Chapter 4: A Bit of Light Reading
"A fat lot of good your rotten plants did!"
Somewhere in Dis, there was a Duke of hell, and he was very distinctly not happy. He was also currently shouting at Alastair, who was already envisioning said Duke upon something comfortable, like a damn rack.
"There! He escapes! Unscathed!" Hastur spat, replaying the security footage (CCTV was, in fact, an invention of hell) for what felt like the hundredth time. Once again a panicking Crowley could be seen madly dashing out of the door, scrambling into his car and then taking off as fast as he could, very much alive and very much in one piece.
"That shouldn't have happened. There was something weakening the plants. Something unprecedented that killed off demonic energy," Alastair protested, sounding just a tad bit defensive.
"Nonsense!" Hastur snapped, "The only power in London that possesses ways to counter Hell is that poofy angel, and he hasn't done any smiting in decades. Unfortunately, Crowley seems to continue to elude him," the Duke grumbled, before adding: "Anyway, that heavenly pest wasn't even anywhere close to the plant store when something killed your creatures. Hey. Are you listening?"Hastur barked at Alastair, but the chief torturer of hell only continued to ignore him. Instead, something on the security footage seemed to have caught his attention and the human demon was now staring at the grainy black and white picture while the edges of his mouth seemed to be going ever further down.
"Oh fer Chrissakes..."
"What?" asked Hastur.
Alastair looked at his boss and Hastur got the impression that the chief torturer was currently trying very hard to keep his voice even. Above his eye, there was a funny little muscle twitching.
Alastair took another breath.
"If I said, 'those fucking Winchesters', would it mean anything to you?"
xxx
The bell tinkled as the younger one of those (currently not fucking) Winchesters stepped into the book store, carefully tucking his head in as he passed the doorway because of Tall People Problems.
Dean had said he wanted to go looking for what he still believed was a demon, while Sam, who thought they might be facing something else, had suggested going and studying the lore about what would potentially have snake-like eyes and be weak to holy water. A call to Bobby's had resulted in a) grumbling about why 'you two idjits can't even get the damn shopping right without stepping into a freaking case' and b) the advice of hitting up some of London's antique book dealers. As far as he knew, Bobby had said, their collection of old, rare books on lore and mythology was among the top five in the world. And as far as first impressions went, Sam thought, their friend just might have been right.
He took a few steps inside the old, dusty second-hand book store he had found in Soho, a bit off from the street where most of the other book dealers had been, and could already say that he was impressed. The shelves were creaky, worn and cluttered and seemed to follow no system of organization known to man, but still the (vaguely recognizable) section containing the books Sam was looking for was huge. The younger Winchester had never particularly studied anything about antique book prices, but even he could tell that some of these bible editions were incredibly rare and valuable. After only half an hour of browsing, Sam had already found works with more knowledge in them than he'd ever dreamed of.
The owner just didn't seem like he would let Sam buy anything.
"Hello. I'd like to get these."
"Uh...no."
"Excuse me?" Sam asked. That wasn't exactly the kind of answer you would expect in a shop. He had carried a stack of books relating to mythology of hell and beasts, and an interesting edition of the bible containing several additional chapters in the Revelation section, over to the desk with the old till the store owner sat at. But now there seemed to be some sort of problem with the next logical step.
"I can pay," Sam assured the man.
The book store owner, a Mr. Zira Fell by his name plaque at the door, seemed to squirm a little. Sam estimated the educated but awkward-looking man with the curly blonde hair, plaid vest and brown tweed pants to be probably middle-aged, a slight belly pudge attesting what 40-odd years of reading books and eating scones would probably do to you. At the moment, Sam would have judged Fell to be 1) British, 2) probably intelligent, and 3) gayer than a tree full of monkeys on nitrogen oxide (although he wasn't really sure where his brain had gotten that last comparison from).
Also, for some reason this financial transaction seemed to be physically painful for him.
"Oh, that's an accent you have there, isn't it? You're from the New World, I suppose?" the owner asked, almost sounding a little bit hopeful at his question. "In that case I'm very sorry, I can't take those plastic cards you people pay with."
"It's...fine. I do have cash. We do use that in America," Sam said slowly, even though this conversation was starting to take on the slightly bizarre flavour that was usually associated with trying to explain anything about pop culture or modern technology to Castiel.
Had that guy just called the US the 'New World'?
"But...those books are really expensive," Fell said. "Not worth your money, honestly."
"What?" Sam blinked.
"Oh, and they're really boring, too."
"Okay, this is a book store, right?" Sam asked, tone now increasingly incredulous.
"Look, you don't want those!" Fell seemed almost desperate at this point. "See here," he said, "these are much more entertaining works for boys your age."
With a hasty swipe, the owner had grabbed a book from a case that had newer-looking titles with much brighter colours that also looked a lot less...(well, Fell had a point there, boring) than the rest of the bookshop's inventory. The contrast of this single case with everything else was jarring, almost as if someone entirely different from the owner had added it on a whim. Now Fell was all but thrusting the book he held into Sam's face.
"Look, this one has all sorts of fantastical creatures in it, too!"
The younger Winchester's heart sank. He didn't even need to look at the cover with the two muscular men that had for some reason lost their shirts and seemed to staring at him with come-hither eyes to know which title the owner had grabbed.
"Sorry," Sam said with a grimace. "Not a big fan of Supernatural."
Why on Earth had these goddamn books even made it across the pond?
xxx
Some time earlier and a few miles away, a black Bentley had been speeding toward central London, its driver just slightly upset and barely able to concentrate on Mozart's We are the Champions.
What had just happened?
Absent-mindedly, Crowley stopped the car and materialized himself new sunglasses while the tears in his suit simultaneously mended. The demon's fingers were gripping the steering wheel of the Bentley much more tightly than necessary. The area he had randomly parked his car in was the same where he had had breakfast this morning, which was perhaps his mind subconsciously hoping they could just start the day again without homicidal flora this time. Behind him, somebody honked angrily at Crowley, probably because the demon was completely blocking the narrow side street with his Bentley, but he didn't care. The person doing the honking wouldn't start honking again soon, anyway, mostly because his horn wouldn't work anymore and when he'd open up the front of the car to check why, he'd find out this was because the motor of his Mercedes had mysteriously turned into an enraged bobcat.
A few moments later Crowley found that the screams of the human behind him and the yowls of the feline were already working on calming his nerves.
Okay. The demon crossed his arms and sank back into the drivers seat. What could it have been? Demonic for sure. He had to admit, the holy water didn't really make sense, but if this had been Aziraphale's side at work, there would have been a lot more direct smiting (and a lot more righteous asshattery). Demons, then. Could it have been a simple prank? Or something more sinister? Crowley knew that hell and especially Hastur weren't especially fond of him. But...even if the power level suggested a Duke of hell or even something higher, this wasn't exactly Hastur's style. It was almost...human-level kind of imaginative.
Crowley's eyes narrowed. Should he tell Aziraphale about this? If this wasn't Hastur, he should be able to deal with it himself. If this was the Duke, however...
Crowley turned the key in the ignition again. The Bentley sprang to life.
This was his city. He wouldn't run as long as he didn't know for certain that this was indeed Hastur and not some other demon upstart. Perhaps later he'd tell Aziraphale about it, but right now, decision made, hell's field agent looked at the driver that had previously honked at him and now was begging a feral bobcat not to widdle all over his expensive laptop, and decided he felt like a cupcake and a chai.
xxx
Back in the book shop, Sam was still being proffered the horrible paperback, though he avoided looking at it. The covers had started out not resembling him or Dean at all, but, creepily, somehow the godawful illustration artist seemed to be catching on now. What had began as basically shirtless Conan the Barbarian and Rambo, Vampire Hunter, lounging on, over and around the Impala had gradually come to actually resemble Sam and Dean themselves. Sadly, their habit to usually walk around fully clothed still seemed to have bypassed the artist's accuracy entirely.
(Dean had remarked that any hunter walking around topless and in skin tight jeans was probably either weaponless or carrying their concealed weapons in their arse. Sam had pointed out that to most people believable realism and attention to practical detail were maybe not the main selling points of Supernatural. Dean had replied that in that case, the next time he was doing some sort of pin-up pose on the cover he would like to store some weapons in the illustrator's arse and Sam had declared the topic closed).
The younger Winchester grimaced and looked back at the face of the equally unhappy-looking book seller again. The man had curious light blue eyes, he noticed, their gaze like a strange juxtaposition of kindness and at the same time an impression that if you looked deeper you would find steel, or possibly fire. And they looked old...
Sam shook his head just slightly and broke the eye contact, suddenly irrationally worried that this guy could maybe also read minds.
He licked his lips. Maybe honesty would work.
"I'm sorry, I really need these books. Please. It's...important," he finished somewhat lamely, but at least Fell looked like he believed that Sam was telling the truth.
If only he wasn't also looking like Sam had just told him he had just run out of puppies to kick and was now moving on to baby penguins.
"Or..." the younger Winchester took a breath. "If it's alright, maybe I could just copy some pages instead?"
And it was like a little sun had just risen in the book store.
"Why, certainly! I'll get you some paper right away." Fell had instantly cheered up and curiously seemed to lighten the whole shop with it. "There's a table in the back you could work on," he said, indicating a rickety wooden construction through a small door. "Would you like a cup of tea?"
"Er." Sam said. "I was more thinking of...you wouldn't have a photocopier? Or a...scanner...?" He trailed off as he slowly, gradually seemed to realize that there was only one piece of electronic equipment in the store, and it was a PC that looked like it might have been used during the moon landing.
The book store owner blinked at him. "Have a what, dear?"
Oh, brother.
xxx
For some people, finding a single (even if possibly demonic) individual in the city of London when you had no name, no address and no personal info whatsoever about them, might have seemed an impossibility. But these people weren't hunters, and even more specifically, weren't Dean Winchester.
The older of the two brothers was currently walking along the street where he and Sam had earlier sat down for breakfast before this day had started to literally go to hell. Dean was currently also trying to recall everything he could about the creature he had glimpsed so briefly in the flower shop. He thought it had been a dark-haired, slim figure in a tight-fitted suit, caucasian and European-looking, but perhaps a slightly darker skin tone than he or Sam. Dean exhaled, his hands touching the fake FBI ID in his pocket out of habit, even if he wasn't sure whether that one would even be useful at all here.
Where was a James Bond licence when you needed one?
Dean looked around, eyes searching for the café they had fled from earlier today. He was a bit wary of being recognized, but he thought he remembered now that the Bentley had been parked there earlier. Maybe the base of the demon or whatever it was could be found around here.
Then he froze. Because the Bentley was still there. Or more likely, there again. The older Winchester's eyes quickly roved over his surroundings, methodically and efficiently. Someone or something closeby was giving him the creeps. Was he being watched? It didn't feel like it, but somewhere...somewhere around here there had to be...
Green eyes narrowed.
There.
On the other side of the street. Him.
Dean instinctively stepped back into a house entrance, watching the figure while his mind was racing as he tried to work out what he should do next. The (probable) demon, still wearing the same meatsuit as he had in the shop, was striding down the street and now seemed to have stopped in front of a small cake shop. He looked around. Dean tensed.
And then grew increasingly confused as the assumed demon reached into his pocket to produce a coin and a tube of what seemed to be glue, and then went to stick said coin to the pavement floor.
"What." Dean said aloud.
xxx
Sam's head was slowly, but surely, developing that specific headache that suggested if he had to read yet another book on lore, he was going to set something on fire. But he couldn't stop now. He had found accounts of...something in London. And elsewhere. But he wasn't quite sure what, exactly. Sometimes it was called a Serpent. Sometimes a demon. Dean had said something about snake eyes, hadn't he? A snake demon, then? Sam groaned. Neither of the Winchesters had ever encountered anything but demons that were just human souls twisted over hellfire – nothing but "ghosts with an ego" as Dean had put Crowley down once. The younger Winchester worked on, scribbling on the paper the book shop owner had given him, occasionally cross-checking things on his phone. He just wished half of the pages of supernatural activity in London wouldn't eventually start talking about aliens and some sort of phonebox.
xxx
15 minutes. It had been fifteen minutes, and Dean was starting to get cold.
The potential demon, on the other hand, wearing sunglasses for no reason in the middle of winter, was sitting cozy-warm between the charcoal heaters of the cake shop outdoor tables and eating a muffin. And snickering every time someone tried and failed to pick up the freaking coin he had glued to the floor. A woman was at the moment having a go, scrabbling at the thing before realizing that it was glued on and impossible to pick up, and then seemed to pretend to have been trying to tie her shoe the whole time. Another pedestrian not paying attention tripped over her while she was kneeling and gave an angry exclamation, to which the kneeling woman spat something equally vitriolic back at her. It ended with both women stalking off angrily, and the demon in the café now giggling into his girly foam tea thing.
Dean currently thought he couldn't believe this.
xxx
"Tea, dear?"
"Oh. Thank you," Sam replied, pleasantly surprised as the steaming mug was sat down beside him by the strange owner. He sniffed at it briefly, and then took a cautious sip. It was actually really nice.
"You're welcome." Fell smiled at him mildly. "It's nice when boys your age know how to enjoy a good cup of tea nowadays," he said, somewhat absent-mindedly patting Sam on the head as he disappeared with the tray again.
The younger Winchester blinked.
All his clothes had gotten drenched today. He was down to wearing his FBI suit. Men in suits did not get patted.
Least of all not by other men, and also, no one but Ellen or Bobby had called him 'boy' in a while and the book store owner looked younger than both of those two. Sam was approaching thirty, for Heaven's sake. Just how old compared to him did this book store owner think he was?
xxx
Instead of standing around and being cold in a house entrance, Dean Winchester was now standing around and being cold in a park. The older of the two brothers did not think of this situation as a vast improvement.
"Hey. The geese are flying low over Moscow."
Mostly because this particular park also seemed to be inhabited by a collection of absolutely raving lunatics.
"Piss. Off," Dean growled at the man in the trench coat (that so sadly wasn't Cas) and the stranger flinched and scrambled back through the bushes that he had come from. Dean grunted and turned back toward observing his target again.
What was this guy planning?
After he had finished his snack at the cake shop, the man in the black suit had stood up and started ambling away, leaving the coin glued to the floor. Dean had decided to follow him, even if he only did that because he couldn't really come up with anything else. The (probable) demon hadn't demonstrated any particular hellish demeanour yet, apart from the ridiculous coin prank and now apparently leaving the café without paying (judging from the angry gasp of the waitress soon after). But, even if possibly demonically motivated, a dine-and-dash wasn't exactly an action that warranted Ruby's knife between the ribs. And besides, it wasn't even like Dean would have had any opportunity to do that, even if he had wanted to. From where he had found the guy at the cake shop, all the way to the park Dean had trailed him to, everywhere had been crawling with people and CCTV cameras.
Europe, and in particular London, was just too. Damn. Crowded.
And now they had been here in this way-too-busy park for what felt like another eternity, the demon trying to call someone on his cell phone and, going by his annoyed expression only getting the voice mail. Dean was watching him standing at the lake while he himself had hung back in the few trees. A few ducks had gathered around the demon expectantly, and were now quacking excitedly at his feet - again, this wasn't exactly helpful when you were trying to prove to yourself that the thing you were looking at was a satanic abomination. The man in the black suit had tried to shoo the ducklings insisting on sitting on his feet off, but was now apparently resigned to his fate. As was Dean. And so the minutes had passed, with one demon getting molested by ducks and one hunter by strange men in trenchcoats, waiting for whatever person said demon was trying to reach and somehow Dean couldn't help but think this was the worst monster hunt he had ever been on. He hadn't even managed to catch a second, proper glimpse of the thing's eyes since they were now covered by the sunglasses. Absolutely brilliant.
"Sssh. At what time does the narwhal-?"
"God dammit!"
It was a fact unbeknownst to Dean Winchester, but the particular duck pond he was standing nearby actually also had a history of being a convenient meeting spot for agents of various organizations. Unfortunately, that also meant that someone else was trying to ascertain whether the confused and increasingly ticked-off hunter was their secret contact every ten minutes.
"Yeah, you better run. Freak," Dean grunted after the rapidly retreating figure of the latest one, and then turned back to survey his target again.
Where there now only was a demon-shaped hole in the air and some confused ducks.
"Son of a bitch!"
To be continued...
New season of SPN has started! And first episode was already fantastic :D Plus, was recently at a convention, and even though it was anime-themed, you at times almost couldn't move without bumping into a Castiel. Gotta love fandom. Hope you liked, and if you read, please review! :D
