A Most Satisfying Resolution
K Hanna Korossy

"How's your head?"

Sam's hand automatically went to the back of his skull, where the lump was still tender. Father Lucca knocking him out seemed like it had happened a week ago, not the day before. "Okay. Sore, but okay."

"Still seeing double?" Dean pressed as he packed his duffel, glancing up at Sam in between rolling pairs of jeans.

"How'd you know I was—?" Off Dean's Come On! expression, Sam sighed. "No. No nausea, either."

"Good. For a priest, he sure packed a punch."

Lucca had saved Dean's life, as a matter of fact, taking a bullet for him, which alone nominated him for "most holy man" in Sam's book. Sam glanced over at the vial of blood the priest had given them, sitting safely on the motel room table. It wasn't how they'd expected to get this job done, but it would work, Sam was sure of it.

Well, pretty sure.

He zipped up his own bag and took a breath. "Actually, I was thinking I'd pick us up some food before we headed home. I saw a sushi place in town that—"

"Yeah, yeah—is it beside a burger joint?"

"Actually, yes."

Dean squinted at him, not used to winning so easily. "Medium rare, extra onions, pie if they have it?"

"Dude, I know how you like your burgers," Sam said with exasperation. Burgers, coffee, and every single other menu item out there, including the ones Dean would rather salt-and-burn than eat.

Dean was watching him more seriously now. "You sure you're up for this?"

Sam made a face and planted his hands on his hips. "Seriously? I was at an illegal auction last night that turned into a shootout, and you're worried about me getting lunch?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Yeah, 'cause you've never gotten into trouble going out for food."

Okay, Dean had him there. Meg had possessed him on a simple food run. And, sadly, that wasn't the only time an innocuous errand had turned dangerous.

"Whatever, yeah, go." Dean finally waved him off. "Just don't take forever, I'm hungry." And worried, but they rarely talked about that.

Sam managed to curb his grin and nodded. "You got a twenty?" he asked as he grabbed his phone and wallet, and the keys Dean tossed him. He snatched the bill out of Dean's fingers on his way out the door.

Outside, Sam took a breath. He had seen a sushi place in town that looked good, and he was pretty sure there was a hamburger joint on the same block. But Sam had a stop to make first.

The same butler answered the door, and this time the man didn't try to hide his distaste of Sam. Probably not keen on the guy who got his boss arrested. Sam couldn't care less and brushed past the man even as he spluttered that Sam couldn't come in.

Richard Greenstreet was in his office, looking like he was in the middle of packing. Sam noticed his black eye with some satisfaction. The dealer started guiltily as Sam strode in, then tried to hide it with belligerence.

"What do you think you're—?"

"Just…stow it," Sam said, raising a hand. "You still owe us, Greenstreet—I came to collect."

"You didn't get me the skull," Greenstreet said with a curl of the lip. "I don't owe you anything."

"Right." Sam glanced around the room. "I figured you were home because you put up bail. But it looks like you're getting ready to leave tow—"

"What do you and your pedestrian brother want?!" whined Greenstreet.

Sam's eyebrows rose. "'Pedestrian.' Nice," he nodded pleasantly, then let his face go hard. "Let's talk, Dick."

Greenstreet shut up, his eyes went wide as he sank into a chair and listened.

00000

Dean could clear a motel room in his sleep. Pack clothes and toiletries. Sweep under the bed, every drawer, the fridge if there was one, and behind the nightstand. Double-check the bathroom. In the past, they would swipe a towel or blanket if the linens were good, but now they had awesome sheets and towels at the bunker. Dean was just about to pull out his phone and settle at the table to wait for the food—oh, and Sam—when there was a polite knock at the door.

If it was housekeeping, they didn't announce themselves. Frowning, Dean curled one hand around his gun as he answered the door with the other.

A guy stood outside the door, flanked by two beefy bodyguards. From his tailored suit to his gleaming nails—seriously?—the dude stank of money. No, not just money: all he was missing was a fedora and spats to be textbook mob.

Dean sighed to himself. Awesome.

"What do you want?" Dean didn't release his grip on his Colt.

One elegant eyebrow rose; the guy probably plucked them. Or, rather, had them plucked. "Dean Winchester, I presume? I have some questions for you."

Even the guy's voice sounded rich. "Let me guess," Dean growled. "You're not asking."

Mob guy cocked his head, and with his dark hair and striking eyes, he reminded Dean momentarily of Cas. "Yes, that was a statement, not a question. Should I put it in the form of a query?"

Dean blinked, nonplussed. "Excuse me?"

Mob guy sighed, glanced briefly heavenward, then gave Dean an insincere smile. "I'll cut to the chase. My name is Nikolas Scarpatti. I believe you were one of the last people to see my cousin, Santino Scarpatti, alive."

Dean knew it: M-O-B. His hand flexed on his gun; no way was someone else driving Baby again while he had to sit in the back.

Mob guy put both hands up in a surprisingly conciliatory move. "I'm not here for some sort of revenge." He clasped his hands in front of him. "On the contrary, I'm grateful to you. Santino has long been a…thorn in the side of the family. His desecration of a nunnery…" Scarpatti shook his head.

Slowly, Dean uncramped his fingers from the pistol grip. He was pretty good at reading people, and old Nik did seem honestly happy about his cousin's death. Nice family. Still, mob guys not wanting payback from the Winchesters was good news. "Okay, so…?"

"So…I just wanted to know what happened. Exactly. Arrangements to be made, you know." Yeah, Dean had no idea. "And…to offer you the reward my cousin no doubt did and neglected to pay."

Well, to be fair, Scarpatti had welched on their deal because he'd been dead. And the holy relic he'd wanted was now on its way back to Italy with Father Lucca. But Dean Winchester wasn't one to turn down a reward. He dropped his hand at his side and clutched his keys inside his pocket instead. "Right. So. Uh, you want me to come with you?"

Scarpatti smiled, like a friendly shark. "Or we could talk here in your, er, charming room."

Dean hesitated. On the one hand, he preferred meeting on his turf. On the other, if he let the men inside, it would be three against one, and without witnesses. "Okay. But just you."

Both bodyguards stirred for the first time, brows drawing together into twin frowns.

But Scarpatti's smile just grew. "Of course."

And as Dean stepped aside to let a mob boss into his room, he had to wonder yet again if he was crazy.

00000

Sam pulled up two spaces away from their door and parked. He gathered both bags from the Impala's passenger seat and got out, already fumbling for the room's oversized key. He rapped twice on their door, a second between each knock, then unlocked it and stepped inside.

And stopped. It smelled…different. Like cologne. Expensive cologne.

Frowning, he glanced around, blood pressure inching up at the sight of the empty room, until the bathroom door swung open. Sam took a breath as his brother walked out, just toweling dry his face.

"Sammy." Dean brightened. "Finally. M'starving."

"They were just about to pull a cherry pie from the oven so I waited…Dean, who was here?"

Dean, to his surprised, snorted a laugh as he tossed the towel toward the bathroom. "It's the cologne, isn't it? Dad always said you were part bloodhound." He reached for the greasier of the bags.

Sam pulled it back. "Dean."

"Fine," Dean sighed exaggeratedly. "It was a Scarpatti, okay? Santino's cousin." He leaned forward and snatched his lunch from Sam. "Fresh-baked cherry pie? Dude, you are so my favorite brother."

"I'm your only brother," Sam said automatically, but his narrowed eyes could see no sign of injury or tension in Dean. "So, what, the family wanted to thank us for offing Santino?" he asked sarcastically.

Dean sat down at the table and started pulling out containers. "They weren't too broken up about it. I got the feeling they'd just been waiting for Scarpatti to shoot himself in the foot. Or, you know, get shot."

Sam sank down across from Dean and absently began taking out his own three trays of sushi. "So this Scarpatti came here to…?"

"He wanted to find out what went down. Like, blow for blow." Having located his dripping burger, Dean took a big bite, and continued through a full mouth. "Somethin' 'bout honor an' duty, I dunno." He gave Sam a delighted, disgusting smile as he dug into his pocket and dropped something on the table. "He gave us this."

It was a roll of bills. A fat roll of bills. With Ben Franklin visible on the outside. Sam gaped.

"I know, right? Maybe we should whack mob guys more often."

"Right," Sam said wryly, fingering the rubber band that held the bills tightly together. "And he just…gave this to you?"

Dean was on his third big bite. "Well, they don't want us talkin' to anybody 'bout it. But, yeah."

Sam blinked a few times.

Dean nudged Sam's foot with his boot. "Where'd you go?" As Sam gave him a startled look, Dean rolled his eyes. "Dude, you were gone for more than an hour, and you still haven't taken your jacket off."

Sam huffed. Maybe he was the bloodhound, but Dean was no slouch in the observation department, either. "I stopped by Greenstreet's."

Dean's eyes widened over his burger. "He made bail already?"

"Oh, yeah. Not that he's gonna be around for the trial." Sam had neatly laid out the sushi and was unwrapping chopsticks.

Dean snorted. "Yeah, big surprise there. Why'd you go see 'im?" And didn't tell me was implied, if mildly. They didn't keep secrets like they used to.

"Margaret—"

"Oh, now it's Margaret."

"Shut up, Dean. Margaret Astor said he's a major occult dealer, right? I figured he still owed us." Sam uncapped the wasabi, and barely bothered to scowl as Dean immediately claimed a glob of it for his burger.

A laugh broke out of Dean. "So while the mob dropped off a reward with me, you went to extort something from a black market dealer. Dude, maybe they should make a show about us."

That froze the first sushi roll an inch from Sam's mouth. Oh, man, he could not imagine the humiliation, the utter nakedness of strangers seeing all the failures, weaknesses, vulnerabilities, and intimate moments only the two of them had witnessed. Chuck's books had been bad enough.

"So, what'd you get?" Dean continued, and took another big bite. His burger was two-thirds gone and Sam had yet to take his first bite. Typical.

Sam gave the sushi a regretful glance and set it down. He reached into his jacket's inside pocket and carefully pulled out the oblong, newspaper-wrapped package. He set it in front of Dean with a flourish and reached for his chopsticks again.

Curiosity trumped hunger. Dean actually parted from his burger for a moment, setting it down and wiping his hands on a napkin before reaching for the paper-wrapped parcel. He unwrapped it with as much care as Sam had shown.

The spyglass was made of polished bronze and etched with beautiful stylized runes. It gleamed even in the wan light of the motel room, and Sam heard Dean suck in a breath.

"It's an interdimensional telescope," Sam prompted when Dean didn't ask. When his brother looked up at him, Sam smiled. "It lets you see alternate universes."

Dean stared at him, then at the spyglass, burger clearly forgotten. "So maybe…we can see Mom?"

"There are a lot of alternate worlds out there, man, and they're each, well, you know, a whole world. Chances of us spotting her are aren't big. But…maybe."

When Dean finally pried his gaze away from the spyglass again and looked at Sam, it was with that expression that made all of this worthwhile. The look that said Sam really was the best brother ever.

"Dude," Dean finally said reverently, stroking a hand over the spyglass. "You win." He flicked the roll of bills to Sam's side of the table. "Here, buy all that stuff you've been drooling over on eBay."

"How—?" And why did he even bother wondering. Shaking his head, Sam picked up his chopsticks again. "It's 'stuff' for our job. There's a dagger in DC that might even kill a Prince of Hell."

"Right. And that limited edition Rio doll, that's, what, cursed object?" Dean had pulled out the pie now and was digging in with relish, and a little smile for Sam.

"Eat your food," Sam said. He tried to be withering, but he could feel his cheeks redden.

"Told ya," Dean said with a full-mouth smirk. "TV show."

Well. Sam finally popped a roll of sushi into his mouth. If their lives were a TV show, at least things would end well. And they could cut to black on scenes of brotherly downtime like having a relaxing lunch—

The End