A/N: I don't know what I was thinking, saying I'd post one chapter a day and giving you only the prologue and nothing more. Puff... sorry. So here's another chapter. Sorry to leave you hanging.
Gosh, it's too bad you guys can't see the gorgeous artwork that Thruterryseyes did for me, for this story. It's great work so if you ever find yourself wondering about Live Journal, look me up there and this story, and more importantly, Terry's art. It's fantastic.
~ CHAPTER 1 ~
.
.
NOW Duluth, Minnesota Dean
Mid-November, 2005
When he opened his eyes, Leslie, the little brunette behind the counter was smiling at him, holding out his change.
Dean smiled knowingly. "You know what to do with that, honey," he said with a nod at the 'Tip' jar.
"Thanks Dean," she said with a wink through her thick, book-wormish glasses.
This had become his routine over the last three days; hit downtown early, ask his questions, conduct a few interviews and do some digging. Then head to the 'Java Loft' to cruise the web on their free Wi-Fi, and reconcile his notes. Then, lay the ground work for when Sam was well enough to get out.
With Sam on the mend, Dean managed to stay out longer and accomplish more each day. Today, he'd stayed out longer and by the time he arrived at the loft, the morning rush was over, off to work and school. Now, the place was practically deserted.
Perfect.
Dean turned and headed to his usual corner table, the one with actual walls at his back, rather than windows. It was always wise to avoid curious eyes, especially those that might spy whatever grisly scene happened to be on the laptop at the moment.
A red head was waiting by the table. She reached across and plucked the "RESERVED" sign off the table top. "Your usual table." she said with a twinkle in her eyes and a theatrical flourish.
"Ah, you didn't have to do that for me," Dean chuckled and sat his notebook and laptop down on the tiled surface.
"We take care of our regulars," the red head added as she turned and bustled away.
Dean watched her leave, noting her fine... assets. "Promises, promises," he murmured, then turned and pulled out a chair. Groaning, he lowered himself to the soft cushion, glad to be off his feet.
It took only a moment to spread out his notebook, papers and pen, then he opened the laptop and while he waited for the network to connect, he glanced at his notes. Reading over the day's information he'd managed to collect.
The smell of the dark brew wafted upward, enticingly and he took another, longer pull from the cup. This time Dean's eyes drifted shut and there was no holding back the loud groan of ecstasy that rumbled up his throat and echoed across the small shop. The sound set off soft chortle of giggles from the female employees.
Dean dropped his head and sighed. Much as he hated to admit it— even to himself because no way in hell he'd ever tell Sam—for fancy-fucking-yuppie coffee, this was good. Damn good. His little brother would never let him hear the end of it.
"I got fresh, sweet cinnamon rolls." The silky sweet feminine voice poured over him like syrup.
Lifting his head, Dean opened his eyes and gazed lazily up at the pretty blond in her Java Loft apron. The scenery wasn't bad either, he reminded himself.
"Ah, Kelsey–"
"Chelsea," she corrected, her face falling just a tad.
"Ch–" Dean stopped before he made things worse. "Sorry, sweetheart," he said, brow furrowed, a pained look on his face. Pressing knuckles into his eyes, he rubbed deeply at them. "It's been a long few days."
It wasn't a lie. It had been a long week. He was tired, but if he was truthful with himself, even fully rested he'd have had the same issues. Names weren't really his strong suit.
"Aw," she cooed, face softening in sympathy. "So sweet taking care of your partner like that, and doing both your jobs too."
"Yeah, well," Dean nodded and adopted his best, serious look, "it's just what partners do."
"How's that coming anyway? God, looking into all those murdered kids..." she shivered visibly.
Writers, it was a new cover for Dean. Sam would be proud. Really though, it just fit, what with all the college girls working here, for them, it worked just fine.
Dean nodded. "It's coming along fine. Though," he added with a long suffering sigh for effect. "Though having to do it alone makes the process slower."
"Well, maybe this will help." In Chelsea's dainty hands, with their perfectly manicured nails, was a plate that contained what was possibly the biggest pastry Dean had ever seen. "It's on me."
Dean coughed abruptly and stared up at her, the image turning over in his mind. The pastry. On her. Jesus, he blinked, reeling himself back in. He really was tired.
The girl was adorable and curvy in all the right places, and, if her little display was anything to go by, Dean was pretty sure that she was no longer talking about the cinnamon rolls. Probably hadn't been all along.
"Ah, Chelsea." Dean cleared his throat, dropped his voice to a low, sultry purr. "You know those things could never be as sweet as you, darlin'."
The beaming smile on her face told Dean he'd been forgive, but the mischievous glint in her eye told him he'd be way more than that, especially when she leaned down to the table top and rested her elbows on the surface.
"Well, you never know," she said, biting her lower lip coyly and nudged the pastry plate aside. Dean now had an unobstructed view of the place where her apron dipped and her low-cut blouse left little to the imagination. "Until you... taste them."
Dean got an eyeful. It was a full half minute before he could even manage a choked whimper in response. Now was so not the right time. Not. At all. Dammit.
Recovered, Dean cleared his throat. "You know, I'd love to but," he said, leaning away from her offer. It was an effort but he pulled his gaze up and met her eyes. "It's just that I," he waved his hand at his papers and laptop, "I got this job, my partner, need to get back to the office... " Motel, same difference.
God he really wanted to take her up on her offer. Maybe after this job was done….
Chelsea straightened. "I get it," she said without the slightest hint of hurt or rejection. "Pastry's still on me," she offered, lifting up the plate.
Dean gave it a serious consideration, or at least he hoped it looked that way, then shook his head. "Next time?" he asked hopefully. In truth, his stomach really wasn't feeling it.
"Sure thing," Chelsea grinned, "next time." As she turned to leave, a mischievous light sparked in her eyes. "You know where to find me," she tossed over her shoulder and sauntered off, hips swaying gently, telling Dean just what he'd passed up.
Dean waited a full minute. When she disappeared into the back room he twisted in his seat, cupped his mouth and let lose a jaw-cracking yawn. It had been a near thing and he'd barely managed to hold it back this long. When he was sure no one had noticed, he sighed and picked up his cup for another invigorating sip. Or four.
Never had he been so tired that he couldn't muster up even a small spec of remorse at having passed up a blatant offer like that. It was probably for the best though; he had a strong suspicion that, even if he'd made it to her place he'd have been asleep long before they'd made it to her bed.
God he was tired. No, he was beyond tired; he was beat. The road to Duluth had been, in a word, intense.
Four hours into their route to Duluth, it had become apparent that Sam wasn't suffering from some run-of-the-mill 'cold'. Medical treatment had proven more than a little necessary, especially when deemed so by an overprotective, older brother.
By that time, however, the only clinics Dean had found, were all located in non-Winchester friendly towns. Numerous visits by the brothers over the recent past, had earned them anything from jail time for grave desecration, and an escort to the city limits with strict instructions to never show their faces there again. Well, it wasn't Dean's fault that the kid whose nose he'd broken in that bar fight in that last town had been the Mayor's son.
All good reasons not to stop, Sam had groaned, and all amounting to the last third of their journey, eight straight hours of driving, becoming the longest of Dean's life. Shoulders tight with worry, hands in a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel, had raced to get a very sick Sammy to a more distant clinic.
While Dean was well-accustomed to long stretches behind the wheel, Sam's pain-filled groaning and moaning had notched up his stress and made the hours and miles stretch out for what had seemed like days.
Once at the Urgent Care clinic, the doctor had delivered her diagnosis—influenza, and a pretty severe case too—it was then that the real work had begun.
The road was not the place for a brother who needed constant meds, fluids, barf buckets and tissues. So, per the usual, they'd holed up in a crap-ass motel, not far from the clinic, just to be safe, where the suburb of Culver turned out to be located just on the outskirts of downtown Duluth. There, Dean had followed the doctor's orders to the letter, which had translated into running himself ragged, getting little to no sleep and worrying constantly.
The first thirty-six hours he'd spent aiding a very weak, sick Sam in numerous frantic puke-trips to the bathroom, and because Sam didn't quite make it on more than one occasion, Dean had strategically placed it by the bed.
Even that hadn't been a sure thing.
Sam had ended missing it on several occasions; massive cleanups ensued. When Sam's fever had spiked, there had been fever-reducing sponge baths, constant upkeep of meds, fluids, and the full-circle need to replenish all of the above.
The real hell had been the hours of helpless worry. Give Dean a monster or demon, some creature or spirit he could kill, beat or banish; something he could touch, shoot or stab. No problem. But watching as some unseen virus took down his brother or dad... that was hell.
The useless, powerless feeling had tied him in knots and in turn kept sleep at bay. Dean had filled his free time researching the series of murders and increased disappearances in downtown Duluth. Their whole reason for having made this journey in the first place.
Countless hours on the phone and computer had proven productive. Dean had found his monster.
The start of this hunt, hadn't been without its bone of contention, however.
On the drive up, where a Black Dog hunt outside of Albuquerque had turned into nothing more than a rabid coyote, Dean, with too much time on his hands and far too much energy, had began digging.
Armed with only a few reports of missing kids and his undisclosed gut instinct that this was worth a trip up, Dean had insisted that they headed to Minnesota next. Check into things.
Sam, however, had argued otherwise. Constantly. Nearly the entire trip, in fact, despite 'the cold' he'd been fighting off for a couple of days. And the sicker he got, the whinier his arguments became.
Sam's reasons hadn't been without merit; Dean was bored. Check. There really hadn't been enough hard facts or evidence to send them half-way across the country. Check, sorta. Sam had wanted more time to research some other, more viable hunts. Check again.
Stoic behind the wheel, Dean had held his ground, steadily guiding the Impala north, while Sam had made his case.
But as the miles fell behind them and before Sam could start making damn statistical charts as to why this was a bad idea, the flu had reared its ugly head.
In one way, however, the flu, had saved the brothers from further argument. Because exactly half way there, Dean had nearly cracked. He'd been ready to tell Sam that the reason they were really going to Duluth was because his gut told him this was their kind of gig so 'shut up about it, already!'.
Dean's instincts. The argument on that one would've been epic because Sam Winchester, after all, fueled his movements on facts first. Not bored, bossy brothers and certainly not some unexplainable, unsubstantiated feeling.
Never mind that Dean's instincts had saved their collective asses countless times. Though, to be fair, Sam's thirst for information prior to each of their hunts, and oft times during, had been equally as fortunate.
It was all for naught, however when, once Sam's cold became something more, Dean had been too busy driving and worrying to throw down his gauntlet.
Going on their second night at the Sentinel Motel, Dean got confirmation that his hunch might be just a bit more than that. With Sam more or less settled for the night, Dean had just flipped on the TV.
Acting as little more than background noise, Dean paid it little mind as he moved about the room, cleaning up used tissues and glasses. It was the interruption of whatever show had been on by a live newscast that called to his attention. The anchor had stood in front of the police station and what he said, had changed everything...
"The body of a young boy, reported missing in late September and found in the city sewers two weeks ago, has been identified as that of thirteen-year-old Jake Rhys. The toxicology report, released today, indicated trace amounts of Rohypnol in the boy's system. This drug is commonly known as a date rape drug and corroborates the physical evidence that the boy was sexually assaulted prior to his death. This hideous crime had already shocked the public opinion when, early on, was revealed that the boy's body had been found completely devoid of skin. Initial Police reports state that this was performed after the teen's death."The report had piqued Dean's interest but what followed next had him bolting for the laptop:
"For the first time, police are releasing information linking this crime to a string of deaths that occurred between 1991 and 1994. During that time period, six bodies were discovered in various locations around the city, too deteriorated for any evidence to substantiate a suspect. Details, like the skinning of the victims, were at the time kept from the public in hopes of protecting the ongoing investigation. The deaths became cold cases when no more new leads on the matter surfaced. Until now."Dean paused, staring at the small TV set. The gaps from 1994 to the present spoke to the possibility of a pattern if he could find something further back. Maybe this thing only fed every ten years, maybe it had long periods of hibernation. All of it worked to breathe new life to Dean's efforts.
Dad's journal in hand, he'd sifted anxiously through the handwritten pages, skimmed the articles, writings, and hand-drawn pictures. Between that and a call to Jacob, he'd come up with three possible shape-shifting type creatures; skinwalkers, ogres, and aswangs. All of them could be very spotty in their attacks, often changing hunting territories and they all had a thing for human flesh.
Fighting off fatigue, Dean had redoubled his efforts and when he wasn't taking care of Sam, he had been hunched over the laptop, finding out more about this latest monster. He needed something he could kill. Now. He needed to work off the frustration of the last few days.
This thing—and it was a Winchester-kind-of-thing, of that he was sure—was going after kids. Sonofabitch... Dean's hands tightened into a fist, so much for gut feelings. This bitch was going down.
The bell over the front door of the coffee shop chimed, breaking his train of thought and bringing Dean back to the here and now.
The door, lost in the grip of the newest arrival, flew open and crashed against the adjacent wall. A gust of cool, crisp air accompanied a young couple who darted in, laughing loudly, faces red from the cold. Dean spared them a glance, but quickly did a strong double take.
A couple entered the shop. The girl was nothing to write home about, but she was tall and slender, with tousled auburn hair that caught at the back of her had and flew forward to nearly cover her face. Pushing the mass of curls aside, she beamed at the young man next to her, who possessively slid a hand in her back pocket. Heels clicking on the tile floor, the pair sidled up to the counter where she ordered a mocha-frappa-something-or-other.
Dean shook his head, amazed at all the weird names this place had for friggin' coffee. Head inclined a moment; he decided with a nod that it sounded like something Sam would like. Maybe before he left…
The cell on his table started ringing and he glanced at the caller ID. Huh, speak of the devil.
Grinning, Dean flipped open the phone. "Well, well, well," he chirped happily into his phone, "look who finally decided to wake up."
"Dude, I don't care what you say," Sam's voice practically boomed through the phone, "there was definitely a girl in our room!"
The volume of his brother's voice made Dean yank the receiver away from his ear. Wincing only a moment at the accusatory tone, one side of his face tugged into a knowing grin.
"Good morning to you too, princess," Dean offered, feigning immunity from his brother's irritation. "You know, Sammy, hallucinations are a sign of a sick mind, right?"
In truth, however, Dean knew all too well what had caused his brother's ire; the cute little maid at the Sentinel Motel where they were staying. Amy.
It was one of the few immutable rules that the Winchester's lived by: No maid service allowed. Ever. It made sense, given their lifestyle— what with the constant travel, motels and the ever-present salt lines, weapons and sigils they kept about. Really, none of them wanted to try and explain the presence of such oddities to the staff, or to the cops.
Days after Dean had hung out the ubiquitous 'Do Not Disturb' sign on the doorknob, after he'd fussed and fretted over Sam for close to four days, Amy, had knocked on their door.
Dean chalked it up to fatigue because he got one look at her wide set eyes, pert nose, blonde curly hair and slender body, and melted a little bit. Not to mention the endearing way she flushed when Dean's gaze grew more appraising as he leaned against the doorjamb.
Amy was shy but endearing. Not gorgeous, but cute, Sam's-type cute.
Doe brown eyes got one look at Sam, in a constant shifting lump of he laid groaning and moaning under a pile of blankets on the bed furthest from the door, and, dammit, if she didn't just coo.
Right away Dean knew; this one had a definite Florence Nightingale thing going on and Sam was just the one for her. Not to mention, the room was a bit rank; it stunk of sweat and sickness. So, being the awesome big brother that he was, knowing Sam was no longer contagious and that, for once, their room was actually presentable—illegal weapons wise—Dean caved, just a bit.
After relaying specific instructions about what she could and could not touch, Dean left to get a soda from the machine. When he'd returned, she was gone and she'd done only what he'd asked, no more.
Sometime during her visit, Sam, still a little out of it, had apparently awoken, only to fall back in a fitful sleep. Later, he'd sworn to Dean that he'd seen girl in their room. Dean, wanting to get back at him a little for all the shit Sam'd given him for this 'it's not our kind of job' argument, milked it.
"Not a hallucination. A girl, Dean. I'm telling you man."
"Dude," Dean's grin was now a full-fledged smile, "your wet dreams have gotten way outta hand."
"Dean!" Sam snapped.
Yesterday, Dean decided to let Amy in again, reasoning that it couldn't be good to leave the room infested with germs. It was for his and Sam's own good.
Then, long after Dean had returned from his day's recon, Sam had woken with the same, albeit more insistent, declaration. If Sam hadn't been on the mend, Dean might've come clean but the fact was, Sam was on the mend and this was just too damn much fun.
"Oh, I know, you been staring at the mirror again, Sam? 'Cause I know that reflection of yours can be a bit confusing. Or, maybe it was the tooth fairy." Sam's silence told Dean enough and he threw his head back and laughed. "Was she hot Sammy? With her little wings and all?"
"Yes but...," Sam groaned, but Dean was sure it was supposed to be a growl. "Dammit, Dean, cut the condescending bullshit!"
"Fine. Fine. Geeze, you're grumpy." Dean sighed, laughter subsiding. "Dude, instead of bitching at me, you should be thanking me."
"Thanking you? Are you serious?"
"Yeah. I leave some totally hot chick alone in the room with you and all you had to do was give her that 'poor pitiful me' act. A few sniffles, let her mop your fevered brow, spoon feed you soup and next thing you know she's giving you a sponge bath."
"I knew it! So yesterday...?"
"Yeah." Dean stretched. "Her name's Amy—," his brow furrowed, "I think."
"Dean," Sam wheedled.
"Doesn't matter, dude," Dean defended. "What is important is that she's only the hottest hotel maid on the planet. Brought us fresh towels and shit. And a little sympathy for the poor sick guy in my room," he finished with a grin, taking a careful sip of his coffee.
"God, Dean,," Sam groaned. While his voice was still gravely and his breaths a bit too wheezy for Dean's liking, Sam sounded far better than he had in days. "You had me thinking I was... you're an ass, you know that right?"
"Yeah," Dean beamed broadly, "but it's a fine ass. Just ask Amy."
"Whatever…" Dean could practically hear Sam's eyes roll. His voice sounding clearer he asked, "But seriously, you let a maid in to clean the room?"
"Dude, I'm not an idiot. I had it covered. Literally. Notice the salt line at the door hidden nicely by the bathmat. The drapes are drawn over the lines at the windows and not just 'cause sick boy's got sensitive eyes."
Sam sighed. "You know," he started hesitantly, "she touched my forehead?"
"Really? She there right now?" Dean looked at his watch. "Dude! Sponge bath!"
"No. I…." Sam's voice dropped, that tone of chagrin Dean knew well. "I pretended to be asleep then she left."
Dean threw his head back and started laughing. "Bro," he said shaking his head, "you are one smooth operator. You know that, right? I leave you alone with a gorgeous girl—a total Florence Nightingale with the body of Jennifer Lopez—completely digging the poor sick guy angle and all you can think to do is play possum?"
"Wait, what? Like a…a babysitter?"
"I only wish our babysitters had been that hot," Dean muttered as he pecked at a couple of keys on the laptop. "No, not a babysitter, more like a welcome back to the land of the living, Winchester style."
"Dean!" Sam's voice sounded incredulous. "You pranked me? While I was sick?"
"Hell no. Sick was the three days last week when your fever skyrocketed to 103, when you were puking all over the place, when you were so weak you couldn't make it to the bathroom. Sick was when you were sweating and shivering and—"
"You were worried." Sam interrupted his tirade, most likely grinning that annoyingly, knowing grin.
Dean knew his brother. "Shaddup... was not."
"Yeah you were. But it's cool, 'cause I'm alright now. That was–wait. Did you say last week? Today's the 18th... so, it's been—" Sam choked off his words.
"That's right sick-o, let it all sink in," Dean teased lightly.
"We've been here for five days?" Sam's voice took on a more sobering tone. "Wow."
"Yeah. Wow." Dean sat back in his seat and glanced again at his watch. "Listen, I got another hour or so here, but you should be all right alone for a few, right? I should be back 'bout lunch."
"Yeah…wait. Alone? Dean, are you working a case?"
"Case? What case? Thought you said there was no case. I've just been coming here every morning for the last few days to drink some coffee in peace. And ogle the college chicks. I'm telling you, Sammy," Dean nodded at two of the girls who were looking his way and smiling, "it's a veritable Dean Winchester playground," he said watching them leave.
"Are you still going on about those missing kids? Dean, man, it's sad, but kids go missing all the time, especially in big cities. This is something for the cops, not us."
"Riiiight, cops." It was Dean's turn to roll his eyes. It bugged him to no end that Sam still didn't trust his instincts. It was time to prove it was way more than that now. "Oh, did I mention that the bodies of the victims were found without a single patch of skin on them?"
"What? Dean knew he had Sam's attention now. "No, you didn't mention that."
"Yup. Well, the first six bodies over ten years ago didn't have skin, then it was quiet until last month. Oh, and guess where the most recent vic's body was found?"
"How the hell should I know, Dean? Bottom of the lake, inside a dumpster, buried somewhere," Sam mumbled, his mind seemingly not putting much effort behind it. "What's the newest trend amongst serial killers?"
Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude, think less Charles Manson, and more Freddie Kreuger," he pointed out in mild annoyance. "Where do all monsters in the city like to go when it's time to nest?"
"Sewer."
"Bingo, little bro. You get the prize."
"Dean, why didn't you wake me?"
"'Cause, you needed the sleep," Dean said, eyeing Tall-Slender-Chick with her boyfriend accessory as she walked by, drink in hand. "And because I'm an awesome big brother."
"Dean—"
"Relax, man. You may feel better now, but no way you're cleared for duty. Not after three straight days of burning up and puking up. Rest, Sam; it's known as recovery, in case you were wondering." Dean grinned at the one of the workers as she came over and filled his cup.
They weren't waitresses, but more than one of the female employee's had gotten attached to him. And he was seriously considering attaching himself to one or two of them. Oh. Two. At one time. Niiiiiiice...
Dean shook the thought from his mind. Seriously, he needed to wrap this one up quick. The need for sleep was at odds with his libido, leaving him seriously conflicted.
"Well, why'd you have to drink your coffee there? You could've brought it back to the room. Lemme take a look at your research."
"Eh, no thanks, sir barfs-alot." Dean's face twisted in a grimace. "Tried the drinking-Coffee-in-the-room thing. Think it was the smell, it sent you running for the bathroom; worshiping the porcelain gods. Or were you too delirious to remember?"
"Maybe," Sam muttered. After a stifled a cough, he continued, "So where are you?"
"You mean when I'm not there taking care of your sick ass?"
"Yeah, Sam chuckled. "You at the diner across the interstate? I can see it out the window but I don't see the car."
"Nah. I'm at some yuppie-ass coffee shop downtown, near where the most recent victim disappeared. And, if pattern holds, the very place where the next victim should be taken." Dean heard Sam's intake of breath.
"Downtown?" Even sick, Sam's voice held caution. "You found enough to get a location?"
"I think so." Dean looked at the screen, then at his notes and recanted. "Make that, I know so."
"Dean, man, we agreed. We're in this together. We don't hunt alone. Not anymore."
"Chill Sammy, I don't fit this things 'victim profile'. I'm not some nubile teen—" Dean thought a moment. "Well, not a teen anyway," he added with a cocky chuckle. "Besides, I'm not exactly hunting, I'm just walking around, doing some harmless recon, a few interviews here and there. I just figured it'd be easier if I drank my puke-inducing coffee here while I scoped out the area."
Sam sighed into the phone. "Sorry." There was a pause a moment. "Guess I haven't been real supportive on this one, huh?
"There's an understatement."
"I promise, let me take a look at what you've found and I'll try keep a more open mind."
"There's a relief. I'm not Dad you know."
"I know. Hey, just," the line got quiet a moment and Dean braced for the chick-flick moment he'd felt coming. "…thanks for—"
"For being an awesome big brother?" Dean finished with a grin.
Sam laughed. "Man, you do not give up do you?"
"Wouldn't be a Winchester if I did, now would I Sammy?"
"It's Sam," he corrected, "and no, I guess not." Sam coughed and Dean stilled.
"Seriously Sam, you sure you're feeling better?" Dean asked. It wasn't rational, given that the worse was defiantly over now, but every time Dean left his brother out of his sight in the past days, worry still reared its ugly head with a million impossible possibilities of a relapse.
Dean watched, with a passing interest as the world outside the shop moved along, the day to day hum and beat of the city in full swing. Give his irrational worry a chance to quiet down. Sam was fine.
"Yeah, I am. So how about bringing me back a coffee and a cinnamon roll or something. Then you can bring me up to speed on what you've got there."
"Whoa, you weren't kidding when you said you felt better. Wouldn't you rather I just come get you?" Dean glanced at his watch. "By the time I get there it'll be close to 1. How about we go out, get you a little something with some protein in it?"
Amidst the people rushing to work, school, and wherever their mundane lives pulled them, a small group of kids skateboarded harmlessly on a small entrance to an alley. They laughed and tricked and flipped their boards on curbs and makeshift ramps, seemingly without a care in the world. However, as the man in coveralls moved with an unerringly determination toward the group, Dean suspected something might change soon.
It was a uniform of some sort, like those Dean saw mechanic's wear. The color, however, a light-gray, was not something any mechanic would ever bother to use when working in cars. There was no way to hide a grease stain in that color. There was a logo at the back of the uniform, something Dean couldn't quite make out. Maybe a construction worker or a janitor. One thing was certain, whatever job this guy came from, he wasn't there on work.
Thick, heavy framed glasses drew severe lines on the man's face, and as he broke from the general flow of the rest of the pedestrian traffic to move, his direction seemed clear. Dean had the feeling that the boy's carefree day was about to come to an end.
Dean, as a youth, had been in that sort of position far too often not to recognize shit that was rolling down hill. Usually, he'd been at the bottom of the hill. And usually, it was Dad rolling toward him. Dean grinned.
"Nah, for now, I think I'd like to start smaller."
"Small?" Dean deadpanned. Turning in his seat, he eyed the pastries behind the plexiglass then flipped back around. "Dude, you haven't seen the size of their cinnamon rolls."
"Bring it on, bro." Sam laughed again. The sound of it, absent for the last days made Dean relax.
"Alright man," Dean began, but a shout from the street drew his focus back outside. "But don't say I didn't warn you," he murmured distractedly.
It was the man in the gray coveralls and the way the kids turned, alarmed and looking guilty about whatever it was the man was shouting at them. One boy fell off his skateboard, two or three others chased their now riderless boards down. One however, hadn't moved. He stood watching with a tenuous smile as Coverall's approached.
No more than an arm's width away, Coveralls drew to a stop in front of the boy. Smaller than his friends, the kid had blond hair and even from the side, Dean saw his brow pinched as he listened to Coveralls talk.
"Dean?" Sam's raspy voice called.
Dean opened his mouth to answer, but another whir of movement stopped him.
It was the kid this time. Neck extended to look taller than he really was, the kid seemed to be shouting back words eaten up by the distance and the traffic passing by between the coffee and the other side of the street. He tossed down his skateboard angrily and flailed his small arms, gesturing wildly, clearly defiant and frustrated. Coverall's stared down, listening patiently, or so it seemed.
"Hey! Sam shouted, loud enough to make Dean flinch. "You there?"
Much as he wanted to answer, Dean couldn't take his focus off the kid and Coveralls. Something nagged at the back of his mind that the whole thing, this exchanged just seemed off and he couldn't, wouldn't stop watching. For reasons he couldn't put his finger on he worried that if he did, he'd miss something important.
Still, Sam's voice was growing in volume on the other end.
"Yeah...," Dean said absently. "I'm... here."
"Really? You don't sound 'here' at all. What's going on? Dean?"
This time, Dean didn't answer, he was looking from the scene outside to his research, scattered out on the table.
He prayed to God that this was a supernatural being because that gave Dean all the reason he'd need to cap this evil sonofabitch when he found him, and find him he would. He'd make damn sure that the last child it had taken was the last child it would ever take.
A choked off car's horn snapped Dean's attention back to the street. Back to Coveralls and the kid.
Coveralls had the light haired youth by one arm, preventing him from crossing the street, and even from this distance the boy seemed... confused? If their body language was anything to go by, their conversation was intense and mostly one sided; Coveralls doing most of the talking.
After a beat, the boy suddenly jerked and bucked. Hands flailing, he shoved at Coverall's hold, almost frantic in his attempt to get free. Moving around them, the by passer's seemed unaffected by the boy's plight. So maybe Dean shouldn't either...
But he was, and really he had no concrete reason why, other than his instincts. That was enough for him. Time and time again they'd saved his life, Sam's or Dad's. He wasn't about to discount them when the stakes were so high as to include the life of a child.
Instinct, and maybe it had to do with something more physical as Coveralls proximity to the kid changed.
In a move beyond bold, Coveralls dragged the boy in until the kid's body collided with his gray clad chest. He wrapped one large hand around his skull, cupping the back of the boy's head, keeping him in place. Too close. Closer still as Coverall's leaned down and pressed his mouth a hair's breath from the boy's ear. No doubt to whisper something. The two stilled.
Bold was suddenly an understatement. Wrong, was much closer as the pair held like that for far too long. The voice of instinct in Dean's head went from a whisper to a shout and Dean closed his laptop, felt at the gun in tucked covertly in his waistband, hidden nicely by his leather jacket.
Then, when the boy seemed to go limp in Coverall's hands, all pretense of protest wrung from his defeated frame: Dean was pushing back in his chair, rising. Wrong was now a gross understatement.
"Dammit...," Dean muttered at the voice gigging him to move. Off his ass, he pressed his hands to the table and leaned forward, squinting at the street, gaze locked on the man and the kid, hands balled into fist. Why wasn't anyone seeing that? Why wasn't anyone doing something?
"Dean, hey." Sam prodded again, more forceful this time. "What is it?"
There was no concrete reason for the display of what was probably parental reprimand to seem like more than that, but it did. There was no reason for it all to seem off, but damn, it did.
Dean tried to shrug it off; chalk it up to a serious lack of sleep. That made sense. That, and the fact that this monster was targeting kids. The recent revelation of details surrounding the victims; the rape, the skinning... It just made sense; this job was making him jumpy.
"DEAN!"
Suddenly, Coveralls looked right at the coffee shop. And if Dean didn't know better, he'd have sworn the guy was looking right at him. Instinct took over and Dean knew, this was way more than what it appeared.
It was in that moment, when their gazes locked, that Dean felt that familiar prickle at the base of his skull. Then, a slow, taunting grin slid across Coverall's face.
Dean jerked his head back. "Oh, you gotta be kiddin' me," he murmured. It was either his imagination or Coverall's was openly challenging him?
There wasn't time to do more than wonder; Coveralls was on the move. With a shove that was a bit more than seemed necessary, the boy was gigged to move ahead of him, the kid's head down as he walked dejectedly away, but not very far. Coveralls followed closely behind. Too close.
Dean was moving. "Sam, I... I think I've got something," he said as he hastily pushed aside chairs, tables, nearly upended someone's coffee as he made for the door. Not once did his gaze shift from Coverall's and the kid as they moved away.
"Wait, you mean the case?" There was shuffling; obviously Sam was up, moving around the room quickly. "Tell me where you are, I'll meet you there."
"No time, he—" Dean jerked his head and corrected, "It's moving now, and it's got a kid."
"How can you be sure that's it?"
Dean bolted out the door. "I'm not, just…" he scanned the crowd across the street. Coveralls and the kid moved steadily away. "I gotta make sure."
"Not good enough, Dean," Sam insisted. "I got a bad feeling about this."
"Look," Dean waffled, at a loss how to explain a gut feeling, "stow your Spidey sense. Soon as I know something…," distracted, he stepped off the curb and into traffic to cross the street. A car honked as it swerved to avoid clipping him. Dean moved on. "I'll call you back."
"No, Dean, tell me where you are first."
"Um...," Dean turned left, right then looked up. A street sign stood directly overhead. "Coffee shop, Crescent and Maple," he said, then snapped the phone shut.
Weaving through the crowd, Dean managed a comfortable distance between himself and his mark, careful not to tip his hand. He hung back, cautious to avoid detection, but not so far he lost visual. It was a delicate line to tow, and required as much skill as it did luck.
Sure it felt like he was being lead, but Dean was certain of two things; one, no matter where this path lead him, once the trap sprung, he could manage to turn the tables and get back control. Two, the kid's reactions were far too real. Whatever game Coveralls was playing, the boy was not in on it. He was bait. The danger he was in was real whether Dean followed or not.
Still skill was one thing Dean had plenty of but luck, it appeared, was still not a Winchester trademark as Dean suddenly found himself bobbing and weaving more and more to avoid people in his path. Three times he felt his heart constrict, fearing he'd lost them, only to miraculously—or conveniently— get them back.
It struck him then; the crowds had gotten suddenly thicker, the masses converging upon the walks. Dean spared a quick glance at his watch. Lunch hour.
Shit.
Dean fought against the panic that quickened his step, urging him to run after the guy. On another front, he fought against the warning bells in his head, reminding him that he was being lead, but he tamped them down hard. Trap or no, there was the kid and no matter what, he couldn't let this thing, take another victim.
So he stayed cool and stayed the course.
Patience, Winchester, patience.
Patience, however, was depleted by the continuously growing number of bodies in between Dean and his prey. One second he could see the gray coveralls, and the next they were gone.
Heart in his throat, he drew to a halt and stared at the last place he'd seen them.
"Son of a bitch," Dean muttered, wide eyes bouncing around the crowded sidewalk.
.
.
~x~X~x~
.
.
After a mad scramble for clothes, the phone glued to his ear the entire time, Sam was out the door in a matter of minutes. Three times he'd hit the redial, three times he'd gotten Dean's voice mail, three times he swore he'd kick his brother's ass...the minute he knew Dean was okay.
"This is Dean Winchest-" Sam ended the call again. About to step off the curb, he stopped abruptly.
The parking space in front of their room was just as he'd anticipated; empty. Also, after a brief search of the room earlier, he'd found the car keys and the laptop gone too, both assuredly with Dean.
Shit.
Sam held the phone tight in his hand, clenching and unclenching the cell, having to stop himself from crushing the thing when he felt the mounting anxiety nearly overwhelm him.
Now wasn't the time for panic. Now was the time to think. Dean might well be in trouble and panic would only cloud his thoughts. Cause him to miss something important.
The pertinent information of their conversation rattled in his semi-congested head; downtown, a coffee shop and two street names: Crescent and Maple.
Getting to Crescent and Maple was one thing, navigating the city without direction, was another. And a whole host of other thing Sam didn't know, like which way had Dean gone when he'd took off? Had he gone on foot? Was it really a shapeshifter that Dean was hunting? Had he followed the thing into the sewers before it had time to skin another boy? What should Sam arm himself with? That brought about it's own issue; weapons.
Without the Impala's cache of weapons, Sam would be going in unarmed.
Well, that wasn't completely true, Sam remembered as he absentmindedly ran one hand over the left panel of his jacket. The blade, tucked safely in the inside pocket, pressed reassuringly back against the woven material. It was the same, long hunting knife Dean slept with under his pillow every night, the same one Dean had used on the werewolf back in Bakersfield.
When Sam had found it in the room, hidden under his own pillow, there had not been a doubt in his mind that Dean had left it for him. It was, after all, Dean's mandate that neither of them be without some kind of weapon at all times. Just in case.
Like now for instance. Just in case Dean got caught by something and Sam had to go after it alone.
Sam suddenly didn't feel very reassured. But, like it or not, the knife, and the sparse information Dean had mentioned before he'd hung up, was all Sam had to work with.
Some yuppie-assed coffee shop downtown… Dean's words echoed back in Sam's head and he looked at the city skyline to his right.
It was well after noon and the day was cool. In the distance, tall skyscrapers loomed, businesses and residences all mixed into one small patch of land, and among them, coffee shops. Hundreds of them, no doubt, especially when you factor in the university that sat smack dab in the city's center. All congested into one mass of people and places.
Sam looked at his phone again. A taxi could get him to Crescent and Maple fine, but knowing city's and the unlikelihood that Dean had followed in the Impala, Sam would need a way to navigate the hundreds of little streets and alleys in the area.
Sam, with a passion for big cities and an infallible internal compass, would need a map.
Dean, who found big city's noisy, tall and confusing, never could get his bearings straight. Between the tall buildings, masses of people and traffic.
Sam remembered the time they'd taken a job in Boston; Dean had bitched angrily about... pretty much everything. There was never any parking and what parking there was either too expensive or the spaces were too small for his baby to fit in comfortably. Sometimes both.
Then, there was the constant, nuts-to-butts traffic and the fucking wack-job drivers.
Mostly, Dean had seethed with indignation at the close proximity of the cars around him when he drove. The taxis darted out in front of him, bike messengers that zipped too close, narrowly missing his car with their handle bars, and when they'd stopped at a light, one had the balls to put his filthy hands on his baby's exterior and lean on her!
It had been all Sam could do to keep his brother in the car. When the cyclist took off, Dean had reached his limit. Sticking his head out the window he started yelling, "CHRISTO," at the top of his lungs at any car or bike messenger that dared to come too close.
Sam, on the other hand, liked it when they worked a job in the bigger cities. The chance to submerge himself in the big city lifestyle with its rapid pulse of constant movement, where the sections streets with their many buildings were long enough to be called blocks, and the commerce had more than one brand of everything; where he could actually find a place that sold books on more than one topic.
Angry and stiff legged, Sam stepped off the curb and stormed toward the motel registration office. They'd have a map, or if not, a computer he could maybe find a map and print.
Jaw tight with frustration, and fear he fumed quietly over a brother who constantly and willingly put himself in harm's way. Armed with a knife and a plan now, he'd get downtown. He'd pick up Dean's trail. Failure wasn't an option.
First things first— get to Crescent and Maple. That brought about another advantage to big cities; public transportation.
The phone was back at his ear as he listened for the operator to pick up the line. Tossing a quick, worried glance at the distant city, he swore, if a taxi didn't work, he'd run there if he had to.
Either way, he'd find that dumbass, reckless brother of his.
.
.
~x~X~x~
.
.
Luck in the Winchester world was a fickle bitch in the best of times, but determination was definitely a genetic trait and Dean came about in spades. Playing heavily on that, he glanced haphazardly down the street and shot recklessly across.
It was close. Car's honked and people shouted but Dean had moves and he was fast. He dodged and lurched without a seconds hesitation.
Once across, he slowed, and moved carefully through the crowds. Lifting on his toes, Dean strained to catch sight of either the thing or maybe the kid, or any kind of disruption from the crowd that might signify they'd gone that way. He'd hate to admit it, but there were times when Sam's freakishly tall frame came in handy.
Coverall's handling of the boy had grown increasingly physical, insistent. He'd nearly shoved the boy on more than one occasion.
That further solidified Dean's earlier assessment and instinct; whatever trap lay in wait, the kid wasn't in on it. His reaction was too real. Too external.
But what really brought a bitter taste of bile to Dean's mouth was the fact that the kid was being used to trap him. Whatever attention Dean had drawn to himself during his investigation, this thing was on to him, and the kid was in danger because Dean had slipped up. He couldn't have that.
Kids were Dean's weak spot. He understood them. Knew how to read them. Like Lucas in Lake Manitowoc, Wisconsin; Dean had known the kid had been through more than just the ordeal of seeing his Dad die, not that that hadn't been enough, but Dean had known how to reach out to him. Earn his trust.
Maybe it was due to the years he'd spent raising Sam. Or, maybe it was as Sam had said, Dean's own trauma of seeing their mother burn. Either way, Dean, strangely enough, connected with kids.
"C'mon… c'mon, be there…" Dean implored softly, eyes scanning the area, shifting from side to side, searching.
Then, as if fate heard his plea, the crowd parted like the Red Sea and there they were. Coveralls and the kid, clutched in front of him.
In that moment, time seemed to freeze. Coverall's gave an ever so slight nod downward. Concerned, Dean did as he bid; his gaze traveled downward and stopped.
The kid, the back of his collar fisted in his captor's hand, stared back. Terror resonated in his large blue eyes, silently pleading, begging for help. The boy's mouth opened in a soundless scream, throat frozen in fear. Coveralls other hand came around slowly, overly large in comparison to the small boy. It squeezed slowly on the side of the boy's neck.
The display was the message and the monster's message was clear; look how easily I could break his neck.
Dean snapped his eyes back up angrily. The monster grinned wider.
Dean's hands balled into fists,. They itched to pull his gun and just shoot the thing here. Now. Itched to feel the monster's flesh break under his knuckles. But he couldn't. Couldn't risk hitting an innocent bystander with a bullet. Couldn't risk the monster breaking the boy's neck before Dean could reach him.
The realization was paralyzing and Dean felt his face flush with rage; felt his resolve harden like steel, ominous and dangerous in his own right. He silently issued a challenge of his own, resolute and determined. He was going to get that kid. Now.
Events sped back up. The crowd surged, captor and captive disappeared in the masses once again.
"Sonofa …," Dean bolted, anxiously pushing through the crowd. He broke just in time to see Coveralls spin on his heel, both adult and youth disappearing around a corner.
Dean didn't think; he just shot forward. Eating up the distance, he reached under his jacket and pulled his gun, moved it close to his side, pointed down. In a span of time that seemed to take far too long, he arrived where the two had vanished. Cutting a hard right, he stuttered to a stop.
It was an alley. An empty alley.
Eyes adjusting to the dimness, Dean trotted down the shadow-darkened corridor. Certain this was the path they'd taken, he shifted the familiar handle of his Colt 1911 into a double grip, senses alert, moving forward carefully. The air was cooler here, yet it did nothing to sooth his racing pulse.
The place was completely trashed. Boxes everywhere, bottles, broken glass, newspapers all littered the ground beneath his feet.
They had to be here somewhere... but where? Looking right and left, he searched this box and that, kicked trash out of his way, looking for some hidden underground exit, a shapeshifter's favorite escape route.
Finding none, he continued along the doors lining the alley. He turned that door knob and kicked the one next to it, then the one across from it. He moved faster down the row of exits and entrances to the buildings.
Nothing.
"You gotta be kiddin' me…," Dean muttered in quiet desperation, eyes darting all around, hoping he'd missed something.
Then he saw it; a large dumpster. Dean closed the distance at a run then jumped the last three feet, grabbed the top and heaved himself up to gaze inside.
Again, nothing.
"Son of a…," Dean dropped to the ground, dejected. He looked around anxiously, then deflated. He'd lost them.
"Dammit," Dean muttered, feeling rage at his failure take hold and coil in his gut. Guilt added fuel for yet another life he hadn't saved. A kid's life. Then it exploded, "FUCK ME!"
"We'll see about that," a voice taunted from behind.
Dean spun.
Half way around something slammed into the side of his head. White flashed behind his eyelids, then gray.
There was a sense of falling down. Then darkness.
.
.
,
~x~X~x~
TBC