Chapter 5/Inside Out
All Usual Disclaimers Apply: not one red cent do I make for any of my efforts. Characters with names of real people are not real people, in the same way Jessica Holmes imitating Céline Dion is not Céline Dion. I'm fairly sure Madame Dion and her entourage aren't truly evil, aligned with dark forces, or responsible for global warming, the war in Iraq, Bird Influenza or any heinous crimes against humanity, multiple-platinum recording career notwithstanding. Hell, someone's buying those damn cds. Blame them.
Warning! Danger! Unusual amounts of angst, ratcheted up to the breaking point. Much swearing. A whiff of sexual content. Bison. Céline Dion.
STF: Following Sam's visions of bison and demons, the Winchester brothers drive to Québec, where Sam is confronted by his visions in the form of Céline Dion and a Cirque du Soleil casino extravaganza. Both brothers are keeping secrets from the other: Dean commences an affair with an ambivalently-intentioned cirque contortionist; Sam neglects to tell Dean that he's dreaming of his own death. Sam poses as a theatre critic and encounters a threatening circus clown and a Lithuanian folklore exhibition, both of which seem to be wrapped up in his demon vision, which also includes terrifying bison, a neutral primeval power revered by the Lithuanians in the circus. Alienated from Sam and his fears, and temperamentally unsuited to being protected by anyone, Dean is about to conduct his own investigation.
--
What a goddamn awful sleep he'd had. Dean rubbed his eyes, which might as well have been pasted together with laundry detergent. Made it hard to see the road, and he got honked at, muttered a string of obscenities under his breath, including a French one. Sam shifted silently in the seat beside him, remote, distant and uncommunicative.
A hard sleep on both of them. Sam had woken screaming three times, but had jolted Dean awake countless other times with whimpers and whispers. Dean had finally tried sleeping in the car, which had only served to knock his back out. Sam looked like a steamroller had found him in the meantime, was hollow-eyed and gaunt, had picked at breakfast, all the centered happiness of spending yesterday in a fucking museum evaporated.
Dean took a deep breath, eased the Impala through an intersection, heading towards the casino where Sam had arranged an interview with Etienne Marcoux. Made a stupid, fucked-up arrangement when both of them felt like they'd been beaten in their sleep, dragged behind runaway horses.
Dean hadn't wanted to touch it, not any of it, but he was getting mad. Not Sammy's fault, he told himself, making a wide right turn at the lights, heading out of the diner's parking lot. You think he wants this? You think he asked for it?
"Sam," Dean said, and it came out as a rasping croak. Always better to talk while driving, gave them something to look at, took the edge off conversations like this. "Sam, what's going on?"
Sam grunted back, made Dean think of two frogs in a pond. "Just dreams, Dean. Just bad dreams."
"Yeah. Just dreams." Sarcastic as all hell. Don't get mad at him. Not his fault. "What are the just dreams about?"
Heard Sam change position again, probably so he could get a really good shrug in. Dean didn't want to see it, so he didn't look. "You know. Same stuff."
"Bison?" Dean prompted.
"Yeah."
"That's new." Did he have to point out the obvious? "You forgot to mention the fucking buffalo at the museum. The Lithuanian tree of human skin. What, that just slip your mind?"
Another blare of horn as Dean changed lanes without signaling, cutting off a driver. Beside him, Sam fidgeted, reached for the radio dial, changed his mind, sat back. "Didn't know if it was important. Looked like I was on to something, though, didn't it?"
Oh, Christ. Yep, on to something. "Don't change the subject," he said roughly, considered pulling over for a coffee, just to get out of the hellish traffic.
Sam sighed, hard. Mad, maybe, at getting called on it. "I didn't want to worry you."
"Well, you're worrying me, Sam."
"Think we should mention it to Etienne?"
"Me being worried about you?" There were some days when Dean just wanted to slap Sam. "Don't think he'd care. Let's just see if we can figure out if Etienne's possessed. If he is, we've got holy water in the back."
Sam shifted in his seat, and Dean was pretty sure that Sam was sizing him up, and he hated that feeling. "You make him nervous, Dean. I think Etienne will tell me more if I talk to him alone."
The light ahead turned amber and Dean slammed on the brakes unnecessarily abruptly, threw Sam forward a little on the slippery seats. "What the fuck are you talking about?" He was actually breathing hard with the effort of not shouting. "What if he is possessed by a demon? You're going to take him out yourself? That's your plan, bison-boy?"
"That's my plan." Sam sounded petulant and Dean could barely look at him.
"Well, it's a pretty poor plan, Sammy. What? You're suddenly the demon expert? That's what you studied at college?" Aw, shit, hadn't meant to say that.
Predictably, Sam clammed up. Literally, like one of those big cartoon clams on Scooby-Doo. Sam's mouth clamped shut, would take a crowbar to crack it open.
Dean dug at his eye with the heel of his hand. Tried again. "Listen, if it makes you feel better, you talk, I'll just be there, observing. I'll try to look like I'm taking notes or something." Left that image for Sam, just to cheer him up. Hazarded a glance to his right, saw the sudden smirk. Better. The things he said just to deflect that look of Sam's.
Sam took an audible breath, released it. "Sorry. I'm just worried by the way he knew to clip you with the heart monitor. It reminded me..."
Fuck, not this. "Yeah, well, that turned out -" Broke off. Layla. Knew from Sam's expression that he would have to say it out loud. "I'm fine. I'll be fine. The heart. It's fine, too. Every little thing about me absolutely fucking fine. If my back wasn't so screwed from sleeping in the car and you weren't acting like such a pissy little bitch, I'd be dancing. With a bottle of vodka." Had Sam grinning again. What a fucking effort.
Just don't cut me out, Sam.
--
Of course, it didn't work out precisely as planned, mostly due to the fact that Tadeusz met them at the theatre door and said, "Hey, Mister Dean, we talk?" He looked no worse for wear considering the night they'd had, and how totally inebriated he'd been. Dean was surprised that the gymnast even remembered his name. Clapped Sam on the shoulder, staggering him. "Etienne waits for you, front row," he said to Sam.
Dean stared at Sam, who shrugged. God, normally this wouldn't be an issue. Normally, it was more efficient, each talking to different people. Not when one of the interviews was with a likely demon-possessed clown, though. Normal wasn't going to enter into it.
"I'll be careful," Sam said quietly. Sincerely.
Dean nodded, not liking it, but not willing to point out how not-normal the whole situation was. Sam went ahead into the theatre, to where Etienne Marcoux's small dapper head could be seen above the first row of seats, watching some of the smaller Lithuanians practice hopping onto each other's shoulders.
Tadeusz followed his stare. "That Sam? He is okay with that guy," the big man said. "Safe, yah?" Banged his chest with a freakin' fist. "Strong guy. Inside."
What kind of pussy was he that a hung-over barely intelligible strongman could figure out his concern? Dean put one hand into the pocket of his jeans, felt the lucky bullet on his keychain. Grimaced. Might need more than luck; Sam had saved his ass, last time. "Of course."
"Béatrice is in the green room," Tadeusz went on, and gestured with a hand. "Together, we talk. Things here? Maybe dangerous."
Slavic understatement of the fucking year.
He followed Tadeusz down a narrow hallway that connected lobby to backstage. It was dark, and dusty and he immediately sneezed, eyes watering with both inadequate sleep and stage grit. A dim light spilled from an open door some distance down the passageway and he moved towards it.
Béa was waiting for them, looking a little nervous, didn't get up, didn't meet Dean's eyes. Just uncrossed her legs and shifted along the couch a little, making space for Dean to sit. The room wasn't large, was covered in tour posters and mirrors, a single desk cluttered with make up and flowers.
He sat beside her but didn't touch her. Tadeusz leaned in the doorframe, crossed his arms, looking uncomfortable. It was hot in the little room, stuffy. The scent of the flowers was overpowering. Dean itched his nose. Waited.
"The bison in the show?" Tadeusz said, first. "Very bad idea. I don't like the very bad idea."
"Why?" Dean asked, attention divided between the two.
Tadeusz spread his hands, which were the size of porterhouse steaks. "You don't fuck with the zubir. Makes for disrespect, yes? And the singing..."
The fact that he objected to Céline Dion's singing was suddenly overwhelmingly hysterical. Dean bit down on a burble of laughter. "Yeah, the singing." They were both serious, so he cleared his throat. "What about the singing?"
Béatrice turned to him, and he could tell her muscles were tense in the same way they'd been in the closet, were vibrating. "Tadeusz thinks the singing is part of the..." Her mouth made a shape. Tadeusz said a word in Lithuanian and Béa shrugged. "The evil."
Uh-huh, Dean thought.
Tadeusz's head jerked around, hearing the sound of his name being called from the stage. "I go," he said. "You tell him." Firmly. With a nod to Dean, Tadeusz disappeared down the corridor, cat-light on his feet.
Béa watched him go, then turned her attention to Dean. "Etienne's very dangerous," she said, barely more than a whisper.
"Did he threaten you?"
She shook her head. "Girls. They're disappearing." She shrugged. "He doesn't need to threaten."
"Disappearing? How?" Dean watched her face, could see fear flit across it, wanted to help, to make it better, but he needed to know what first. "Was it the argument we heard yesterday?"
Her hands fluttered and Dean bit the inside of his mouth instead of reaching out, which was what he felt like doing. "I was hired to replace the last girl. Etienne said she quit, but I know her, eh? She wasn't a quitter. Tadeusz doesn't think so, either. They are superstitious, those guys. I think they called something up, to fight the bad luck."
Finally, he took her hand. Tears ran down her face to her chin, but she hadn't made a sound, no sob, no sniff. "I don't know Etienne. He's one of her people."
Dean raised his eyebrows, a silent question.
"Céline's. René's, I mean. Her, she's not so much. A big voice, yes? But no more than that. René, though. He's..." gestured with her free hand. To her eyes. "He is cold here. I see him watch us, and he's...'ungry. You know?"
He knew. He'd seen more evil in more guises than almost anyone. Béa was observant, he already knew that. And she lived in a half-life of old world superstition where things were possible. Part of what he found attractive about her, he realized. Part of what she probably found attractive about him. Each recognized the strangeness of the other, the willingness to believe in darker things.
"Yesterday, La Céline, she is asking him what happened to the girls. She's mad about it, and thinks maybe he's lying to her. And he said she's crazy. Says she needs to keep quiet about it, might scare the rest of us off." The tears had stopped.
"You don't have to do this," he said abruptly. "There are other jobs."
He might as well have suggested amputation as an option.
"Quitting Cirque is like quitting the Olympic team. You work your whole life to get here. My mother? She worked Ringling Brothers," said that like it was a disease. "I don't want that," and she turned his hand over in both of hers, rubbed it like a charm, a magic lamp. "Contortionists don't have many work years in them. The Cirque has a school in Montréal, and if I do this well, it's a job for life. No moving around," and she looked at him and he forgot what he was going to say, how he was going to get her out of danger, just wanted to stay looking at her expression for as long as he could.
She wanted that, he could see, plainly. She wanted the no moving around. Like him, she'd grown up with uncertainty and now longed for something else. Pay your dues now, and rest will come. Roots will come.
"Your brother," was all she had to say to get his complete attention.
"What about..."
She shook her head minutely. "Yesterday, I didn't know that he's your brother – the reporter. But René? He said that Sam is important. Has..." She stopped, perhaps uncertain of the word in English. "That he is special, powerful. Etienne thinks he's going to be trouble. It sounds stupid," and she shook her head.
"Believe me, none of this sounds stupid," he gentled, bringing calm to his voice when he felt no sense of it anywhere. He stroked her hair, mostly to reassure himself, not her.
"Sam, he feels things, yes? Knows about this..." waved her hand to the Cirque poster for Inferno that was pinned above the couch. "He feels the evil here, and knows about the zubir. He knows about you." He must have made a face then, because she took a breath, tried to explain. "Sam sees you, right through." She smiled, but it was wrong, comprehensively sad, and it confused Dean worse than what she was saying, that smile. "Right to here."
And laid one finger to his chest, pointed like a compass found north.
--
Sam got precisely nowhere with Etienne, except in an established circle, felt like one of those animals tied to a wheel, powering a mill. Easily, as though he'd done it a hundred times, and maybe he had, Etienne described himself as Belgian-Norwegian and said that he'd been in Céline and René's employ for several years, and that he choreographed all her stage shows. He'd worked with the Cirque management on Inferno, an interesting experience, he intimated, leaning closer to Sam.
Sam asked where he'd gotten the idea of using the zubir and Etienne shrugged as if everyone knew that story. What rock had Sam been living under that he didn't know about zubir and Lithuanian myth? Old country folktales, re-interpreted for a new audience. Surely not a novel idea for a theatre critic?
Though he tried as hard as he could, Sam couldn't determine what Etienne was. Demon-possessed human, shapeshifter, devil-worshipper, dark servant. Some other kind of evil.
The only break he caught was when Etienne told him that René was willing to talk, if Sam was able to be here tomorrow at ten. René was particular about the interviews he gave; he would talk to Sam. No photographers, no note-takers. Sam was made to understand this was an honor, and unusual. Sam didn't know what kind of idiot Etienne had mistaken him for.
He'd agreed and was already coming up with an excuse that would allay Dean's fears, even before Etienne had finished making the arrangements.
Then Dean came storming out from backstage, bristling in a way Sam hadn't seen in some time, no hesitation to his walk, came right up to them, crossed his arms in front of his chest and said in a deep clear voice, "Christo."
Etienne looked blankly at him. Blinked once. Smiled deeply, then laughed. Laughed for a long time. Dean's expression didn't move. Finally, Etienne stood and Sam stood with him, came shoulder to shoulder with his brother. "The artist, right?" Etienne's voice was edged and melodic. "Who wraps big things up." His smile faded. "That's the best you have?"
Eyes touched Sam's, cold as a reptile, as expressive. "Good day, Mr. Winchester. And...friend. Your story will be interesting, if nothing else." Lingering glance at Dean, and Sam immediately reacted. He stepped in front of Dean, put himself between Etienne and his brother, wished Dean a million miles away. Didn't care how much he pissed Dean off by doing it.
Chuckling, Etienne leapt to the stage, called out to where Tadeusz and the others were continuing their practice. He gestured with one hand. An acrobat fell clumsily from the big man's shoulders and the two Lithuanians exchanged a look before the larger man shook his shoulders and nodded at the other to try again.
Rattled, Sam thought, and he grabbed Dean by the sleeve of his shirt, steering him out the door.
--
"We phone Dad," Sam said before they were even at the car.
"We don't phone Dad," Dean replied, unlocking the Impala and sliding in. Fuck, it was iron-melting hot inside, and he left the door open when he reached over to unlock Sam's side, knew he wouldn't be able to grip the steering wheel without leaving a layer of cooked skin behind. Sat for a minute, waiting for Sam to get in. Sam didn't; he stood by the open door, a slight cross-breeze barely alleviating the furnace. Sweat rolled down the side of Dean's face.
Phone Dad. Yeah, that would be just great. "One, he never shows up, so what's the point?" Two, we'd have to tell him about your wacky dreams and if you think I'm freaked out, just wait till Dad gets a whiff of this. "Two, he's not going to be crossing any borders to get here."
Sam wasn't listening. Dean knew this by the fact that he'd walked away. So Dean got out of the car, started shouting across the packed parking lot, which wasn't exactly his style. "Three, we've got nothing."
Sam turned. "Nothing?" Took two steps back towards the car, his eyes mere slits in the sun. "Nothing?" he repeated incredulously.
"Get in the car, Sam," Dean ordered gruffly. He started the engine, snapped off the radio, which was playing some French commercial that he could tell was for McDonalds, though he couldn't have said how. Sam perched, enervated and testy.
For once, Dean wasn't going to avoid it.
"No bodies, no animal mutilations, hovering lights, power grid surges, no weirdness anywhere. Etienne's a shithead, but he's not a demon, and he's not possessed. An evil little prick, but nothing to exorcise or send to hell, and I draw the line at wasting a guy just because he's an asshole. So what do we have besides that, Sam? Just your dreams, which I am not explaining to Dad, not in a message and not when he can't help."
He took a breath, not liking the note of desperation his voice had suddenly veered into. And it wasn't even precisely true, was it, because Béa had just told him that girls had gone missing. Had just told him that Sam could see straight through him and the thought of that made Dean queasy.
Sam had gone white, which wasn't a good sign. Dean chose to ignore it, forced himself to clutch the fire-poker hot steering wheel, and backed out of the parking space. Unrolling the window didn't do much good, but Sam did it anyway, stuck his arm out and took his time replying. Finally, so quietly Dean had to reach to hear above the engine, "So, you want to leave?"
"What?" Because that had never occurred to him.
"You know, leave. Drive away. Just ignore it, leave it behind. Find a new gig." His tone was nuanced, almost sneaky. Laying traps. "Unless there's something else here that's holding your attention."
Dean blinked hard, tried to concentrate on the road, which was snarled in a horrendous traffic jam. He's talking about leaving together. Please let him be talking about that. "Other than your fucking dreams waking me up every half hour? Other than that, Sam?" He kept his voice down; windows open and he didn't want to have a fight, but he was sick of side-stepping it, too.
"Yeah, other than that, Dean. You think I don't know where you've been? Who you've been with?"
Though the wheel was like a new form of torture, Dean held on, saw his knuckles go white. A great swooping nausea forced him to clamp his mouth shut. Sam knew.
And if Sam knew about Béa, what else could he see? What else, Dean thought, finally understanding that he was trapped in his own fucking car with his psychic brother, what else has Sam seen about me? About how Dad and I live our lives only to kill things? No fucking wonder he walked away from it. From us. Like Sam was pulling up a rock that was Dean's soul and looking at all the things that squirmed underneath it.
Tapped the steering wheel, tried to take some comfort from that, but felt cold, felt that sick cold way when you had a sudden fever.
Sam laughed and it was an awful sound. A car honked behind them and someone yelled something, cut around them to race down the verge. Another car followed. Heat shimmered from the hood and Dean wiped his face with one hand, found it slick with sweat, which he transferred to his jeaned knee.
"What's so funny?" he asked, for the sake of keeping it going. He didn't look at Sam, couldn't, pulled ahead in the lane, judged the light ahead, made an illegal left turn to get out of traffic. Felt momentary relief as air swept through the car.
"Nothing. Believe me, nothing is funny about this."
"Girls have been disappearing, Cirque performers." Dean blurted out.
"How?"
Dean shrugged, surprised at how even Sam's voice was. Maybe he already knows this. "I don't know. Just not showing up for work one morning, I guess."
"That's not what I meant," Sam said softly, a chilling tone. "How do you know? And why am I only hearing about this now?"
"It's what Tadeusz wanted to tell me," he coughed, raising his voice as the wind picked up. Sam rolled up his window a little.
It was fear doing the driving then, but Dean didn't want to admit it. Decided that the whole discussion was getting out of hand and that he was soon going to say something that he'd regret and Sam hung on to crap like a pit bull with a lamb chop. Decided that he should just shut it down before it got ugly.
Dean had just come to that conclusion when Sam said, apropos of nothing, "You're not so fucking tough, Dean."
Pulled into the motel before answering. Turned to Sam, fought to keep it calm-sounding. "I am so fucking tough, Sam." Stared at him. "Don't you forget it."
Sam's face twisted, his sigh turning on a disbelieving laugh. "You're impossible. You weren't so fucking tough when your heartbeat was all over that theatre. I heard it, I saw you, man! You're only human, Dean. I don't know where the demon is. All I know is that there is a demon. And Béatrice Viau just about made your heart stop beating when she fell, and now you're...what?"
Dean had held up a hand, was shaking his head. "Girl on the ceiling, Sam? That's you and your fucked-up mind, and it's Jess. I get it, okay? It's always about Jess. I should know, because you've woken me up enough times with it." Leave Béa out of your conspiracy theory, Sam. Didn't say it, but was starting to suspect that Sam would hear it anyway.
Hard as a physical blow, it occurred to Dean that one thing could change Sam in his eyes, could make Sam different. One thing only: if he could see inside Dean that way, would just beam his fucking psychic flashlight into the darkest places Dean had, which were considerable That was...unthinkable and Dean had just thought it. He swallowed.
Everything he'd been telling himself about Sam and his dreams was a lie. It did make him different. It did.
Dean did not want to be having this conversation, not ever. Couldn't they just keep going on the way they had been? Wasn't that enough?
"It's not enough, Dean," Sam replied desperately, and Dean leaned away, squeezed his eyes shut, hid himself behind a hand. "The dreams aren't enough to go on, I don't know how to control them, I don't know how to read them. They don't replace how we've always worked a gig. So you gotta tell me if she's said anything. How can we figure this out if you don't tell me what you're doing?"
Dean thought he might throw up. Instead, he nodded once, abrupt, hand dropping to the chrome door handle. "I tell you what you need to know, Sam. Some stuff, though? It's private." And that was a warning.
Sam didn't seem to hear it. "Not when she's dangerous, Dean. Not when she puts you in danger. Etienne said that Béatrice finds you, and that's just what she did, isn't it? You think Etienne fucking Marcoux has your best interests at heart? Think that you looked like you needed some company -"
Dean didn't know what expression was on his face, but it stopped Sam cold, whatever it was. Sam's eyes were bright; he was angry, and he was worried. He was also something else that Dean had never seen before. God, was Sam trying to protect him? Because that kind of shit didn't hold water with him. That sort of shit just made him feel small, and Sam should know it.
They hadn't had time to work it out yet, what kind of brothers they were going to be; Sam had grown up at Stanford, and Dean hadn't been there to see it, hadn't been allowed. There was no going back, not to the time when Dean was the big brother, the authority, the one who Sam had to listen to, no matter what. What happens now? Dean wanted to ask that, but was too furious.
For once, like he had been turned inside out, anger made him cold, not white hot. "Same goes for you, Sam. You tell me everything?" Held Sam's stare and Sam was the first to look away. "Yeah. Thought so."
Satisfied for the first time that day, Dean got out of the stifling hot car and slammed the door behind him.
TBCa/n: One could make a case that parallels exist between this story and 'Scarecrow' (minus Céline Dion, of course). However, I'd argue that both owe a nod to Neil Gaiman's American Gods, which I highly recommend. And don't you worry, I'm going to cut these boys some slack soon, now that we've got all the nasty bits of exposition out of the way. Lots of sunshine and lollipops next chapter, I promise. (looks behind back to check that fingers are indeed, crossed.)
