NOTE: This story is a case fic and a mystery, but will deal with darker themes including past trauma, homelessness, and substance abuse. Please consider this a trigger warning.
With the exception of the Kettle Cove Rehab, all businesses and settings described in this story are real locations in and around Portland.
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Chapter One
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November is hardly the most forgiving month in Maine. The sun sets early and rises late, the autumn long faded and the snow yet to fall, leaving the landscape a muddy mix of bleak grays and browns. Puddles splinter on the sidewalks and the wind is punishing.
One would have to be insane, really, to want to go running in November in Maine.
At least, that's what Tallie Bilodeau tells herself every morning while trying to psych herself up to put on her damn running shoes. But she's still trying to shed the last couple of pounds from her third kid, and her wife is on a new healthy-living kick so Tallie's inevitably been roped into it. So every morning, when her alarm goes off an hour before dawn (which at this time of year isn't even that early), she begrudgingly yanks on her sneakers and her insulated jogging clothes and drives to South Portland in the dark.
She could get a gym membership, of course, but treadmills are tedious and she hates the smell of other people's sweat. Instead she rewards herself with watching the sunrise from Spring Point.
This particular morning is promising to be no different, the southeastern sun just beginning to spill pink and golden over the Portland skyline across the harbor from where Tallie stands. Her cheeks are flushed and her breath crystallizes in front of her nose, her chest still heaving from her two-mile route. She crooks her arm to check the weather app on her phone — twenty degrees with the windchill. Clear skies and a high of thirty-one predicted for today. Maybe she can take the kids to the park after she gets home from work.
Tallie wanders through the park, a grassy area walled in by a low stone barrier studded with cannon windows. It's the remnants of Fort Preble, meant to defend the bay from an encroaching Confederate Army that never actually made it this far north. The cannons are gone and leave plenty of room for park benches, summer flowerbeds and walkways. Tallie follows the path along the wall to the gap leading out to the lighthouse.
Spring Point Light is a far cry from the classic calendar-shot of a Maine lighthouse. Black and white, it sits short and squat like a grouchy Boston terrier at the end of a long rocky breakwater, ocean on all sides. During the summer months both the park and the breakwater are crowded with people enjoying the sun, flying kites and fishing. At this time of year it's desolate.
As Tallie walks out onto the path atop the breakwater, the wind buffets her hair and nearly pulls her tight wool cap from her head. Whitecaps froth on the open side of the ledge, spitting salt. The horizon is broken up by land, dark amorphous masses atop the water that overlap and make it impossible to tell where the mainland ends and the islands begin. Cushing Island is the only one that sits apart, fully in shadow as the sun rises from directly behind it.
Tallie stands on the rocks and breathes as deeply as she can manage in the freezing wind, her lungs fighting to keep the cold air out. She watches the fishing trawlers and lobster boats motor through the harbor, seamlessly navigating the shipping channels around Spring Point and between the islands out to the open ocean. This view is the only thing that makes jogging in November worth it.
She shivers, her body cooling down from her run, and decides she's going to reward herself with a giant hot coffee from her favorite bakery.
As the sun finally crawls above the solid line of Cushing Island, Tallie turns to leave, coffee calling her name. She stops when something catches her eye, at the edge of the breakwater where it dips into the ocean.
There's a large black trash bag, waterlogged and sagging, caught in the rocks. It bobs slightly in the lapping waves but is otherwise lodged in place. Tallie grimaces and rolls her eyes. There are few things she hates more than a litterbug, and something about throwing garbage into the ocean seems to her to be particularly evil.
She huffs to herself and carefully makes her way down the rocks, crouching low to keep from slipping and falling into the water. There's a dumpster at the edge of the park; she'll toss the bag there. It'll head to a landfill but at least it won't be poisoning the bay. Hooking one gloved hand over a rock to stabilize herself, she reaches down and pulls the bag up out of the water with no small amount of effort.
The bag is ripped, no doubt torn open by hungry gulls or curious seals, or perhaps a boat propeller. Water pours out of the hole in the bag, and Tallie's arm strains to hold it while it drains. A foul odor hits her nostrils, pungent even in the wind.
When a human forearm falls out of the bag and lands on the rocks at her feet, Tallie does not immediately react. She stares at it. The thing is pale grey and mottled and looks rubbery, like a stage prop. But the bits of exposed muscle, torn tendons and a sawed-through bone poking out of what used to be someone's elbow are a little too realistic to have been manufactured.
Tallie drops the bag with a shrill "Holy FUCK!" and scrambles back up to the breakwater path.
The bag plops onto the jagged rocks and stays there. A head is just visible through the rip in the plastic, the outline of a nose and a milky white eye.
Tallie vomits onto the path and then fumbles her phone out of its armband, nearly dropping it into the ocean as she tries to call 9-1-1.
Four days later, Sam and Dean walk into the Cumberland County Coroner's Office just outside of Portland. The article published in the Press Herald popped up almost immediately on Sam's laptop, flagged by his numerous tracking algorithms, and they drove through the night and most of today, Dean and Castiel in the Impala while Sam and Eileen rode in the Valiant. It's early afternoon but Dean is exhausted, his stomach growling and his foot aching from the gas pedal. After this, he's dragging Sam straight to whatever's the nearest diner.
Sam's almost equally fatigued but masks it better, all business, rigid and official as he flashes his badge and tells the coroner they'd like to see the autopsy results.
The coroner is a chubby man in his early forties with a neck beard and an ID badge that states his name — Matt Gagnon — in bold letters. He shrugs. "I mean, sure, but honestly there wasn't much to do an autopsy on."
"Meaning?" Sam prompts.
"Meaning," Gagnon says as he drags open a cadaver drawer, "that this is all we got." He yanks back the sheet, and Dean winces.
On the clean cold steel rests only a few parts: a thigh, a forearm with the right hand still attached, the left calf with no foot, and the head and neck, severed at the nape. The head is haloed by scraggly hair and an unkempt beard, skin filthy, the teeth tobacco-stained.
"Ugh," says Dean.
"Ugh is right," agrees the coroner. "This was all that was in the bag from Spring Point. And he was a tall fella, so he'd have been put in multiple bags."
"Have any other bags turned up?"
"No."
"Have they looked?"
Gagnon gives Dean an utterly unimpressed sneer. "Do you have any idea how big Casco Bay is?"
Dean blinks, his jaw closing. Well, excuse the hell out of me, he thinks.
Gagnon shakes his head, bracing his hands on his pudgy hips. "I heard the Coast Guard's on alert just in case, but there's really not much they can do otherwise," he explains. "Given the currents, the depth, the temperature… Not to mention the wildlife — practically everything that lives in the Gulf is a scavenger in one way or another. I'm amazed even one bag was found."
"Any idea who he is?" Sam asks, pointedly ignoring the odor wafting up at them from the steel drawer.
"Yeah, actually, we got lucky there."
Gagnon pulls a pair of latex gloves onto his hands and picks up the severed forearm, turning it over so the wrist is facing up toward the ceiling. A tattoo is inked into the skin there. It's nothing particularly unusual, just a pair of rifles crossed over an American flag. Further up the arm, closer to where the elbow would have been, are several scarred-over pinpricks of varying ages, left over from a needle routinely jabbing the vein.
"The tattoo plus the track marks made it pretty easy for the police to ID him. His name is Fred Sargent. Local drifter, got a rap sheet of drug offenses as long as my leg. Mostly slept on bus stop benches, y'know?"
"Any other info on him?" Dean asks, scratching behind his ear.
"For that, you'd have to talk to the police."
"Alright, well, the report said that the blood was drained. What can you tell us about that?"
Gagnon makes a face, setting the detached forearm back onto the steel. "Guy's in pieces; it'd be weird if he wasn't drained. That's not the interesting part." He moves his hands to the severed head, rolling it onto its side. "This is."
Just above the severed edge of the neck is a curved line of puncture wounds, small and slightly bruised. Sam and Dean exchange a knowing look.
"Teeth marks?" says Sam.
"I'm not positive, but it sure looks like it," Gagnon replies, peering closely at the wounds like he's looking for something else he might have missed. "It doesn't make any sense."
"What doesn't?"
"Well, this bite mark — if it is a bite mark — was made before the guy died," Gagnon explains, straightening back up to his not-so-impressive height and adjusting his heavy glasses on his nose. "If it was post-mortem, then fine, some fish or eel or something took a nibble while he was floating in the harbor. But he was bitten first, then surgically dismembered, and then thrown in the ocean." He huffs in annoyance, mad that the answer is escaping him. "Just, y'know, sequentially. Doesn't make sense. It's obviously not a human bite."
"Maybe the guy who killed him had a pet snake," Dean dismisses.
Sam clears his throat, his eyes darting toward the door. Dean nods; it's time they wrap this conversation up.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say it was a vampire," Gagnon says, and Dean and Sam freeze.
"Excuse me?" asks Sam tightly.
Gagnon shuffles, suddenly looking sheepish. His flabby cheeks flush pink. "Sorry, just a joke. I watch a lot of True Blood."
Dean plasters on his best not-funny glare. "Save it for Comic Con, Sookie. A man is dead."
"Yes, sir."
Back outside the coroner's office, the day is gray and dreary, the sky threatening sleet. Dean sits behind the steering wheel of the Impala and fights off a shiver, loosening his necktie before twisting the key in the ignition. Sam turns on the heating and pulls out his phone to call Eileen.
"Alright, so… vamps," remarks Dean. "Not bad for our first case after Chuck."
Sam pauses, phone in hand, and gives him a strange look. "Why?"
Dean shrugs. "I dunno, it's just good to get back to basics, I guess. Something nice and simple. Straightforward."
Sam considers this, then makes a face as if to reply if you say so. Dean rolls his eyes. Cas would have just agreed with him.
Sam presses the call button on his phone, and after a few rings Eileen's face appears on the screen. He angles the phone so that she can see both of them.
"How was the coroner?" she asks. She's sitting in the Valiant, a fake Boston Globe press ID clipped to the lapel of her jacket.
"It was gross," Dean answers. "Did you and Cas talk with the woman who found the body?"
Eileen nods, her image grainy and lagging slightly. The 5G isn't great here. "Yeah. She doesn't know anything. Wrong place, wrong time."
"Okay," Sam says. "Well, we're heading to the police station now—"
"Whoa, whoa," interrupts Dean quickly. "Hey. No. I just drove like twenty hours straight, okay? It's lunch time. I need food. Now."
Sam, who had traded driving shifts with Eileen throughout the journey and had stopped for smoothies just before the Maine border, sighs disapprovingly. "You'd have been better rested if you let Cas drive," he chides. "We have to go talk to the police. What if the vamps already have another victim strung up somewhere?"
"Then I'm no good to them on an empty stomach!" Dean retorts.
"Wait— Vamps?" Eileen cuts in.
"We'll fill you in at the station," Sam tells her.
Dean vigorously shakes his head. "No, we'll fill you in at the restaurant."
Eileen raises her eyebrows, glitching into pixels momentarily. "Am I going to have to separate you two? Jeez."
Sam huffs. "Fine, I'll go to the station and you three can get lunch."
Cas leans into frame on Sam's phone suddenly, only one eye and his nose visible, much too close to the camera. "There's a place on Commercial Street," he says, and Eileen yelps as he accidentally elbows her in the ribs. "It's got burgers; I looked it up."
Dean claps his hands, smug. "Great, text me the name. We'll meet you there."
Sam hangs up the call and spends the quick journey from the coroner's office to Commercial Street going over the medical file he'd obtained from Gagnon. The file is light — only a couple of pages — but Sam reads and rereads. Sometimes, Dean wonders at how Sam never seems to get carsick.
They drive from the outskirts of the city across a bridge and into downtown, buildings crammed onto a hilly peninsula kicking out into the waters of Casco Bay. Portland is an odd city, a handful of different eras piled on top of one another. Cobblestones and sagging brick taverns from the 1700s squash against hotels and condo developments that have sprung up in the past ten years. Monuments from the 19th century, shops from the '50s and '60s, restaurants and cafes from the '90s.
The people are of all different times too. Fishermen and lobstermen buzz around the waterfront beneath a cloud of seagulls, and Congress Street is full of Somali immigrants and young art majors with colorful hair. A man in a wheelchair sits at the corner of High Street and holds aloft a sign that says FUCK THE POLICE, while a fire-and-brimstone preacher shouts to a nonexistant crowd. A handful of homeless folks tuck themselves into corners — benches in Congress Square, the art museum steps, a bus stop, the doorway to what used to be a Dunkin's. As Dean drives down the hill toward the water, he has to stop to let a man in steampunk fashion cross the street.
They spot Eileen's Plymouth Valiant parked at the head of one of the piers and stop. Dean gets out of the car, allowing Sam to switch into the driver's seat, then gives him a quick "Call if you need anything" before he drives off.
The King's Head is halfway down the pier, hidden in the flank of a brick office building. Inside is a huge U-shaped bar staffed by a pretty redhead and a handful of smaller tables, the only other patrons a couple of retirees at the far end of the bar. A massive stag's head is mounted on the wall, antlers adorned with a short string of lights.
Cas and Eileen wave to him from a corner booth. They're both in civilian clothes and they've stashed their press badges in their pockets. Dean hasn't quite gotten used to seeing Cas out of the trench coat, but he can't deny that he prefers the average-Joe look.
Dean barely has time to sit down and say hello before the bartender approaches them and drops a couple of menus onto the tabletop. "Welcome to the King's Head," she says, clapping Dean on the shoulder. She has a tattoo of a toucan on the inside of her forearm. "My name is Lilah. What can I get started for you?"
"Beer," Dean says. "Please."
Lilah crosses her arms, making a show of being patient. "What kind?"
"Huh?"
"We've got thirty-five on tap and plenty more by the bottle." She jerks a thumb over her shoulder to the far wall, where there's a truly staggering list of beer names written in multicolored chalk.
Dean's mouth opens and closes a few times. Generally he's always been of the philosophy that if something has alcohol, it's worth drinking. And while he certainly has his favorite beer brands, they're typically found in gas station coolers and sticky dive bars. None of them are listed on the board here.
"Surprise me," he finally says.
Lilah shrugs. "Alrighty, then."
Dean barely glances at the menu before ordering burgers for himself and Cas, while Eileen requests fish and chips. Lilah whisks back behind the bar.
"Why get fish when there's perfectly good red meat available?" Dean asks.
"There's no good seafood in Kansas," retorts Eileen. "I'm enjoying it while I can." She leans forward and props her elbows on the table. "So it's vampires?"
Dean nods. "Yeah, classic bite mark on the guy's neck," he reports. "Or what was left of his neck, anyways."
"Okay, then," says Eileen with a tilt of her head. "Sharpen the machetes."
Cas is gazing thoughtfully up at the dead eyes of the taxidermied deer. "I'm still confused as to why a vampire—" He stops abruptly, clearing his throat as Lilah returns with their drinks.
She casts an odd look in Cas's direction, but doesn't confirm whether she heard him or not as she sets the glasses on the table. "Let me know how you like that," she tells Dean and leaves again just as swiftly.
Once she's behind the bar again, wiping down a few empty glasses at a safe distance from their table, Cas continues. "I don't understand why a vampire would go to the trouble of dismembering and disposing of a body. They don't usually care so much about leaving a trail."
Dean shrugs, not all that inclined to wonder at a monster's philosophy. "Probably just trying to lay low," he says. He takes a sip of his beer, and swears colorfully.
Eileen's eyebrows shoot toward her hairline. "You need some time alone with that?"
"That," says Dean, staring at the glass in his hand like it's made of pure gold, "is the best beer I have ever had. Holy hell." He twists in his seat to call over his shoulder. "Hey, Lilah! What is this stuff?"
Lilah grins from behind the bar. "Local brew. You gonna want another one?"
"Keep 'em coming!" Turning back to Cas and Eileen, Dean emphatically takes another gulp, leaving a line of foam across his upper lip. "We might have to move here."
Eileen snorts and excuses herself to the ladies' room.
Cas passes Dean a napkin. "I suppose we could find the brewery," he suggests. "Bring a case or two back home after we take out the vamp nest."
"You are speaking my language," Dean says with a wink. "It's a date."
Cas smiles and takes a sip of his ginger ale.
"How are you feeling, by the way?" Dean asks, resting his elbows on the tabletop. "Y'know, since losing your grace."
"Same as the last time you asked me," Cas replies evenly. "I feel human."
Dean clamps his mouth shut, worry sparking under his ribs.
"Dean, I feel fine," Cas says, more gently this time. "Truly. It's been an adjustment, and I know the first few weeks weren't particularly fun. But I feel good."
Considering for a beat, Dean nods. "You'll tell me, though, right? If you don't?"
With his knee, Cas nudges Dean's leg under the table. "Of course."
Dean accepts this and doesn't press further. Cas is right, it has been an adjustment, but 'not particularly fun' is likely a good candidate for Understatement Of The Year.
Losing his grace this time around was nothing like what Metatron did years ago. Rather than slitting Cas's throat and drawing it out like a thread from a seam, the Empty had torn Cas's grace out of him in a single horrible instant. It was ripped from every atom in his body and left Cas barely able to breathe, let alone function. The weeks following his return mostly consisted of sleeping, vomiting, fighting off fevers, and eating like a linebacker as he slowly gained back his strength.
They hadn't taken any cases since then. With Dean completely unwilling to leave Cas alone in the bunker in his condition, and Sam and Eileen both stepping in to help when Dean actually needed to sleep, nothing outside the bunker seemed important enough to leave.
And frankly, Cas's illness aside, it had been nice to know there was no Chuck or Billie waiting for them beyond the bunker walls. Once Cas was well enough to walk around, they spent most of their time relaxing — movie nights, cooking, and just generally enjoying their godless freedom.
As for the two of them, they've had an adjustment of their own. The transition from friends to… whatever they are now (they haven't discussed a label, and Dean isn't sure they will any time soon) happened incrementally and without planning. When Cas first came back there was no time to talk about what he'd said to summon the Empty — Dean had launched straight into make-sure-Cas-doesn't-die mode. But somewhere between making ice packs to help break Cas's fever and shoving enough food at him to feed a congregation, the wall came down.
By the time Dean began spending every night sleeping in Cas's room, right alongside him, it didn't even seem like a big step.
Eileen returns to the table just as their food arrives.
"So," Dean says through a bite of burger, "any ideas on how to track a vamp nest from a victim found in the ocean?"
Eileen slaps his upper arm with the back of her hand. "I told you, talking with your mouth full makes it impossible to read your lips."
Dean coughs and rubs his fist on his chest in an apology before he repeats the question more clearly.
Cas scratches behind his ear. "Once Sam gets back, we should look into places the victim frequently visited. It's possible the vampire knew him."
"Yeah, 'cause vamps so often know their victims personally," Dean says dryly. But for a victim without a crime scene, it's the only place to start.
Eileen pinches his arm suddenly, her eyes on the bartender. Her voice drops to a low tone, barely audible even from two feet away. "She keeps looking at us funny. I think she's listening."
Cas glances past Dean's shoulder and nods silently in agreement.
"Alright, no more vamp talk," Dean says quietly, then deftly changes the subject to teasing Eileen again about her choice in food.
An hour later, the bar has quickly grown more crowded with white-collar workers filtering in from the various office buildings nearby, all looking for drinks before heading home for the evening. By this point Dean's had two more beers, wolfed down everything on his plate, and stolen nearly half of Cas's fries. Eileen remarks on it only to say that if Sam tried to steal her food, she'd break his wrist.
"Well, then, it's a good thing you're not dating me," Dean snarks back.
As if on cue, Sam walks in and finds them in the corner booth, taking a seat between Dean and Eileen. He sets a file on the table, the folder branded with the Portland Police Department logo.
"Coroner was right," he says, shoving Dean's empty plate out of the way to lay the file open. "This Fred Sargent guy has a long history of drug offenses."
"Really, man?" Dean grumbles, quickly moving his beer glass out of Sam's line of fire. "You can't even take a second to sit down? Why don't you order a beer?"
Eileen signs something that Dean doesn't understand, but Cas and Sam both laugh.
"What?"
A wry smile is tugging at Cas's mouth as he translates. "She said you're cranky today."
He glares at Eileen, who's grinning at him across the table. "I'm right here."
Eileen shrugs. "Maybe if you put more effort into learning to sign, you wouldn't miss things like that."
"You've only been living with us for a month!" Dean protests, but all he can do is huff and turn his attention to the police file. "Whatever."
Fred Sargent's mugshot jumps out from the pages in the folio. Scraggly hair and beard, yellowed teeth, dirty skin. Ultimately, he doesn't look much better in the photo than he did lying in the cadaver drawer. The only major difference is the presence of all his body parts.
"So what's his story?" prompts Eileen.
"Well, like the coroner said, a lot of arrests but nothing violent," Sam says, skimming down the front page of Fred Sargent's arrest record. "He was a veteran, homeless, no family. Seems like a guy who got dealt a bad hand. Oh, and he apparently was at the Kettle Cove Rehab Clinic a couple times a month at least."
"A few times every month?" Dean echoes.
"Yeah, it's a local non-profit," Sam clarifies. "According to the officer I talked to at the station, a lot of the time it serves more as a homeless shelter. And the last time Fred was there was only a couple days before his body turned up."
Eileen nods, swallowing her last bite of fried haddock. "Okay, so the next step is checking out the rehab—" She stops short.
Lilah, who had presumably come over to take Sam's order, is now standing there staring down at the police file. Sam quickly moves to close it.
"Is Fred in trouble?" she asks, and Sam blinks in surprise.
"You know him?" He holds up Fred's mugshot.
"Are you police?"
In practiced unison, Sam and Dean draw their badges from the inner pockets of their jackets and hold them open so Lilah can read them.
"I'm Special Agent Frantz," Sam says, then gestures to Dean. "This is my partner, Agent Byrne."
"So he's really in trouble." Lilah frowns, then looks suspiciously over to Cas and Eileen. "What about them?"
"They're consultants," Dean answers smoothly. "How well do you know Fred?"
"Not that well," Lilah says with a shake of her head. "He sleeps in our doorway sometimes. Lot of mornings I have to tell him to leave when I open the pub."
"That's nice of you."
Lilah only shrugs at Dean's dry remark, her arms crossed. "We have a business to run. I'll give him a bit of food if we have anything about to expire, but I can't do much else for him." She studies his photograph thoughtfully. "He's always seemed like a nice dude. Just a lot of problems, you know?"
"Do you know if he had any enemies? Anyone who might have had beef with him?"
She blinks in confusion. "Wait… what happened?"
Sam clears his throat. "I'm sure you saw the news about the body found at Spring Point."
"That was him?!" Lilah's jaw drops.
"Hence why we're asking if he had any enemies."
She shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, her prior coolheadedness all but gone. "I-I, uh. No. I don't know. I really don't know him well enough to say."
Dean pulls a business card from his wallet and hands it to Lilah. "All right, well, you hear of anything, give us a call."
Lilah nods, gazing down at the card in her palm for a moment before tucking it into her back pocket. "Sorry, were you going to order anything else?"
Sam shakes his head. "No, I think we're good. Just the check, please."
Lilah heads back to the bar to get their bill from the register, and Dean turns to Sam. "What, not even a drink?"
"Like Eileen said, we need to scope out the rehab clinic."
Dean makes a face like Sam just asked him to climb into a vat of worms. "Dude, can't the rehab wait 'til tomorrow? I'm exhausted."
"I could go with Sam instead," Cas suggests.
"No, a rehab clinic isn't going to talk with a reporter," Sam counters, gesturing to the Boston Globe ID poking out of Cas's jacket pocket. Then, to Dean, "If you didn't sleep at all on the way here, then that's on you."
Dean looks pleadingly in Cas's direction, but apparently Cas's willingness to help him only extends so far. He lifts his hands and says, "Don't look at me. I offered to drive eleven times."
The Kettle Cove Rehab Clinic is a much smaller operation than either Dean or Sam expects, located in a squat brick building that was originally constructed as an inn. It's not far from the King's Head, so they leave the Impala parked on Commercial Street and walk the rest of the way, while Eileen insists on dragging Cas to several of the touristy shops along the harborfront.
A tinny bell over the door to the clinic jingles softly when they walk in. Dean frowns, surprised at the homey interior. There's a front desk and a secretary, but the rest of the lobby — if it can be called a lobby — is made up of squashy patched-up armchairs and a ratty couch, a scuffed coffee table, and piles of outdated magazines. A few narrow doors lead off from the main room, nameplates designating them as offices, and a staircase leads up to a second level in the back.
"Not really what I pictured for a clinic," Dean mutters through the corner of his mouth.
"Well, the police did say it was used as a shelter more often than not," Sam replies before approaching the front desk.
The secretary is a young person of indeterminate gender, androgynous clothes and chipped painted nails and a wispy coat of hair on their chin. They look up at Sam and Dean with a suspicious squint and release a sigh as they pause the Grey's Anatomy episode playing on their phone.
"Can I help you?" they ask.
"I think so," says Sam, peering over the edge of the desk at the secretary's nametag, "Robin. Agents Frantz and Byrne. We're hoping to speak to whoever's in charge."
Robin stands, propping their hands on their hips. "Let me see your badges."
They oblige, and Robin scrutinizes the badges for a minute before handing them back.
"So what's this about?" Robin crosses their arms.
"Federal investigation," Dean says. "Your boss around?"
"Maryann's the supervisor today, but she's out on lunch," Robin replies. "It's just me here at the moment."
"Maybe you could help us out, then?" Sam prompts, drawing Fred Sargent's mugshot from his pocket. "We understand that this man has been a patient here."
Robin glances at the photo for only half a second, arms still crossed. "If he has, you should know that federal patient privacy laws prevent me from discussing our patient's care without a warrant." Their eyebrows shoot upwards, challenging. "Do you have a warrant?"
"The federal government isn't required to protect the privacy of dead men," Dean snaps, far too tired to be patient. "Did he get treated here or not?"
The steely glare melts from Robin's face almost instantly. "He's dead?"
Sam opens his mouth to explain further, but the door swings open behind them, letting a cold gust of wind follow them in. A short middle-aged woman enters from the street, her winter coat and skirt buffeted by the breeze, legs hidden inside knee-high leather boots. "Whew!" she shivers, giving herself a shake as she steps into the warmth.
"Maryann," says Robin, beckoning her to the desk as she unbuttons her jacket. "These men are here from the FBI."
Maryann pauses, glancing between them, then breaks into a blindingly white smile. "Well, then, we'd better step into my office," she says, all too cheerful, and leads Sam and Dean over to the nearest door. "Come on, gentlemen, I've got the space heater on."
Inside Maryann's office, it's cramped and disorganized and very warm. Case files sit in stacks on whatever surface is available, binders crammed into shelves too small, and the computer is practically an antique. Maryann wedges herself behind the desk, draping her coat over the back of her seat, and fluffs her hair once before offering the only other available chair to Sam.
"Sorry, there's not enough room for two," she shrugs. "We work with what we have, so one of you'll have to stand."
Sam sits, only because his head is practically brushing the ceiling, and leaves Dean on his feet. "We understand that Fred Sargent was a frequent patient here," Sam begins, taking Fred's mugshot out of the police file under his arm and handing it across the desk to Maryann. "Do you recognize him?"
Maryann gazes at the mugshot fondly for a moment. "Of course I do. Fred's a gem. Or was, anyway. Always a pleasant guy to have around — when he was sober." She shakes her head and returns the photo to Sam. "But, you know, substance abuse does terrible things to a person. He didn't deserve what happened."
"So you heard about his body washing up in South Portland."
She nods, leaning back in her chair. "Yes, I spoke with the police about this already. What I don't understand is why this involves the FBI. Was Fred on the Top 10 Most Wanted or something?" Her mouth quirks like she's making a joke.
"Something like that," is all Sam will say. "We're just helping out the local authorities."
"We're here looking into any possible leads, seeing if there was anyone here at the clinic he didn't get along with," Dean adds.
Maryann tilts her head to the side in thought, pursing her mouth. "Hard to say. Most people living on the streets have a fight to pick with somebody or other, but they're not usually big enough conflicts to kill someone over. Even if there was someone who hated Fred enough to do that to him, I wouldn't know about it."
"Do you know any of his friends who we could talk to?"
"Only a few other patients here, but I can't give out that information. You could try Preble Street."
"Preble Street?"
"Yeah, the Preble Street Resource Center," Maryann clarifies, scribbling an address onto a Post-It and handing it to Sam. "Most of the homeless folks in Portland hang around that area. It'd probably be a good place to start."
"All right, thanks," Sam said, tucking the mugshot back into the police file along with the Post-It. He stands, hunched in order to avoid hitting his head on the rafters, and pulls a card from his coat pocket to give to Maryann. "If you think of anything — anything at all — let us know."
Maryann rises to her feet and shakes Sam's hand, then Dean's in turn. "Absolutely I will, Agents. You boys have a good afternoon."
Back in the clinic lobby, Robin is no longer sitting at the desk. Instead, they're over in the corner on one of the big squashy chairs, talking quietly with a twitchy man whose skin is pockmarked with sores. The man is upset about something, beginning to cry, and Robin leans forward and gives him a solid hug.
"I think we can show ourselves out," mutters Sam, already heading for the door. Robin doesn't seem to notice them leaving.
Dean is quick to follow, all too eager to be done with the case for the day. Exhaustion prickles at the back of his head as they step back out into the frigid air. The walk back to the Impala is brisk and bracing, and they meet up with Cas and Eileen on the corner of Commercial and Dana.
"You two been having fun?" Dean asks, chuckling at Cas's worn-out expression.
"Eileen wanted to visit a lot of shops," Cas says, fatigued and carrying a couple of bags that he definitely didn't purchase for himself.
"Wait 'til you see the moose shirt I got for you, Sam," Eileen taunts, arms laden with more bags.
"It's getting late." Dean eyes the sky overhead where it's beginning to darken, night creeping in from the east. "I say we find a motel, get a couple of rooms, get started on the case again tomorrow."
"Be cheaper to get one room," Sam remarks as he pulls out his phone, already searching for lodging options.
Dean quirks an eyebrow at him. "Cas and I are still in the honeymoon phase. You sure you want to be in the room for that?"
Sam makes a face. "Ugh, god. Never mind."
Cas's cheeks flush slightly, and Eileen snorts.
Sam ends up booking two rooms at a budget motel in South Portland by the mall. It's not the most attractive location — sandwiched between a Chili's parking lot and a Mattress King and overlooking nothing but pavement and a going-out-of-business Sears. The Chili's neon sign blinks periodically, casting red and green through the sheer curtains in Dean and Cas's room on the motel's second level.
"Almost looks like Christmas," Dean muses, dropping his duffel onto the chipped particle-board dresser.
Cas chuckles, shutting the door behind him. "You're getting ahead of yourself," he says. "It's not even Thanksgiving yet."
"I think I've earned the right to be excited about whatever holiday I want," Dean counters.
A smile crosses Cas's features, outlined in a green glow for a moment before the sign changes back to red. "That's true. You have."
"So," Dean says, stepping into Cas's space and hooking an arm around Cas's lower back. "What now?"
Cas's eyes drop to Dean's mouth, and back up again. Dean really wasn't kidding about the honeymoon phase — the thrill hasn't even begun to fade, and he's not sure it ever will. He thinks he'd be fine with the honeymoon phase lasting for the next decade or so; maybe longer. Heat pools low in his belly as Cas's hand loops around the nape of his neck and pulls him into a kiss.
The kiss is deep, like Cas has been wanting to do this all fucking day, and Dean can relate. He lets his grip migrate down, tugging Cas closer by his hips.
Cas draws back from the kiss a minute later, palm on Dean's cheek. "Dean, you are exhausted."
Dean grins, trying to ignore how his eyelids feel like sandpaper. "Never too tired for this, though," he argues, hooking his fingers through Cas's belt loops.
Cas only tilts his head back and quirks a stern eyebrow. "You've been up for well over twenty-four hours," he admonishes. "Even if you're not too tired, I doubt you'd be much fun."
"Aw, come on—" Dean starts, but Cas seizes him solidly by the shoulders and turns him, giving him a gentle shove toward the bed.
"Nope," he cuts Dean's protest off. "Bed. Now."
Dean grumbles indignantly, shouldering off his jacket. "Fine. But only 'cause I like it when you take charge."
"Quit it," Cas warns, though the corners of his mouth twitch in amusement. "Sleep."
Somehow, Dean still hasn't quite fallen asleep by the time Cas crawls into bed after him. His eyes are closed and he's somewhere close to dozing, but over the past couple of months since Cas lost his grace, Dean quickly adjusted to falling asleep with Cas in the bed beside him. He's not sure he quite knows how to sleep on his own anymore.
The crappy mattress sags and creaks as Cas slides under the covers, and Dean instinctively shifts closer, letting Cas wedge his arm around Dean's shoulders. He lets out a long breath, settling into Cas's side with sleep approaching quickly.
"You remember the last time you and I were in Maine?" Dean mumbles, already half gone.
Cas's chest shakes slightly in a laugh. "You were trying to get me laid at a strip joint."
Dean huffs a wobbly, almost delirious laugh at the memory. "Yeah, and you blew it. Funniest thing I've ever seen."
Cas squeezes his shoulders, craning his neck to plant a kiss on Dean's temple. "Of course I blew it," he says softly, and Dean can barely hear him, rapidly sinking into sleep. "She wasn't my type."