Dean winced and pushed the jacket back. "You can just hold it, just hold it for me, Sammy," Dean murmured. Sam sniffed and relented, clutching it back against his chest. "What do you mean, you?"
"Sebastian's… focused on me. He… If he found out you had me, he'd come."
"Why hasn't he come already?"
"Private suites are more discreet," Sam hedged, then breathed, "and Sheldon's an idiot. I wasn't meant to be rented from the display floor."
Dean rubbed his chin and nodded. He understood now why Sam had been in an unlit booth with no gimmick. The thought of a leviathan possessive and hurting Sam disturbed him far more than he would've expected, even accounting for the speed with which weres could connect.
"Sam," Dean strained, "I don't want you anywhere near this monster. You're done. You're gonna be out in a few-"
"Jack's with Tennyson!" Sam interrupted wildly, so loud even his own eyes widened with surprise. He squeezed Dean's suit jacket and squared his jaw. "I'm not leaving until I know he's safe and nobody is safe until Sebastian's taken down."
Sam was left heaving, stressed fidgeting, wide eyes watching for any signal from Dean that'd indicate retaliation for crossing a line; forgetting his place.
Dean put his palms up. Carefully, he reached out to take hold of Sam's.
"Okay. Relax," he whispered. Sam's pleading eyes looked back at him as he returned the pressure on Dean's hand. Understanding and agreement passed through them.
Dean tapped his communications device to open the channel.
"Fahrenheit, Green and company can rendezvous to the main floor and draw Target Two out. Acknowledge." Dean listened to his team agree on that course of action. Charlie quickly summarized the new plan and all confirmed their understanding. Dean watched Sam worrying at his lip and hugging his suit jacket, ears down low and twitching as he stared unseeing at the mattress.
Sam was traumatized. This was a risk. But Dean knew the power and strength that came out of the kind of protective love Sam clearly had for Jack. With that, he wasn't so traumatized and this wasn't too bad a risk. He hoped.
All was confirmed over comms.
"Okay. It's set," Dean murmured to Sam. "We've got about half an hour, maybe forty-five minutes until it's show time." Sam nodded and glanced up at him through messy hair, ears low, looking guilty as though his outburst had been wrong. Dean shook his head at the impression and reached his hand out, massaged Sam's bony shoulder. "It's okay. This is bravery, Sam. You're amazing. Just breathe. Breathe with me," and he did. Dean's warmth and reassurance seeped into the kid as he held tight to the textured velvet. A few more seconds of calm quietude and Dean thought okay, time to start a conversation about something upbeat, something that might make Sam smile.
"You didn't tell me before - what kind of creature is Jack?"
"He's a nephilim."
Dean whistled. "What are you, running a rare species anonymous club?"
Sam huffed. "If I were I wouldn't host it here," Sam quipped back.
Dean laughed, delighted. Sam was witty.
"A nephilim. This'll be good. Cas - his call name's Wings, you probably heard me on comms - is an angel. He'd protect Jack even if he didn't know his name just by sensing his grace in the room."
"Really?" Sam dared to ask, hope filling some color into his gaunt face.
"Really," Dean smiled.
"Even if it's not much grace?"
"What do you mean?"
"They took most of his grace so he couldn't rebel."
Dean's brows furrowed but he nodded. "He'll find him, Sam."
Sam swallowed and nodded. He kept his eyes on Dean, a rare thing. Dean tilted his head. "What?"
"How's an angel fighting with you? I thought they abandoned everybody when humans fell down the food chain."
"Ha," Dean breathed, "the angels abandoned everybody when angels fell down the food chain."
Dean was starting to read Sam much better like when he watched the kid raise his eyebrows slightly, the merest movement speaking volumes over how curious he was to know more.
"Even before the leviathans, angels were no… well, angels," Dean chuckled. He watched Sam loosen and unfold, his interest drawing him out. It was satisfying to see. It fostered Dean's nascent hope that Sam's curiosity and wit would surface as his defining traits one day. It was gratifying too on another more selfish level: Sam's inquisitiveness perfectly complemented Dean's own predilection for storytelling. "So," he started, pulling away from touching Sam, letting him just settle back on his own. "Twenty, twenty-five years ago, okay? When there were no leviathans, humans got to eat apple pie with vanilla ice cream, weres were living in their own quiet territories and packlands, and evil supernatural monsters would get snuffed out by only a small group of individuals that just called themselves 'Hunters.'" Dean tilted his head and Sam nodded his understanding. "At some point, the feathery bastards - angels," he clarified when Sam made a face, "realized their absentee father was, y'know, absent and decided a biblical apocalypse was in order. In the midst of roiding themselves out to fight a fight that would rapture all creatures on Earth away, one particular angel knock-knock-knocked on purgatory's door for some soul power of the Luna variety. Instead, came out infested with leviathans."
Sam's eyes widened. "That's how this whole thing started?" He breathed, taken aback.
Dean nodded and grinned bitterly. He was quick to notice then ignore Sam's boldness to speak like that, like they were in a normal conversation. He didn't want Sam to realize and close himself off. "That is indeed the whole kit and caboodle how leviathans got here, how we live in this… modern world of wonder," Dean said dryly but with a charming spark in his eye. Sam's lips hinted at something like a smirk. Dean couldn't have been happier.
"In the beginning of the leviathan occupation," he started again, wanting more of this, however fleeting and however willfully ignorant of the nightmare they were about face once they walked out this suite. "The prevailing idea amongst the resistance was that killing their leader, a leviathan named Dick Roman, would stop them. Like, all of them. Wipe 'em out," Dean waved. "Five years in, a team of," Dean put his hand out, "angels again, of course, got their opportunity. Nearly all of them died but Cas, Cas dealt the killing blow to the Leviathan and," Dean dragged the word out, then further with tempered amusement when he noticed Sam leaning in closer, rapt, as he did, "nothing." Sam deflated, but nodded along, probably understanding their current world would be very different if anything had worked. "Cas got sucked into some kinda Purgatory vortex with Dick Roman. Topside, there was some scrambling. We thought we had the upper hand for awhile and still, when you end any leviathan leadership there's disorganized chaos that offers us a window. But they always reorganize. They," Dean paused, solemn, "carry on," Dean finished, lost in dark memories. He frowned and swallowed sickly.
"How'd Cas get out?" Sam asked and it perked Dean up.
"Well, Cas got to kill Dick Roman a second time so that must've been satisfying. From there he cut his way through that realm and found Luna's Kingdoms."
Startled, wide eyes met Dean's.
"It's true?"
Dean sighed and smiled as he nodded. "Every word. Castiel confirmed to us he'd encountered the kingdoms and packlands. They'd let him in. Helped him. But the legends have been around among weres of all species for centuries. I thought you'd understand I was a were when I started talking about it."
Sam shook his head. "I… don't remember much of my territory. There was an… attack," Sam hedged with haunted eyes and Dean knew there'd been no other survivors. "When I was young."
"How young?"
Sam pressed his lips together and shot Dean a furtive glance before shrugging. "Something like six."
"Six years old?" Dean blurted. Sam looked up at him, alarmed. "How…what…" Dean sputtered, then stopped because Sam looked two seconds away from another panic attack. "No, nothing. It's okay. I'm sorry." Dean pressed his hands against his mouth, doing his best to hide incredulous fury. Six was so young. How had he survived this world with no one looking after him?
Dean coughed, clearing his throat and scratched his five o'clock shadow coming in.
"So, I was talking about Castiel, right?" The kid nodded tentatively, eyes still cautious but getting over it. "Right. So, uh. How he got back. Cas found a portal to reach Earth again and now he's not like any other angel we've ever encountered. In Purgatory, he came to appreciate and embrace the more neutral and good supernatural beings that Luna, not God and not Eve, created. He's been working with us - the Marrow Pack - ever since," he finished, wishing he had more to the story. Or more stories. Wishing he could keep watching Sam's reactions, monitoring the kid's slow improvement getting more comfortable with him, the sound of his voice, the sheer simplicity of experiencing a normal conversation between equals.
Instead, his comms patched through with Fahrenheit and pure dread slipped back into him, carving out that pit in his stomach, a vise squeezing his heart and sucking the air out of his lungs. Cas had cleared all Cheyenne Club's entrance checks and gotten on to the main floor. Soon he'd be heading into position, meeting with Tennyson, finding Jack.
It was time.
When Dean was done listening and confirmed with "roger, wilco," over his own new directives he looked up to realize Sam had heard everything. Their close proximity sitting on the bed and the kid's two sets of ears made it inevitable. Other decent indicators included the tangy scent of fear wafting off him and his ashen face with a pale green undertone.
Depleted too, Dean just met Sam's gaze with apology. There was nothing for it but to move ahead.
Sam took a huge breath and let it out slowly, thin lips forming a severe line as he inhaled again. Some color came back into him and he stood up first.
Dean's astonishment at seeing Sam take the initiative to stand, was furthered by the fact that his movements meant Dean had to look up… and up…
Dean bit his tongue commenting on it, knowing any vocal observations of Sam's physique were probably either unwanted or doomed to get horrifically misinterpreted. Didn't stop him from scrambling up and assessing the difference between their heights though. By Luna, if Sam didn't deliberately posture himself to appear smaller he was probably taller than Dean.
"I'm…" Sam gulped, then handed the velvet suit jacket back out to Dean. "I'm ready."
Dean's jaw clenched trying not to cringe as he took the jacket, the last item Sam had besides the sheets that'd been keeping his modesty. He stood before Dean now back to nothing more than what he'd been prepped to wear earlier, the golden sheer slip of a tunic that covered everything but really nothing. On a healthy body and with consent maybe it could appeal to Dean but that scenario was so far from the case here that instead his stomach churned and a heavy wave of nausea came over him again. He swallowed back bile observing Sam was too thin, beaten, hurting in nearly every way imaginable including some he hadn't even imagined before like chronic pain due to that paralysis curse. What the fuck else had they done to-
Dean stopped himself and breathed. He wanted- no, needed - Sam free, clean, warm, fed, well-rested, healthy and yet he was about to drag the kid into the center of a den of evil beasts to play bait on the club's most dangerous and powerful leviathan. Looking like this.
"What the fuck am I thinking," Dean whispered. He roughly shouldered his way back into his crumpled velvet jacket and couldn't help but shudder and back up against the door shaking, Sam's scent slamming into him. Dean would've found it equally as comforting as Sam had earlier - it was the nature of weres to find comfort in each other's scents after all - but Sam's terror and despair had been so concentrated over the course of their time together that those scents had been imbued into the jacket, far overpowering the kid's natural scent. Dean pressed a hand against the wall and tried to control ragged breath.
"Holy shit, we can't…we can't do this," Dean trembled out. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Sam's pain and terror was getting to him now, surrounding him. He hadn't been expecting this.
Things were taking a serious turn for the worse if Dean folded here. "C'mon, c'mon, get it together," Dean muttered to himself, eyes closed, doing his best to concentrate and fight through it.
"Dean?" Sam prompted, so hesitant it was barely a whisper. Dean turned, opened his eyes to look at Sam, hands fisted in restraint against his chest. He knew how to solve this but he still had reservations. He'd been noting the conflict in Sam's eyes ever since the start of all this: Sam instinctively feared touch even though he softened into it once the touch landed. And when Dean would pull away Sam was paradoxically both relieved and left wanting.
Dean had made the right call refraining from touch so Sam wouldn't be distracted but now Dean was crumbling under the weight of Sam's penetrating scent of misery and distress. They just weren't gonna make it through without something.
Dean licked his lips, nervous, and asked as delicately as possible.
"Can I," Dean paused, then rolled his eyes. He couldn't believe he was doing this - it was so cheesy, asking permission to touch, like that was even a thing among werecreatures. But he'd never met a were so fucked up about touch as Sam. Verbal communication was paramount if Sam grew up thinking the innate physical bonding of weres was something to fight - something to hate experiencing. "Can I hug you?"
Sam's eyes burned with stress. Dean winced, knowing the absence of 'no' still wasn't a 'yes' but unclenched a fist and reached out anyway.
"I'm sorry. I just want you to scent me. Nothing else. I promise, Sam, just…" he gently touched the pads of his fingers on Sam's wrist. And just like that, as though Sam's wrist had a mind of its own it moved out further into Dean's hand. Sam started to tremble. "That's it, that's it, Sammy, it's okay," Dean whispered, clasping Sam's cold limp hand then wrist, the elbow, pulling him in as slowly as possible. He was shaking like a leaf by the time Dean wrapped his arms around him and guided Sam's head into the crook of his neck.
Nothing happened for a second, Sam's body still way too tense, when Dean realized the kid was holding his breath.
"Sammy, breathe," he whispered, rubbing his back, "It's okay. I just need you to scent me."
Finally Sam inhaled. He whimpered on his exhale, instantly melting against Dean, inhibitions lost and just clutching back like his life depended on it. Dean heaved a sigh of relief, gripping Sam tighter under the weight Sam was trusting him with now and closed his eyes. "Perfect," he praised, feeling the energy and their scents circulating, doing what they do for weres that ally and bond together. It was settling them both down, focusing them; they were giving and offering comfort and trust and conviction in equal measure between them.
"It's okay, we're gonna make it through this. I won't let anything happen to you, okay?" Dean said, willing every once of confidence and affection he held into his words and touch and hoping his own scent carried it all through.
Sam nodded and stepped into Dean further, taking what Dean had to offer with more strength and esteem and giving it back too.
They finally pulled apart, both of them invigorated. Sam gave a ghost of a smile and Dean took it for treasure.
"Hold my hand, okay?"
Sam shook his head. "That's not how it's done usually. You'll stand out."
"What's the alternative?"
Sam swallowed nervously and went over to the armoire. He opened the doors and pulled out a black leather collar. Dean wiped a hand down his face.
"Okay. Come back here, please," Dean waved him over. Sam stepped back holding the collar out to Dean which he took. He tossed it to the floor.
"C'mon, hold my hand, kiddo," he repeated, extending his hand out. Sam took it. Dean hated he didn't have time to acknowledge the wan smile of gratitude Sam had on his face staring at the collar on the floor. "Listen to me. Do as I say. Stay as close to me as possible. Remember, nothing bad's gonna happen to you. I'll make sure of it. Okay?"
Sam's eyes glistened as he concentrated on Dean's words. "Okay," he whispered, nodding, squeezing Dean's hand harder than he ever would've dared before.
"Okay. Okay we're ready. C'mon sweetie, time's a-wastin'," he whispered as he opened the door. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Sam make a face and smirked as he pulled them out into the corridor.
Oh yeah , he thought. They were gonna make it .
Dean had to think fast as they walked down the hallway. Sam was huddled close behind him, their hands tightly clasped.
"Dean. You know I have to pretend too," Sam murmured.
"What? Sure, Sam," Dean whispered back, distracted.
"Mr. Fogarty!" Sheldon announced, appearing at the end of the hall, arms raised in welcome, one still holding his trusty clipboard. "I hope you had a splendid time" he winked.
His expression diminished at Dean's thinly disguised expression of loathing.
Dean felt a strain on their hands. Sam was pulling away. He glanced back and realized what Sam had meant about having to pretend too. He was hunched in, head bowed and ears back, trembling, his body language telegraphing their clasped hands was a forced and threatening thing. For Dean, it was a new wave of nausea to see Sam feigning the symptoms of trauma and suffering Sheldon would be expecting in the aftermath of their time together. To sell it, Sam's grip on Dean had gone weaker.
Dean steeled himself, compensated for it with a tug to bring Sam in closer and addressed Sheldon.
"He was so admirable I decided to keep him for longer," he replied in a way that made his own skin crawl. To drive things home he pushed his hand up the nape of Sam's neck and into his hair. Sam didn't have to fake the shiver of discomfort that came from it.
"Indeed, indeed," Sheldon minced, "Would you like to sit down and have a drink?"
"A bar on the main floor would be just the thing," Dean suggested approvingly.
Sheldon broke into a wide grin and nodded. "Right this way, sir."
The main floor was the ground level of the Cheyenne Club. It was an immense dance space the same size as the display floor below it. It was the most public section of the Cheyenne Club as it was the first section through which patrons entered after the foyer and weapons checks and as such it featured the most spectacles. Dizzying strobe lights, and gimmicks like glittery acrobats, dancers in hanging cages, fire breathers on raised platforms that dotted the floor and front stage with the DJ's station, even sophomoric foam parties were provided to all manner of monster revelers in the throes of thumping house music. There were wide balconies that suited large parties wishing to view the action from above and reserving tables for bottle service under blacklight. Altogether the atmosphere held endless indulgent, hedonistic energy but nothing too divorced from what the best night clubs had been while humanity had hosted them.
More discerning members of the Cheyenne Club would find their way to the double doors nearly hidden by the back bar with two suited monsters on either side, earpiece cords trailing down their necks. They would check membership badges' QR codes using their phones or accept cash for customers to enter into a staggeringly different section of the compound. The soundproof doors would close and the distant vibration of bass would be the only hint of the floor behind replaced by elegant, warmly lit Victorian chairs and couches, soft tan leather booths, and immaculately dressed croupiers running their tables. Richly carpeted hallways extended further to other rooms that featured different gambling table limits. These spaces were for more intimate socializing and drinking. It was also where someone could catch the attention of staffers like Sheldon and express an interest in enjoying a pleasure slave for the evening, an auction, a fighting ring…
It was this area of the main floor that Sheldon would be leading them.
They passed through the narrow, dark, wood-paneled hallways of the lower floor. Other doors to other executive suites probably identical to the one Sam and Dean had been in punctuated the wall on the left while small sconces marked the wall to the right which kept everything dimly lit and hidden.
"Was the handling equipment not to your liking, Mr. Fogerty?"
"Pardon?" Sam squeezed Dean's hand and made an abortive gesture towards his neck. "Oh," Dean cleared his throat.
"We can offer you a wider variety of collars and whatnot if you'd like."
"That won't be necessary," Dean growled. Sheldon gave him a curious double-take as he pushed open one of two metal double doors at the end of their final hallway. "I… like keeping him close," Dean explained further, dripping as much twisted innuendo into it as he could. They entered a utilitarian cement and metal stairwell area, everything lit by unflattering white fluorescent light. Sheldon seemed suspicious at first before smirking and nodding with approval as he started up the stairs. Dean shot a worried look to Sam. Sam's lips curled with severity, a silent admonition not to break cover.
Not without some pride, Dean realized Sam was keeping it together better than he was.
He gave a miniscule shrug to suggest he was still going to break cover like this and brushed an affectionate, apologetic hand along the side of Sam's face. Sam softened, his eyes briefly fluttering closed to relish the feeling of it. They quickly resumed climbing though, their steps echoing in the hollow stairwell. Sam was silent as a mouse behind him. When they got out and onto the main floor with the lavish decor, dress code, and rooms labeled by table limits, Sheldon told them to wait a minute before moving out, peering into various rooms.
"Let me see, let me see…" Sheldon muttered to himself, bypassing one room and checking another. Dean was fine letting the leviathan choose as he subtly kept Sam hidden behind him, doing his best to keep any passers-by from leering.
"The Crystal Room," Sam whispered and Dean turned, bemused. Sam shot a furtive glance at Sheldon then back at Dean with meaning.
"Hey, Sheldon. What's this I hear about the Crystal Room-?"
Sheldon's whipped around, his eyes lit up.
"Oh that's wonderful you know about the Crystal Room!" He hustled back towards them. "Amethyst won't be performing again for another," Sheldon checked his watch, "half hour but that's no matter. Right this way!"
Dean raised an eyebrow and gave a comical thumbs up before following the creature. Sheldon didn't catch it but Sam had twitched a smile. Dean internally celebrated.
"So can I ask, who mentioned the Crystal Room to you? Only the most elite of our members knows it exists. You must have done something quite impressive for one of them to have gotten its name."
Dean glanced at Sam and the kid's eyes were intent, the cut of his jaw determined, but he wasn't giving him anything.
"It was… Tennyson," Dean coughed, looked to Sammy and saw the young man give the tiniest nod of encouragement. "I, uh... gave him a discount on a shipment of food for the slaves," Dean improvised. Glancing at Sam again he knew he'd taken a sharp wrong turn.
Sheldon snorted, turning back for a second to Dean before leading them through a massive, frenzied industrial kitchen.
"Very funny," Sheldon spoke loudly so he could be heard over the kitchen's din. "All right, keep your secrets," he chuckled. Sam's eyes darted to Dean, relieved but stressed and Dean knew exactly how that felt. Now he was dreading his own curiosity though. What was the food situation here if it didn't accept standard shipments for so many slaves? He was pretty sure that was standard practice at all the other clubs they'd taken down.
It occurred to Dean that Sam had said Sebastian voluntarily elected to oversee the management of the slaves, a job usually reserved for lower status creatures. That is unless there's genuine delight to be had in torturing. Dean unconsciously squeezed Sam's hand when he concluded Sebastian must have frequently starved them.
Sheldon ushered them through a small wooden door in the back. It stood out among the chrome and white porcelain of the kitchen but an easy door to write off as an entrance to some kind of wine storage area.
They went a few short steps down a narrow hallway and reached thick black velvet curtains. Sheldon fumbled to find the opening.
"I present to you…" Sheldon announced, pulling the curtains back, "the Crystal Room!"
Dean didn't have to hide his distaste for the leviathans' theatrics. He walked inside, dragging Sam along. "Thank you, Sheldon," he gritted out.
"My pleasure." Sheldon bowed and left them blessedly alone standing just inside.
A/N: "An Operative is Born" by hugging the shit outta him! Woo!
Fun fact: the executive suite was based on ridiculously lavish and romantic underground cave hotel suites in Cappadocia, Turkey that're 100% on my bucket list.
To see all the amazing artwork done (and it's SO MUCH! you need to go SEE! THERE'S GIFS FFS!) for this fic, nav to archiveofourown dot org slash works slash 19068466
Thank you so much for reading - please comment if you can spare the time! Love, Alex