It was a scrape to back the Impala out of Mrs Potter's residential drive, but Dean eventually managed it without grazing the paint off the doors. Eventually when the car was out on the street, Dean lent his elbow on the horn.
"Move it, Haley Joel!" He shouted out the window. "We got things to do!"
Sam slung his computer satchel into the backseat and opened the passenger's door. Over his brother's shoulder, Dean could see Mrs Potter peering out the door at them, and he waved.
"You have a good time, boys!"
"Seeya later, Mrs P."
The Impala smoothly merged with the flow of traffic that was crawling toward the centre of town. Dean drummed his fingers on the steering wheel as he waited for the traffic lights to turn green. "Dum de dum."
Sam was silent.
"You okay?" Dean glanced over at him. His brother was folding a piece of paper into ever-smaller sections, almost as if he concentrated on the movement of his hands, he could ignore the thoughts in his head. It was a nervous compulsion Dean noticed had started a few months ago.
Dean probably had developed a few nervy mannerisms himself, now. Though Sam never said anything if his brother held a stare for too long, gripped a knife too hard, let off a remark that was too casual.
They were slowly becoming mental cases. The thought was depressing.
"I found one."
The Impala inched forward a foot.
"Found what?"
"A death."
"What?" The car jerked forward a few inches as Dean accidentally hit the accelerator in surprise. "And you didn't tell me this before, why?"
"Had to check with the local paper to make sure." Sam said. "It could have been just a drug overdose."
"You know, Sammy, we're probably the only people in this place that would say 'just a drug overdose'." He smiled wryly to himself.
"Dude, the light's green."
"Oh, yeah." The Impala roared through the intersection. "You have my complete and undivided attention, kiddo."
At least until the next song comes on. With some difficulty, Sam unfolded the page he had been mutilating. It was a page from one of the newspapers that Mrs Potter had been collecting since 1968, which she had given to him.
"Poor Greg and Jackie and the rest of that family."
"You knew them?"
"Little James used to come over and play with my Rex every Saturday."
"James Higgins, 25, resident of The Point." He began, and although Dean's eyes were firmly upon the road in front of them, Sam knew he was listening intently. "If the paper's right, he died three days ago." And we missed it. Completely flew under the radar.
"But-?" Dean glanced sideways. "You said it looked like a drug overdose."
"Yeah, I did. This guy, this James, was found in the bathroom of – of that nightclub place on Maple Drive, can't remember the name." He skimmed the small article once more, wondering if he could find it.
"That place with the blacked-out windows as you're driving in?"
"Yeah."
"Dead on the cold tiles of a place that could be an amphetamine lab. Kids, just say no."
"That's what I thought." Sam agreed. "Just some rebel loser who wanted to make a name for himself by going out with a bang, right? Only, there were no traces."
"Traces of what?"
"Of anything. He was in perfect health."
"Apart from the dead part and all."
"Yeah."
There was silence in the Impala for a moment.
"We have the weirdest jobs."
"I've got it."
"Well, if you've got it, I've got it too."
"No, no. The name of the club."
"Yeah? Spit it out."
"The Guinness Bar."
"You're kidding me."
"Nope."
"Okay then." Dean pursed his lips and swung over to the side of the road. As soon as there was an opening in the opposite lane, the Impala moved into a smooth U turn, taking the brothers back the way they had came.
"We're going clubbing." Dean said. "If the place turns out to be a gay bar, I hope you know I'm gonna leave you there to fend for yourself."
Dean's earlier description of a drug lab may have been closer to the mark.
There was a bar up front, an assortment of wooden tables and chairs, and, of course, the blacked-out windows. As soon as Sam walked in, he immediately regretted the decision to wear his Stanford sweatshirt as every head in the club swivelled to hold him in their cold stares.
Dean raised an eyebrow, cutting him a sideways glance. Sam understood the look as easily as if his brother had spoken the words aloud.
Dumbass pledge.
Sam watched as his brother stepped forward and slowly met the eyes of each person in the club, hands still casually in his pockets. I ain't scared of you. Step up and I'll show you who's top dog. He wondered if Dean was even aware of the vibes he was giving off, or whether the show of false bravado was so deeply ingrained into him that it was now second nature when he was in a tight spot.
Eventually, each face in the bar turned away, back to whatever they had been doing prior to the door swinging open.
"Dude, you suck." Dean said. "A couple of guys in leather and you make like the proverbial deer in the frickin' headlights."
Sam felt he had to justify himself. "They were taller than me, Dean! A foot taller!"
The pair pulled out stools at the bar.
"What will it be, fellas?" The barman was short but muscled, like he had seen a few good brawls in his time. He might have once been good looking, but his nose had been broken so many times that it was squashed to the side of his face.
"Two beers." Dean answered. The barman nodded, pulled out a couple of glasses.
"Haven't seen you pair 'round here 'fore."
"Yeah, it's sort of our week off." Dean pulled out his wallet and laid some money on the counter. "I'm Dean. This is my brother, Sam." He crossed his arms on the countertop.
"Harley." But the man's hands lay by his sides, not reaching for the crumpled notes. Sam looked up and saw suspicion written all over his face. "You're not cops, are you?"
"What? Hell, no."
Harley visibly relaxed as soon as the words were past Dean's lips. "A man comes here and the first thing he tells me is his name, means he's a cop an' he's looking for something."
"They come here a lot?" Sam asked, keeping his voice low. He glanced at his brother. Uh oh.
"Son, take a look around and tell me what you see."
Dean gave a wry grin. "Y'know, Harley, you're right about one thing. We're looking for information about the dead man in your toilets."
"You reporters? There's no conspiracy goin' on, you know. I've already had the Weekly World News breathing down my neck."
Judging by the look that flashed across Dean's face, Sam could tell that one of his lines had been nipped in the bud. "Why would the dailies think there's a conspiracy going on, sir?"
"Harley." The barman corrected automatically. "Peanuts?"
"Yeah, cheers." Dean said.
"Si – Harley?"
Harley wiped a rag needlessly across the counter. "Who are you people?"
"Just a couple of guys making some friendly enquiries." Dean said cheerfully. He couldn't have sounded more like an officer of the law if he'd tried. Harley straightened, his cheeks reddening.
"No ulterior motives here, no sirrie. Clean as a whistle, that's us." He puffed out his chest. "And you can put that in your report."
"Mister Harley, it is important that we get to the bottom of this before other innocent people are hurt." Dean put on his best responsible-adult voice.
The man sighed heavily. "Yeah. I guess." He peered up over his shoulder. "Hey, Gus. Cover me for five."
"What the hell for?" Shouted a man in a loud mustard yellow jacket.
"This pair wants to see the boss." And the way he said it left such an air of animosity that both Winchesters winced.
Sam and Dean lent casually against the wall near the speakers that were belting out Highway to Hell. Sam could tell that his brother was following the lyrics religiously. He nodded toward the industrial speakers. "Now this is the way rock is supposed to be played."
"What? I can't hear you." Sam rubbed at his ear.
"Real cute."
"Dean and Sam?"
Sam heard the faint voice and elbowed Dean in the ribs to get his attention. A woman was standing near the empty stage in a pair of ripped jeans and a daggy top. "Hey." Sam said. "I'm Sam. This is Dean."
Dean grinned and shook her hand, but Sam could tell that he had dismissed her with a glance because she was too short, not blonde enough and not dangerous-looking enough for him.
"We're looking for the boss."
"So I've heard." She said as loudly, over the music, which was really beginning to blare out as the midday rush started to begin.
"Can we see him?"
"Depends on what you need to see her for." She replied sharply.
"Oh." Sam blinked. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"
"So you own this place, huh?" Dean lifted the conversation right out from under his stuttering brother.
"Looks like it."
"Cool place. Got real… atmosphere."
"You serious? The only reason I'm still here is 'cause no one wants the dump. My advice? Don't breathe in any of this 'atmosphere' you speak of."
A corner of Dean's mouth lifted in a grin. "Okay, I might have exaggerated the coolness a bit."
"Hey, that's the only way I can get customers. Feel free exaggerate. Dean, right?"
"Yeah, that's me. I didn't catch your name though."
"Gwendolyn Palmer. Gwen. This piss joint was the only thing my dad ever left me with aside from a truckload of debts, may God have no mercy on his soul. Harvey tells me you're here about the dead guy. You cops?"
"You think you'd still be open if we were?"
"I dunno. Dad had a few less than kosher friends in the force." She gave them a stern look. "You better not be reporters. We've had a flood through here already, eating and drinkin' my stock and scaring away my regulars."
"Is there somewhere more…" Sam trailed off. "Private we can talk?"
"Dude, what you see is what you get." Gwen answered, her voice flat. "Who are you pair anyway? If you say it's classified, I'll swear I'll boot the two of you out on your collective asses."
"Has there been a lot of people through here saying that?" Sam's brows knitted.
"A couple the other day. Black suits. Black Ray-Bans, the whole bit. Went through the whole plausible deniability, blah, blah, almost gave my boys a heart attack when they walked though the door."
The brothers exchanged a glance. Calm, Sam told himself. Maybe it's nothing.
Yeah, right.