeezed by someone's fist in the middle. Disguising his sudden gag reflex as a cough, Dean finally found himself wondering- on top of everything he'd seen here already, if this was supposed to be a strip club, why were the ladies all... old? Not to mention everyone was still eyeing him like a rat. Taking a second to breathe, Dean watched her hand slowly retract from the glass sitting between them, now the symbol of a deal rather than an offering, and with a sigh, he reached for the glass, picking it up and holding it in front of him without so much as a sample, like he was listening for the alcohol's opinion on the situation at hand. When a few seconds had passed in silence, he heard the woman once more.
"Jen said you came asking 'bout that body?"
He couldn't get over it; something just seemed... irrevokably off about the whole situation. Nor, could he put his finger on what made him feel that way.
"Just trying to get some answers."
"Oh? Well, I already told your lot. Never seen either one of them before that night, never seen either one since."
If the slight twitch in his upper lip was any indication, Dean was having trouble locking up his irritation at the red-head's obvious lie. In fact, let's go with all the lies strung together from the time he stepped out of his baby. Leaning fully against the splintered, washed out wood of the bar, Dean gave himself a second to leisurely play with his drink, swirling the liquid into a hurricane of amber while he tempered his thoughts. Staring into the eye of this controlled cyclone as if it were the magic eight ball of the world and the only thing standing between him and his answers, he spoke slowly; clearly.
"Let me tell you how this is going to go."
When he finally looked up at the petite woman who couldn't have been any less than forty or any more than a buck-twenty, giving him that Paris Hilton sneer as she shifted from one foot to the other, he made sure to look straight into dark blue eyes dialated with growing concern as he started in.
"FBI isn't just some title we go waving around. Even if I couldn't drag you out of here kicking and screaming with no warrent, no cause, no explination, no nothing- I'm not blind, lady. Tell you what," His voice was speeding up as he twirled his finger, indicating toward the purse sitting beside the register, "I'll bet you everything I own that I can open your purse and find an item from damn near every person who's stepped foot in here tonight, AND more than half tonight's profits from the drawer. Oh, and I've noticed other things too. Like how usually it's a couple that head outside every now and again; usually a smiling girl and a nervous, sweaty guy. But those girls are the only ones that come back. Every. Time. And don't even try to say speculation," Dean's hand was in the air before the dancer could part her lips, "Because I've got news for you. Drunk people just LOVE to hear themselves talk. And they talk. Loud."
Letting his wrist rest from the swirling motion, he leaned back, bringing the rim of the glass to his lips, loosing the flood of liquid fire down his throat. Grimacing around the after burn of great American whiskey, he took a moment to glance around, letting a burp sneak out the side of his lips as he gestured with his empty glass to behind the bar, where the obviously too-young bartender was failing horribly at hiding what kinks he and the brunette from outside were into, then toward possibly the youngest and definitely hottest woman of the bunch, where she was huddled into the corner with three other strippers, trading fist-fulls of cash and plastic bags.
"And don't even get me started... on... the hell?!"
In turning back to face- come to think of it, he still hadn't caught her name, or anyone's name for that matter- boss lady, he caught a glimpse of the television set mounted over the island of 'top shelf' alchohol. He only caught a quick shot of the fast moving streaks of shadow weaving in and out of flashing red and blue lights, but that Fabio mop he could recognize anywhere.
"Turn that up!" he barked, frantically searching his jacket for his cell.
He'd no sooner tightened his fingers around the plastic edges of the phone than it was open and dialing Sam's number. He had it to his ear and ringing while the lady leered at him, but lifted a remote toward the tv, and finally he could hear an off screen reporter droning on over a looping ten seconds of Sam chasing some small shadow down a back street into a lot of trees, away from police lights, where they disappeared, and the loop began again.
"Not twenty minutes ago, an annonymous tip reached local police about another victim in what's becoming widely known as the 'Lady of the Night' killings. When police and FBI arrived on scene, stunning footage -"
"Come on, Sam, pick up...!" he growled at the constant ringing in his ear, his eyes glued to the repeating images as he strained his ears for more information.
"-who bravely gave chase after the killer, disappearing into a preserved, historical trail while the police form search groups and begin to sweep the area. I can hear the dogs being unloaded from the vans now, and I think there's even a helicop-"
The unrelenting ringing in his ear finally shifted to painful, loud bursts of rustling, heavy breathing, and dogs barking in the background, forcing Dean to grip the empty glass tighter to stop the violent shake coming on; not from the mark, he hoped, but from anxiety for Sam. Huffing and heaving, the sound of Sam trying to catch his breath overshadowed angry and distinctly female grunts and growls, arching Dean's eyebrows long before Sam's smart ass remark of "Kinda busy man," between breaths.
"Yeah, I saw," he deadpanned, setting the glass down on the bar in favor of massaging his aching temples. "You're on TV."
"Am I?" Came the strangely bemused response, an unbidden chuckle bubbling from Dean's throat at Sam's unique humor shining through all the dangers they faced.
A few quick snaps in his face drew Dean's attention from the voice on the phone to the toe-tapping, arms crossing, lip curling red-head glaring at him and mouthing the word 'Rude' at him. Letting his own festering frustrations swell to the surface, his eyes narrowed as he held up his index finger, completely forgetting she existed when Sam spoke.
"Anyway... Just took down some girl. I dunno if she's the killer or not, but Dean, she's pretty good; she's young, but she seems like she knows what she's doing. Kinda like-"
In seconds the background noises of dogs turned to a deafening cacaphony of bellowing, rumbling barks, and Dean could hear Sam shouting into the distance, letting the other officers know where he was. There was more rustling and movement, and the next thing Dean heard was a very short,
"They're taking her down to the station. I'm going with them, you finish up and get your ass down here, Dean."
Then the line was dead. Inhaling slowly, he shoved the phone back into his pocket, turning his eyes leisurely to the woman who was still tapping her foot at him. When she finally realized he was just staring at her, her brows knitted together, and what would have been a cheerful tone was slurred by a scalding sneer.
"That your partner?" she nodded toward the phone Dean had pocketed, as if to make sure he knew exactly what she meant.
Dean's eyes narrowed further, trying to understand the meaning behind the question even as he hummed in the affirmative, earning her second question of, "That your killer?" as she turned to face the TV, Sam's face long swept away by the torrent of 'breaking' news that happened every minute. Cautiously, Dean tested the word on his tongue before answering,
"Possibly."
A large, sickly sweet smile twisted brightly painted red lips upward, accentuating every line in her face as her 'honeyed' words washed over him like shards of glass and sandpaper.
"Then between you and me, I think you have bigger fish to fry than a tiny home business that barely makes enough to stay afloat. So unless there's anything else, agent.."
Once more, Dean caught himself biting back scathing words, setting his jaw as some of the terseness he felt slipped through into his voice.
"I still want to take a look at where the body was found. Just to cover all the bases, you know? For paperwork."
He smiled thinly, watching the almost visible sparks around them as her indigo irises stared him down through her mask of friendliness, her own tone clipped as she gestured with a hand toward the back door,
"Of course, for paperwork. The door's right there; don't let it hit ya on the way out."
Swallowing back a quiet growl, Dean turned immediately from the bar, still well aware every pair of eyes in the place were following him as he strode to the exit and pushed it open. One quick look, then he would take off for the police station to meet up with Sam and figure out what the hell happened. 'It's better this way,' he brooded, 'Because if I ever see this place again, I'm gonna be sick.'
It was just supposed to be one quick look.