Disclaimer, Summary, Rating: See Chapter 1.
THE SCENT OF YOU
Chapter 8
The respectful waiter was back and hovering; this being Texas, Dean ordered the steak, medium, with the baked potato and mixed vegetables, and the four-cheese & sweet onion sauce. Sam made it two, and as the waiter left he took a small drink of his wine and sighed with deliberate dolefulness.
Irritation flickered across Dean's face, "Sam, just order a beer if you don't like the wine –"
"Are you kidding? This is great…which, is the problem." Sam took another drink.
"And without the cryptic that means?"
"If this gig takes us longer than a week, we're going to suffer a serious lifestyle downturn." Sam complained with a pout, "I'll be scarred for life."
As Sam intended, the comment made Dean smile and those tiny lines in the corners of his eyes crinkled, "You already are…do you really think we'll be here an entire week?" It was a reasonable question, considering most Hunts took them less than three days and usually no more than five, tops.
Sam shrugged, "Well to be honest, I got nothing. Okay, UNT Amarillo is sharing ground rent with Old & Evil, but UNT's been there for forty years and up until now O&E's been content to leave them alone."
"So, why the sudden 'bad hair day'?" Dean summarised as he appreciatively sipped his wine, for some reason not feeling the usual sharp stab because it was Cassie's favourite…one day maybe he'd be able to think of her without wishfully wondering that maybe she'd take him back if he…changed everything that he was, that made him Dean in the first place... The one thing you can't give up for your heart's desire is your heart.
"Yeah, and why those eleven people," Sam commented, "Amarillo's got hundreds of students, not to mention faculty, college staff and ancillary workers. Out of all those, why were those eleven specifically targeted out of all the available victims…I mean there were others far more vulnerable and much less likely to be missed…remember those Goths we saw walking down one of the halls?"
Dean nodded, "Yeah, they end up DOA and everyone automatically assumes they OD'd, but not ultra-respectable members of the faculty and the other victims were all Sammy students…"
"What?"
"The kind that should have been throttled by their own halos," Dean taunted.
"Ha-ha." Sam wrinkled his nose at him, then continued, "But how's it choosing them, and why? The only common denominator those eleven people had was that they were affiliated in some way with UNT Amarillo, and that criterion applies to, like, twelve hundred people." He pointed out.
Dean shrugged, "I hear yah…unless it just intends to work its way through the entire campus."
There was a short pause as they looked at each other in sudden fear of ending up with 1200 corpses and no solution. Before Sam could respond, their meals arrived and for several minutes, they gave the food the attention it deserved. As Sam had hoped, the food did live up to the implication of the standing-room-only reservation book. The steaks were thick but tender, the baked potatoes large but with crispy outer skin and fluffy yellow insides that showed they had been slow-cooked in an oven not zapped in a microwave. The cheese and sweet onion sauce came in gravy boats and was thick but smoothly pouring, showing it had been freshly prepared, without the lumps that would have exposed it as the result of desiccated cheese powder whisked with boiling kettle water or the cloggy, gluey consistency that indicated a tin can had just been slopped in a bowl and shoved in a microwave.
"To be honest," Sam paused to take another drink of his wine, "It would be a good idea to email Dad and see if he can suggest any pattern."
"You really think?" Dean's surprise – and pleasure – that Sam had been the one suggesting the contact with Dad caused another stab of guilt in the younger Winchester's gut as he acknowledged how often Dean had been used as the pawn and prize of his and their father's power struggles.
"Remember the Vanir? You said it yourself that for Dad to put together a pattern like that just from poring over obituaries and old newspapers…the man is a master when it comes to Hunting." As always in the Winchester family, that word was capitalised.
"Even more so considering he probably never went near a computer the whole time…" Dean admitted ruefully, "in which case do you think he'll be able to email us back any time soon?"
"Jefferson or Solomon or one of his buddies will do it for him," Sam suggested. "As of right now, I'm stumped as to any other leads."
They finished off the meal and Sam noted with a feeling of mellow contentment that the wine had gone too. He pondered the merits of dessert for all of five seconds until he saw the menu and, in the words of George Bernard Shaw, could resist anything but temptation.
Smiling slightly, he saw Dean's eyes light up in anticipation of the sugar-rush, and directed, "Top left of the menu."
It was perfect for Dean, a chocolate and coffee mousse confection topped with roasted coffee beans and infused with Cointreau liqueur...although the chef had apparently just upended the bottle, since Sam could smell the spirit the other side of the table as he ate his own absolutely delicious lemon tart. Dean savoured every molecule of the dessert as if it were a gastronomic orgasm and eyed the glass dish as if wondering whether he could get away with simply picking it up and licking it out.
"No," drawled Sam authoritatively as Dean leaned back in his chair, all but licking his lips, with the satisfied air of a big old tomcat that's just polished off a salmon fillet, jug of cream and your pet canary.
"Hmm?"
"We are not having coffee." Sam vetoed firmly. "When we came in, I saw the cafetieres they've got ready for breakfast. How many did you have?"
Dean pouted, "Just the one…"
"Yeah, just the biggest one you could get." Sam countered, "and I've seen the menu bro', so don't give me any decaf crap…Double-pressed Sumatran Tiger…twice-cold-pressed Jamaican Blue Mountain…I'm cutting you off."
"Its coffee," Dean protested, "I'm not mainlining coke here."
"No but you'll still be bouncing off the walls," Sam retorted, "and you need your beauty sleep."
Dean gave him the look that was the equivalent of flipping him the bird but was constrained as the waiter appeared to clear away the detritus. They went back up to their room intending to go back down and try the hotel's casino facilities but Dean surprised both of them by giving massive, jaw-cracking yawn.
"Get some sleep," Sam encouraged, "I'll email Dad."
Again in keeping with the hotel's proclamation of catering to business people (or just as another way to lure back lost custom) their room had high-speed broadband Internet access facilities 'as standard'. Sam set up their laptop on the small circular table which, along with two chairs, was situated in the bedroom's bay window overlooking the lake, while Dean did his ablutions. While the laptop was booting up Sam got up and put the wall lamps on and switched off the central room light so it wouldn't glare straight in Dean's eyes. By the time Dean came out of the bathroom in his usual sleep attire of boxer shorts and customary jewellery – necklace and rings – and climbed into his bed, Sam was online and typing.
"I'm sending everything we know so far, and I'm going to run some searches," Sam said, "see if there's anything I can find in the more obscure sources. I might have to hack into the police system as well…" his voice trailed off as he concentrated, unaware of the endearing way he wrinkled his nose as he peered at the screen because his fringe was getting in his eyes.
Gonna have to cut that… the thought floated through Dean's brain as he felt his eyelids grow heavy and he smirked…it had been years since Sammy had been young enough to let Dean cut his hair…right before he hit puberty and discovered girls…and hair gel and men's styling…
Continued in Chapter 9…
© 2006, Catherine D. Stewart