For both Disclaimer and Spoiler Alert, please see Chapter 1.
Hope you enjoy it! More to come...
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Dean and Reggie stood in the parking lot of the garage behind Coogan's Bar, the Impala and the Plymouth in front of them looking like the last two children in gym class waiting to be picked for dodge ball. Both hunters had their keys out, but neither had made an actual move to their own vehicles.
"This is stupid. We're taking my car," Reggie snapped impatiently, heading toward the dark blue car.
"No, we're taking mine," Dean growled back, heading for the Impala's driver's side.
"I know the route, I know the area. I should be the one to drive," Reggie argued. Dean turned to face Reggie, matching her glare with one of his own.
"So? You can tell me where to go." He pulled open his door.
"I'm not a freakin' GPS, Dean," Reggie barked out, opening her car door. "Either you man up and get in the damned Plymouth or I'm leaving your ass to circle the city trying to find your way to the police station." With that, Reggie dropped behind the wheel of her car and shut the door.
Dean stared at her, frustration and irritation making his breathing heavy. With a growl, he slammed the Impala's door and stomped over to the passenger side of the Plymouth. Reggie turn the ignition as Dean opened the door and gunned the engine as he flopped onto the seat beside her.
"Good choice," Reggie said with a triumphant grin. Dean glared out the side window, refusing to let Reggie see his own reluctant grin.
Reggie pulled the Plymouth onto the main road, easing into the light, early-morning traffic. Dean stifled a yawn and reached over to switch on the radio, letting the music play lightly in the background as Reggie headed back to the highway as he picked up the folder Reggie had resting on the dark tan seat between them, opened it and began to scan through the printed computer papers.
"Kearney did a thorough search on this Thomas guy. We've got financial records, medical history, even a copy of his friggin' high school diploma."
"Dag told him to dig deep. What was truly interesting was the coroner's preliminary."
Dean flipped past a few pages, cringing at the black and white photos he discovered in the middle of the folder.
"They cut out his eyes?"
"Gross, I know, but not exactly what I was referring to." Reggie glanced over and tapped the top of a report. Dean pulled the paper to the front and scanned the information. "The eyes were removed anti-mortem."
"So ol' Billy was still kickin' when he lost his peepers." Dean shook his head and closed the folder. "Why the hell would a bunch of demons cut out the eyes of some poor schlub? I mean, I get that they were torturing him, but why the eyes? There are much better ways to get information out of someone without resorting to that much overkill."
I certainly know all about that, Dean thought bitterly. He felt Reggie's eyes on his face, as if reading his thoughts. Dean tried to keep his face blank, hoping – praying – that Reggie wouldn't ask him any questions.
Dean let out a sigh of relief when all Reggie did was shrug her shoulders. "That's what we're going to have to try and figure out."
They drove in silence for a while, the radio playing softly into the silence around them as Reggie skirted through the increasing traffic. Creedence Clearwater Revival's "Bad Moon Rising" began, pulling Dean from his mindless observation of the outskirts of Dover. He reached over to turn off the radio, but Reggie beat him to it, somehow sensing Dean's desire to be rid of the song. She flashed him a small smile and Dean returned, feeling the grimace relax off his face. Again she refrained from asking any questions.
Dean's mind flashed to the morning after he and Sam had met Reggie, sitting at her kitchen table, drinking coffee and cleaning guns. It hadn't been that long since his release from Hell at the hand of Castiel so when Reggie had sought permission to ask Dean a question, he begun to prepare for his quick exit. He had been pleasantly surprised when Reggie hadn't asked Dean about Hell at all. Later, when Dean had asked her why she wasn't asking him the million dollar questions everyone else seemed to want know, Reggie had simply said that she could see that Dean didn't want to talk about it.
That simple statement had endeared Dean to the female hunter more than even she could imagine. Dean shook his head, trying to push the memory away and noticed a sign pointing in the direction to the police station. Instead of following it though, Reggie turned and headed in the opposite direction.
"Uh…you were supposed to make a left," Dean said, pointing back at the road they should have turned on to.
"I know. But if you haven't noticed, we don't exactly look like federal agents," Reggie replied, shooting a brief glance at Dean's attire. Dean looked down at his brown leather jacket, the blue paisley over a dark blue t-shirt, his torn blue jeans, and black boots.
"Yeah, okay. How do you plan to rectify that?"
Reggie pulled into the parking lot of a seedy looking motel, the neon vacancy sign flickering in a staccato Dean could hear even through the closed windows. Reggie killed the engine and sat back against the seat, the supple leather creaking softly beneath her. She kept her gaze on the crumbling building that was the motel's office in front of them.
"Sam put your suit in the trunk earlier this morning."
Dean gaped at her, the implication of Reggie's words bouncing around in his head. Sam had figured Reggie would win the battle of wills, leaving Dean riding shotgun. He was going to have to remember to thank his little brother. Preferably with a good smack to the back of that aching head of his.
"I'm going to go in and get a room for us to change. Be back in five." Reggie practically bolted from the car, but not before Dean caught the grin on her face.
"I'm going to kill you, Sammy," Dean grumbled as he watched Reggie jog up the walk and into the motel office.
Reggie returned a few minutes later, a key in the shape of a pyramid dangling from her hand. Dean climbed from the car and circled around to the trunk to grab his suit. He found himself staring down at two black bags in the trunk sitting on top of his suit. When Reggie lifted them out so Dean could get his clothes, he noticed there was a garment bag underneath as well.
"What is all that?" Dean asked as Reggie began carrying all three pieces of luggage toward their rented room.
"Stuff," Reggie replied vaguely. She unlocked the door and swung it open, motioning for Dean to go ahead of her.
They stepped into what was apparently a vain attempt in Egyptian motif.
A partition split the two queen beds from the miniscule dining area, delineating the two rooms with a screen of golden pyramids. The single bay window was draped in gold and sand colored curtains covered in tiny hieroglyphic recreations of Egyptians in various poses.
The sand colored bedspreads had giant bronze sphinxes in the center and the lamps were inaccurate statue replicas of Egyptian gods. Reggie paused in the doorway, appalled by the interior, while Dean ignored it. He'd seen his fair share of hideous motels over the years, enough to make him barely notice the tacky decoration.
"Good god," Reggie muttered with a shudder, finally closing the door and cutting off the sounds of the waking city.
Dean shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it on the bed nearest the door. "You'll get used to it."
"Sure. Either that or I'll have a seizure."
Dean chuckled as he slid off the paisley shirt and tossed that on top of his jacket. "You better get ready. We should probably get to the station by nine."
Reggie headed into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. Dean stared at the door for a moment, confused and mildly shocked.
"Why the sudden modesty?" he called to the closed door.
"It's not modesty, it's self preservation," Reggie called back, her voice coming out in a huff as she struggled with something.
Dean quickly got dressed, dropping onto the end of the bed to put his dress shoes on. "Self preservation?"
"I'm in the process of doing some extremely girlie things and I don't feel like hearing any juvenile remarks or inane questions from you." The faucet turned on, preventing Dean from continuing the conversation.
Several minutes later, which to Dean felt like an eternity as he struggled with his tie, the bathroom door opened.
"Thank god. I was beginning to think you'd climbed out the window or something," Dean grumbled, his chin hitting his chest as he stared down at the impossible garment he held in his hands. He rolled his neck to work out the kink that had formed, looked up, and felt his jaw drop open.
Reggie stood in the doorway dressed in a slim, short black skirt, a snug white top that cut low enough for Dean to see an ample amount of cleavage underneath a matching black suit jacket. Her hair was pulled back and secured in an intricate twist, a few loose strands hanging out to frame her face in wispy curls.
Even from where he stood, Dean could see that Reggie had applied makeup as well. It was subtle, earth tones that accentuated her beauty in a natural way. However, the red on her lips kept drawing Dean's eyes as Reggie braced herself against the doorjamb to slip on black heels. The sight drew the breath from Dean's lungs for a moment.
Reggie looked up at Dean and frowned. "What?"
Dean swallowed hard and shook his head, unable to find his voice as he continued to stare at Reggie.
"Here. Let me fix that," Reggie said, motioning to Dean's tie. He glanced down numbly, staring at the black slip of fabric dangling from his neck. Reggie crossed the room and began adjusting Dean's tie, her hands moving deftly as she untangled and then began to tie it properly.
"Thanks," Dean finally managed to say. He looked up at Reggie as she stood in front of him, nibbling nervously on the corner of her lip as she worked. Dean cleared his throat and focused on a spot over Reggie's shoulder. "You clean up nice."
Reggie finished securing Dean's tie and ran her hands across his shoulders, smoothing out the suit jacket. She adjusted his collar, her fingers trailing along the skin of his neck and raising goosebumps on Dean's skin.
"You don't look so bad yourself," she said with a smile.
Reggie took a step back, reaching down to button the two black buttons on her suit jacket, completing the look of an FBI agent perfectly. Dean found himself trailing his eyes over Reggie's figure, indecent thoughts firing through his brain.
Reggie chuckled and shook her head. "Eyes up top, Dean."
Dean smirked, shrugged his shoulders, and tucked his pearl handled Colt .45 behind his back into the waistband of his pants. He made a sweeping motion toward the motel door. "Ready when you are, agent."
Reggie walked past Dean, humming. It took a moment for him to recognize the tune. When he did, a smile spread across Dean's face.
"Are you humming "Sharp Dressed Man"?"
Reggie glanced over her shoulder at Dean, a devilish smile on her face, and shrugged one shoulder before striding from the motel room out into the bright day.
V
"Well, that was fun," Dean grumbled as he yanked his tie loose and tugging it completely off as he and Reggie made their way back to the parking garage where they'd parked the Plymouth.
He stuffed the tie into a pocket of his suit jacket, jamming his fingers down on top of something hard and sharp. Dean yanked out his hand, the tip of his index finger bleeding as their motel room key swung from his hand.
"Un-freakin'-believable!" he shouted before sticking his fingertip into his mouth.
"Would you relax. It couldn't have been that bad," Reggie cajoled.
"No? Maybe you neglected to notice the giant stack of forms I had to fill out while you went off with the chief to discuss case details. Or maybe you forgot who had to go down to the morgue and mull over the finer points of optical extraction with Gomez Adams," Dean grumbled, jabbing at the button for the garage's geriatric elevator.
The elevator arrived with a clang that made Dean's teeth hurt. Reggie stepped inside, but Dean hesitated, wishing he'd just taken the stairs. Finally he got in, hoping to avoid any awkward comments about his less than enthusiastic attitude. Reggie pushed the button for the correct floor, reminding Dean that it would be an extremely short ride.
"Do you think I enjoyed being ogled like a piece of meat by some perverted, overweight, underpaid jerk? What you had to do may have been unpleasant, but at least you were treated like a friggin' federal agent. That "police chief" talked to me like I was his ten year old daughter, which gives me great concern for the poor girl considering the way he insisted on addressing my chest!"
Reggie stormed out of the elevator, her heels clacking against the concrete as she headed for the Plymouth. When she reached the car, she yanked open the driver's side door and angrily unbuttoned her suit jacket. With a growl, she yanked off the shoes and threw them into the back seat, before following with her suit jacket. Dean chuckled, finding Reggie's aggravation cute.
Reggie glared at him. "What are you laughing at?"
Dean shook his head and tossed his suit jacket onto the backseat as he slid into the passenger seat. "Nothing."
Reggie slammed her door and started the car, still glaring at Dean. "I know that smirk, Dean," she growled out, slamming on the gas pedal and peeling out of the parking spot in of screech of burning rubber and smoke. "You think my anger is adorable."
"Maybe a little," Dean replied with a shrug. "I'm sorry, but you're like a kitten with a lion complex, Reggie. All fired up because some clearly unsatisfied asshole sized you up."
"So? What? Because I'm self-assured and attractive, that's okay?"
Reggie turned in the seat, her green eyes alight with anger. Dean held up his hands in automatic defense.
"No, that's not what I'm saying and you know it," Dean hurriedly explained, as the light they'd been stopped at turned green. Reggie slammed on the gas again, speeding them through the intersection and down another busy street. "What I mean is, my god Reggie. Look at you. You're a fantasy brought to life for this guy."
Dean waited in silence, afraid of swallowing anymore of his foot than he already had.
"A fantasy, huh?" Reggie grumbled a moment later, a smile pulling up the corner of her mouth. She glanced over at Dean, meeting his gaze. "Well, at least I managed to get some information the police haven't put in any reports yet."
"Really?" Dean asked, relieved to see that he'd rescued himself from Reggie's ire.
"Seems that William Thomas was an occult expert," Reggie said, turning down a small side street and skirting around a dumpster much faster than Dean would have done had he been driving the Impala. "The body was found on top of an intricate pentagram…"
"A devil's trap…"
Reggie nodded her head. "And so now the police think Mr. Thomas was murdered because he'd gone too deep. That he was murdered during some strange ritual." Reggie pulled up in front of a tall red brick building, cutting the engine and turning in her seat. "All of that isn't what's missing from the reports. What's missing is that William Thomas had the largest collection of occult paraphernalia in the country. For a civilian anyway."
"By paraphernalia you mean books, don't you?"
Reggie nodded her head. "That was the majority of what he collected, yes."
"So you think Billy had the Books of Solomon"
"Might've. His place was apparently destroyed. As if someone was looking for something after they killed Thomas."
"Shit. So the demons could have the books?" Dean slammed his hand against the dashboard, feeling his heart freeze in his chest.
"No, they don't. At least, I think it's unlikely," Reggie said. Dean turned to look at her, confused by the assuredness in her voice. "You met with the coroner."
"Yeah? So?"
"So? Dean, how long did he tell you William Thomas had been dead?"
Dean thought back over the conversation he'd had with Albert Finnegan, the Dover coroner and all the documents he'd read since seven-thirty that morning. It all seemed a blur, but he tried to focus on the information he'd gotten from the coroner specifically.
"Around a week." Dean frowned at Reggie, trying to figure out where she was going.
"Right. Two whole days before the Hardelle's were murdered," Reggie said with a confident grin. "That means…"
"That the demons moved on to Jacob Hardelle because they didn't find what they were looking for at William Thomas's place," Dean exclaimed. His face lit up with relief at the sudden realization that the demons were no closer to finding the books then they were a day ago.
Dean looked up at the structure they were parked in front of, recognizing that it was a ratty looking apartment building.
"Where are we?"
"William Thomas's residence."
Reggie reached into the backseat to get her heels from where they'd fallen during her erratic driving. Dean took the opportunity to check out the way her butt looked in the skirt.
"If you take a picture, it'll last longer," Reggie said as she shifted back into place on the seat, a sly smile on her face. Dean's matching crooked grin was automatic.
"I might just have to."
Reggie rolled her eyes and climbed from the car, shutting the Plymouth's door quietly behind her. She started up the crumbling stairs, Dean on her heels, both of them casting glances to make sure they weren't being noticed. The neighborhood appeared to be deserted; not even the sound of dogs or traffic.
Dean stood just outside the entryway, keeping watch while Reggie made quick work of the lock. They slipped inside a few minutes later, turning on small penlights as they headed for the stairwell to take the rickety flight of stairs to the fourth floor where William Thomas's apartment was. Police tape crisscrossed the door, marking the apartment far better than the faded white numbers painted on the doors.
"Nice of them to wrap it up in a bow for us," Dean said, yanking off the police tape.
"Let's hope they cleaned up the place a little too."
After letting Dean pick the padlock the police had installed on Thomas's door to replace the broken lock, Reggie led the way into the apartment. The place was in complete disarray. Bookshelves hung partially ripped from the walls. Books, many of them with the pages ripped out, scattered the floor, mixed with broken glass and chunks of wood.
Any furniture had been torn apart, pieces of stuffing and fabric strewn around the incredibly tiny living space. Reggie and Dean stood in the center of the living room, surveying the chaos around them.
"It looks like a bomb went off in here," Reggie said, her voice hushed in dismay.
Dean squatted down, shifting pieces of debris out of the way to reveal the devil's trap on the gray carpet. "It looks like it was painted on," Dean said, scratching at the carpet with a fingertip. He picked up the leg of a wooden dining chair, the only apparent remnant of the furniture piece left, and stood up, showing it to Reggie.
"Almost like in the Hardelle house," Reggie said, taking the chair leg from Dean. "They positioned the chair and then finished the trap."
"Let's get the hell out of here," Dean grunted, turning and heading for the door before Reggie could reply. He could feel the anger bubbling inside of him and knew standing inside of William Thomas's apartment, seeing the damage around him, was only making it worse.
Dean stepped outside, taking a deep breath and exhaling slowly, trying to calm the sound of rushing of blood in his ears. He closed his eyes against the bright sunlight, wishing the world around him would dim just a little bit and give him some peace for a moment. He felt Reggie step up beside him, but she remained quiet, letting him get control of himself.
Finally, Dean opened his eyes and looked over at Reggie. She stared out across the street, watching the few trees remaining in the dying park across the street bend and shake in the growing wind. Dean knew she could feel him watching her, but she continued to stare straight ahead for a few minutes longer.
Finally, Reggie turned toward Dean, her green eyes softening as she looked up at him. She stared at him for a few minutes, making Dean begin to feel a little uncomfortable.
"C'mon," Reggie said, reaching out and grabbing Dean's hand. She pulled him off the sidewalk and over to the Plymouth, letting go so that she could circle the car and get in behind the wheel.
Dean climbed into the car, his curiosity peaked by Reggie's suddenly odd behavior. There was a small smile on her face as she drove them through the city, giving her a slightly devious look. Reggie pulled up to the curb in front of a small, nondescript building and put the Plymouth in park.
"Be right back," she said before quickly getting out of the car, leaving Dean sitting in the idling Plymouth. Dean watched her until she disappeared inside. He sat in silence for a few seconds then flipped on the radio. "Slow Ride" had just begun so Dean blasted it, letting Foghat's signature song thrum through him as he waited for Reggie to return.
Dean had gotten so caught up in the song, drumming his fingers on the tops of his thighs and rocking to the beat that he failed to notice Reggie's return until she opened the driver's side door with a loud creak. Dean jumped, swearing under his breath as Reggie slid back behind the wheel, a large paper bag in her hands.
"Sorry," Reggie said with a chuckle. "I thought you saw me jogging back over."
Dean shook his head, eying the paper bag now sitting on the seat between them. Reggie saw him and draped an arm over the bag, pulling it toward her.
"What's in the bag?"
Reggie shook her head, driving them through the city as the afternoon traffic began to pick up. Dean assumed they were returning to the motel to change back into normal clothes before heading to the bar, but instead Reggie kept driving, taking the main highway out of the city.
"All will be revealed," Reggie said as Dean opened his mouth to ask where they were going. She reached over and turned up the radio, letting Bad Company sing about being a shooting star as she drove.
As the sun began to set, streaking the horizon with orange and red, Reggie turned down a gravel road, the car bumping and rocking down the road. Trees on either side blocked any view of the area Dean might have gotten, giving him no idea where he was or what was going through Reggie's mind.
The car slowed to a crawl as the road got worse, the potholes getting larger and larger until, finally, they drove into a clearing and Reggie pulled to a stop. She turned off the engine and gave Dean a moment to look around.
There was an old wooden bench a few feet from the front of the Plymouth, the only sign of civilization in the woody hollow. Dean scanned the area, feeling an unease build within him. Was this a trap? Was Reggie the snitch and Dean had just been too blind to see it because of how he may or may not feel for her? Dean's thoughts swirled wildly as he began to panic.
The rustling of paper drew his attention back to the interior of the car. Reggie reached into the bag and Dean steeled himself, preparing for an attack as she began to withdraw her hand.
***As always, I will post my Musical Playlist at the completion of this story.***