SEVEN
The Part With Fall-Out and Take-Out
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Sam shuffled them both into the motel room, keeping Dean's arm tight round his neck as he walked them in. Apart from repeating the same song over and over in quiet, breathy verses to himself, Dean had appeared mostly oblivious of the drive back and his brother's attempts to snap him out of whatever haze had descended upon him.
Sam slammed the door with his foot, walking Dean over to the bed and guiding him round. Dean flumped down to sit, and Sam swallowed before going to the duffle behind him. He rooted through it quickly until he found what he wanted and pulled it free. He walked back round the bed to find Dean had put his hands to the mattress either side of him, his eyes still wide and wild, his lips still mouthing the song with a tiny whisper of tune. He started to rock backwards and forwards slightly as Sam crouched in front of him.
"Dean," he said gently. There was no response, and Sam swallowed his fear. He put a hand out to his elbow, interrupting his faint rocking. "Dean. You want a drink?"
He brandished the bottle in Dean's line of sight, shaking it slightly. Dean's gaze appeared to focus on the flashing liquid. He turned his head unhurriedly to look at it properly. He stopped rocking and whispering. He lifted his right hand slowly, taking the heavy bottle.
Sam bit his lip, watching Dean's hands shake as he put his free hand to the lid. But then he paused, looking down at it and letting his face take on a slightly angry air.
He lifted his hand suddenly and hurled the bottle across the room. Sam ducked instinctively. The bottle smashed spectacularly in the far corner. He put his hands out to Dean's arms, alarmed.
"What the hell?" he demanded, unprepared. But he saw Dean's eyes blink and then swivel to look at him.
"It don't change anything," he muttered apologetically. Half of his face made an attempt at a guilty, compunctious smile, but the other side could not raise the spirit. "I just wake up with a head worse than before," he offered, his breath shaking on its way in and out. "Don't change what I see. Don't change what I remember. Don't change a goddamn thing," he asserted quietly.
Sam let go of his arms, nodding dully. They looked at each other for a long moment. At last Dean cleared his throat, gesturing to the other bed with his right hand.
"Let me sleep, Sammy."
"Seriously?"
"Leave me alone." He paused, not looking up. "Just… for a while."
"Ok," he allowed, getting to his feet. He opened his mouth to ask, to check, to let him know he would wait all night if he needed something, anything. But he couldn't make a sound.
He stared down at his big brother, watching the barely discernible shaking of his frame shift the relaxed and whispy strands of fringe in tiny, negligible quivers. The way his hair had fallen flat suddenly put Sam in mind of a dark night and jumping off a bridge to avoid being mowed down by the Impala, apparently driving itself. He suddenly felt the weight of all the time - and experience - that had pressed down on them both since those days of innocent spirit burning and father-hunting.
Dean looked up at him finally, his face a study in raging embarrassment. Sam almost jumped, realising he had lost track of time and space.
"I'll be alright. I've had my nutso-episode, I'll be fine," Dean said lamely.
Sam took a step back with obvious doubt. "If you say so."
"I say so."
"Fine."
"Good."
"Good."
"Fine," Dean managed. He leaned an elbow on his knee, letting his head sink into his palm before scrubbing it through his hair. He felt his mouth go dry and got up abruptly. Sam moved back and away, watching him go into the bathroom.
He breathed out a sigh of relief, walking round to the farther bed and unzipping his duffle, looking for his favourite t-shirt to sleep in. For some reason, I feel like some continuity tonight.
He paused in his searching as he heard unpleasant gagging noises from the bathroom, and realised his brother was suffering a few physical side-effects of the evening after all.
The image of his brother's crazed stare came back to him again and he closed his eyes on purpose, rubbing at them as if to clear the picture. He managed to get shot of them, hearing his brother empty himself of all the alcohol and any food he may have squeezed in recently, in what sounded like very grateful vomiting.
He'll need proper breakfast, Sam sniffed, as taps ran and toilets flushed. He stripped and dressed for bed, rolling everything up and pushing it into his duffle before sliding under his covers. He turned on his side, looking away from the bathroom door, waiting for the sound of the taps and toothbrushes to stop. It did, but then it was quiet for a long time.
Eventually the door opened and the light of the main room went out. The sudden darkness covered a lot of rustling, slight bumps and shoves on the other bed. The springs moved around on Dean's bed and then it all fell silent.
Sam's eyes, wide open and trying desperately to grow accustomed to the pitch, began to make out the shape of the room. He waited, hearing his brother squirm around under his blankets. At last he stopped. Sam sat up slowly, drawing his knees up and putting his arms round them. He pulled his pillows up behind him, angled them to keep him slouched forty-five degrees from his headboard, and got comfortable. He let his eyes settle on the back of his brother's head.
He watched.
It was silent for an eternity. Then Dean's head turned slightly, as if to see over his shoulder in the darkness.
"Sammy?" he breathed.
He hesitated, almost afraid to answer. But he did, even though it came out as a whisper. "Yeah?"
"Your singing sucks," Dean gruffed. Then his head fell back to the pillow comfortably.
Sam smiled in pure relief. He let out a long breath and pulled his blankets up around his neck warmly. He tightened his hold around his shins and got comfortable against the headboard.
He watched.
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Sam pushed the motel room door open with his foot carefully, manoeuvring the take-out bags and cups with him. He walked in and shoved his trainer in the door to stop it slamming shut behind him. Instead he leaned for the table under the window, putting the bags down before turning and closing the door as silently as he could.
He crept back to the table, watching the immobile lump under the blankets cautiously. He picked up the bags and stole round to the small nightstand in between the beds, putting them down as quietly as possible. He peeled off his jacket and dumped it behind him on his bed, leaning over and opening a bag with care. He pulled out the cardboard box inside and a napkin, placing one on top of the other. The gorgeous smell of freshly-baked bread wafted round the room and Sam smiled to himself. He reached past the bag and picked up the coffee, taking off the lid. He got up and leaned over his still sleeping brother, waving it over his head slowly. The smell of the hot coffee filled the room in an instant.
Sam put it down hurriedly, turning and snatching up the empty bag, balling it up and throwing it into the waste paper bin by his feet. He grabbed the magazine on the floor as he heard a familiar groan. He threw himself at his bed, crossed his ankles, and ripped the magazine open. He blinked at it and turned it in his hands to get it the right way up just as Dean's head lifted slowly from deep within his pillow.
Eyes screwed up in apparent intolerance of the morning light, hair stuck up in very amusing pseudo-crop circles, he wheezed something in protest as he turned his head and let it slap back into the warm cotton of the pillow case. Sam waited, knowing the coffee fumes would soon begin to work their magic through sheer osmosis.
Dean pushed his left arm out from under the blankets. He turned onto his back with the enthusiasm of a thirteen year old on a school morning and put the heels of both hands in his eyes, scrubbing as if they needed screwing back in. He let his hands drop to the top edge of the mattress behind his head and took a good hold of it, stretching right down through his toes and sounding very comfortable. He turned his head, let the side of his face lean on his arm, and simply closed his eyes again.
"Morning," Sam said, sounding bored.
"Mmm," Dean agreed. His eyes blinked open again. "Is that coffee?"
"What does it smell like?" Sam shrugged in a pre-occupied voice, eyes on the magazine. There was a long silence. "Dude," he warned.
"Mmm."
"It's going cold."
"Mmm."
"So's the bagel."
"Bagel?" Dean prompted, his eyes opening again. His head rolled round to look at the ceiling and he took a big sniff. "Bagel," he repeated, this time sounding very pleased. He pushed himself to sit up, leaning back against the headboard and putting his arm out. He picked up the box, opening the lid. "Bagel!"
His enthusiastic tone of voice forced Sam into a private smile but he concentrated on the magazine. Dean put his hand in and pulled out the savoury item, breathing in the very welcome aroma. He looked at his brother slowly.
"Where did you get this?" he asked, putting his other hand up and beginning to tear at it.
"I didn't."
"Yeah right. So where did it come from? The Bagel Fairy?"
"House-keeping," Sam sighed, bored. "It's an amazing invention, Dean. You pick up the phone, ask them nicely, and they bring you stuff."
"Oh," Dean admitted, sounding surprised. "Oh."
"What?" Sam asked, looking over at him. "You don't think I actually got out of bed early on purpose, took your car and went hunting for a shop that sells cinnamon and raison bagels with apple chips in them, just cos I know you like 'em more than even candy?" he scoffed.
"Pssshhhtt! No," Dean protested quickly, with more defensive pout than an entire Olympic basketball team facing imminent drugs-testing. "Like you'd waste your time doing that. Seriously," he scoffed.
Sam looked back at the magazine. "They do good coffee here, too," Sam muttered.
Dean put down his bagel to reach for the hot drink. His head tilted slightly as he studied the cup, then he just shrugged and took a sip.
"Careful, it's--"
"Argh! Fuc--"
"Easy!"
"--od's sake," Dean finished, and Sam turned and blinked large, owlish eyes at him. Dean simply licked at his upper lip in pain. Then he hesitated. "Sam," he said slowly.
"Yes, Dean."
"Why do House-keeping use Starbuck's cups?" he asked innocently.
Sam sighed. "I have no idea, Dean," he said wearily. "Maybe their machine's broken and they sent out for it."
"Right," Dean nodded, before taking another careful sip. His eyes fell on the bagel box. "So they send out for bagels, too? Why would they get them from a shop way over on the other side of town?"
Sam tossed him a look that he could have used to win at poker. "I don't know, Dean. Look, it's a bagel, not an alien autopsy video. I hardly think there's a conspiracy going on here."
"Right," Dean allowed, putting down the coffee. He picked up his bagel again and tore it in half. "Hey, Sam," he called. Sam looked at him and he flung half of his breakfast at him. Sam caught it hurriedly and looked back at him with complete and utter well-crafted innocence. "Your tip, Bagel Fairy," Dean said sweetly.
Sam let out a guilty smile and Dean chuckled as he watched Sam stick his gratuity in his mouth, picking up the magazine again. Dean bit into the bagel to test it before obviously finding it to his satisfaction.
Sam waited nervously until he had wolfed down what was left of the breakfast and his coffee. "So… Do you know something that could help us here?" he asked carefully.
Dean cast him a glance as he yanked back the covers and remembered he had shucked all his clothes bar shorts the night before. He looked around for clean towels. "Like whut?"
"Like… what that thing was that threw me down the stairs," he said lightly.
Dean froze and Sam's head came up from the magazine quickly. He watched him with a wariness born of fear and sympathy.
But Dean pushed himself to swing his legs over the side of the bed slowly. He cleared his throat, not meeting his brother's gaze.
"Not a thing," he managed. "I mean, I didn't actually look at - look at - the thing," he admitted, and Sam noticed a little red come to his cheeks. "I kinda smelt it and… well, you were there," he muttered.
"Lucky I was," he said pointedly.
"Yeah," Dean sniffed. He got to his feet, heading for the bathroom and the towels hung outside it. "I won't be long."
"Good."
The bathroom door closed and it went quiet. Sam sniffed to himself, but when it remained quiet minute after minute, he looked up at the door. He opened his mouth, about to call out, but bit his lip instead.
Presently the door opened again and Dean's head appeared slowly through the gap. "Ah… Sam?" he managed quietly, not looking directly at him.
"Yeah."
"You clean up the whisky I tossed for the fifty-yard line, too?"
"Yeah."
"Oh." His head withdrew through the door and it closed.
Sam went back to his magazine. The door opened up a crack and again, his elder brother poked his head out.
"Sam?"
"Yeah."
"Thanks."
"Whatever."
"Right."
Dean closed the door again and within a minute Sam heard the water start in the shower.
Then he let himself smile.
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"So run this past me again?" Dean asked, stabbing a fork in the sausage and lifting it from the plate.
"All we know is, he turns into something - probably after he's snacked on some homeless person - and then runs off into the night to kill a hunter," he shrugged. "And that is the sum total of our progress."
Dean vacuumed the piece of sausage from his fork, chewing it noisily as Sam picked up his diner coffee. Dean sniffed, swallowing the food and spearing another piece.
"And we know it started a few weeks ago. So we have a fresh one this morning? Early hours, like the others?" he asked.
"Yup. Just before four a.m., according to the news site," Sam confirmed.
"So who's this morning's newest stiff?" he asked, shovelling more sausage into his mouth.
"Just… slow down there, will you?" Sam urged, eyeing the way the large sausage chunks were being hoovered up by his brother.
"Why?" Dean asked with his mouth full.
"Sausages choke people," Sam said flatly.
"And apparently, hunger kills," Dean smiled knowingly. But he did manage to pause long enough to pick up his coffee. "The stiff?"
"One Ennio Batholo," he said, raising his eyebrows.
Dean coughed on his breakfast instantly and Sam look on with fear. But Dean was already swallowing and sipping at his coffee to wash it down. He took another mouthful and set his cup down.
"Ennio Batholo?" he pressed. Sam nodded, and Dean's eyes went round their sockets like pinballs. "Get Dad's journal."
"Don't tell me," Sam groaned.
"He knew him," Dean nodded, holding his hand out for the book. Sam produced it from his pile of papers and Dean leafed through it quickly. He stopped and turned the book around, sliding it over the glass diner table to his younger brother. "There."
"They worked together once? Just the once? Doing what?" he muttered, surprised, his eyes glued to the page.
"Read on," Dean said heavily.
Sam looked up at him, sensed the discomfort, and flicked his eyes back down to the hand-written notes.
"'Batholo says they get into you by sensing grief. It's like a crack that they slip through'," he read quietly. "'The host may not even know, except after the thing has eaten someone and/or left trophies in the place it uses to hide'." He raised his eyes. "Sure sounds like Matthew."
"I'm guessing he was pretty cut up about his mom dying," Dean nodded. "I'm guessing Matthew's been jumped by this son of a bitch, and now it's making its way down the list of hunters in this burg."
"And it's gotten the list from Matthew's contacts?"
"That's what I'd do," Dean shrugged. Sam pouted in thought, looking down the rest of the notes.
"So… Dad killed one of these things. Him and Batholo. Now this one is coming round to get revenge? On anyone that's ever killed one?"
"Could be," Dean shrugged. "Question is, what exactly is it, and how do we kill it?"
"That's two questions," Sam smiled. But he looked down at the book, reading. He tutted suddenly, leafing back and forth a few pages.
"Whut?"
"There's a page missing," he huffed. "Could have been the one with the date, the progress notes, pictures, descriptions, lore, you know, the important page."
"Well don't be looking at me - you're the one who guards it with his life," Dean shrugged, going for more sausage. He snagged an entire pork example and it disappeared into his mouth faster than sugar in coffee.
"So how can we work out who it's gunning for next? Then at least we have a chance at stopping it."
"Any hunters left in town?" Dean hazarded. "Cos I'm bettin' their name's on the gallows 'Coming Soon' poster."
"I can call Bobby, see if he knows anyone left around here."
"Super," Dean nodded, jabbing his fork into the last sausage and wolfing it down. Sam just watched, then shook his head. "Be nice if Bosun could show up. Then we might explain a few things. Must make him feel better to know his son's not exactly the murderer he thinks he is."
"Yeah," Sam conceded. "Ah… We might have a problem here," he added quietly, paging backwards and forwards again.
"Whut now?"
"Well… It doesn't say how they killed it either," he stated, scratching his head.
"That's not like Dad."
"Yeah. Listen to this: 'It's dead. We got the son of a bitch. Touch and go for a while though - almost took Batholo's leg clean off, and he'll have to tell people it's a shark bite. He's ok now, but I don't think he'll get much sleep for a few years'. What does that mean?" he mused.
"Who knows?" Dean sighed. He pushed his fork into the mountain of scrambled egg on his plate, scraping it all up with repeated, happy chomping sounds.
Sam sat back, folding his arms. "How anyone can get so much happiness from food I'll never know," he teased.
"Well hey, I was dead for four months. I missed my proper breakfasts," he smiled.
"Fair enough," Sam nodded. "So are we going to Agent-up and visit Sheriff Williams? Get the low-down on poor Mr Batholo and check for the usual signs?"
"Yup," Dean replied with a mouth half-full of grilled mushrooms. "Just gimme a minute."
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"Thanks there, Sheriff," Dean said politely, shaking hands. Williams nodded, pleased to be of service.
"Good to see you on your feet again, Agent McClane," he beamed. "Agent Riggs said you been under the weather recently."
Dean let his hands drop into his pockets, rocking on his heels as he cast Sam's shiny shoes a glance, a few feet behind him.
"Yeah well. All better now," he said pleasantly.
"Glad to hear it. Now anything else you want, you just gimme a call, you hear? I have to admit, having you two actually asking me for help is so much easier than having them FBI fellas breathing down my neck," he admitted.
"Well that's FBI for you," Dean grinned. "Be seein' you."
They nodded to each other and Dean turned smartly, walking straight past Sam and back toward the pavement. Sam's longer legs fell into step beside him and they walked in silence.
Once they were out of earshot, Sam cleared his throat.
"So poor Ennio Batholo was hanged, as per the MO. Cos he worked with Dad to gank one of these things?"
Dean put his hand inside his suit jacket slowly, pulling out a piece of paper. "You missed this little newsflash," he said, handing the piece to Sam. He read it slowly.
"Ennio Batholo bought something from Ray Spiegal - the first suspicious death?" he pondered. "He bought a book of original spellwork from him?" he added, reading the smudged invoice.
"My guess is these guys may be tighter than just fellow hunters," Dean observed. "Ray Spiegal sold him a book, perhaps with a spell to kill this thing. Dad worked with Ennio - obviously this thing is a little behind the times, trying to get Dad too--"
"Hey," Sam said abruptly, grabbing Dean's arm to stop him. "You don't think maybe… Maybe this thing was after Dad, and thought Bosun was him?"
"How could he think Bosun was Dad?" Dean asked clearly.
"Cos… Well, I thought he was Dad in the parking lot," he reasoned.
"Good point," Dean allowed, walking on.
Sam followed. "The only difference with this murder is that there were no initials, cos I guess Bosun didn't bother marking it this time," he ventured.
"Where is he, anyway?" Dean muttered. "You'd have thought he'd want an update on how we plan to stop his son, even if he is a host for some mutant creature thing that stinks of The Pit," he shivered.
"Yeah," Sam agreed uneasily. There was a piercing ringtone and they stopped. Sam patted his suit pockets and pulled out his phone. He put it to his ear quickly. "Hey Bobby."
Dean pulled out his car keys, walking toward the Impala. He unlocked her and waited while Sam caught him up, muttering information into the phone.
"Uh-huh," he havered. "I see. We'll do our best to find him before tomorrow morning, warn him," he continued. "Yeah. Thanks, Bobby. Yeah, and you."
He put the phone back in the pocket of his suit trousers and looked at his brother across the car.
"Bobby got a list of hunters?"
"Just one, as far as he knows. Says he's not much of a hunter, more a hit-n-miss profiteer who used to be big league. These days he lives off stories and selling occult crap."
"So he used to be a Bobby, but now he's just another Bela?" Dean nodded, squeaking his door open. He slid into the driver's seat as Sam opened his door and followed suit.
"Seems that way. We have to find him."
"Name?"
"Jeremy Winston Pattingale," Sam said with a smile. "Can't be too many of those in the phonebook."
"You gotta be kidding me," Dean grinned. "Well, should make this easy, then."
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"Modest place," Dean frowned, sliding the old girl into Park and looking at the house at the side of their piece of pavement.
"Perhaps he's not doing too well selling charms and amulets," Sam shrugged. "You doing this?"
"You got them puppy dog eyes, you talk to him," Dean grunted. Sam watched him, then cleared his throat and pushed his door open slowly. "I'll just watch your back, though," he added. He got out of the car, following him across the pavement and to the door.
Sam leaned on the doorbell, fishing in his jeans pocket for the NSA badge. Dean pushed at his arm, confusion on his face as he gestured to the shiny badge.
"So we can get in. What are we gonna say, 'hey Mr Pattingale, we're hunters and you're in danger'?" Sam reasoned.
Dean waved a hand at his clothes. "What are we gonna say, 'hey Mr Pattingale, we're NSA but today's National Denim At Work Day'?"
"Like he's going to care after he's seen the badges and started shitting bricks over them," he pointed out. "He was a hunter."
"Good point," Dean acceded, putting his hands in his own jeans pockets and then inside his black jacket to locate his fake badge.
The door opened suddenly and a man filled the doorway. A tall man. A wide man. A man whose eyes went from Sam to Dean, and stayed there.
"You!" he gasped.
"Oh this is priceless," Dean gaped, then smiled quickly. "Look, I'm not here for another bar room brawl," he said quickly, as the man took a step back.
"We're from the NSA," Sam put in quickly, lifting his badge in earnest.
"NSA?" he gasped. "Shit - is this about the last three - er - altercations?" he said quickly. "Cos I was drunk, you see, and you really did tick me off, stealing my date like that--"
"Relax, Mr Pattingale," Dean said quickly, waving his hands. "We're gonna have to write in to Ripley with this one - but we really are actually here to save you."
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