Chapter Six/Lap of Luxury

Disclaimer AWAY!: Jeez, yeah, it's true. I own it all, all of them. I'm making freakin' Winchester action dolls and shower toys, gonna cash in any minute, I tell you. It's all amazingly funny until the lawyers show up.

Céline ALERT! Finally, you've all been waiting for it…yeah, she's in the building. I'm talking Céline, in all her freakish glory. Sam has a ridiculous encounter with her diva-ness, the demon is revealed and Lo! Let there be Action. It was all good. Gen, some het-sex, WIP, will be 9 chapters. Set before the season one-ending arc, but after Faith (spoilers for which are contained throughout the story).

Over and Above Thanks: They are unbelievable, my Sober Second Thought Betas. Jm0001 is off caring for sick family in (take a deep breath) CALGARY, and she still finds time to kick my literary ass. Lemmypie? Well, she's busy being an EXTRA on our favourite show, so I'm past caring about what she thinks (just kidding…she totally gets a free ride on this one).

STF: The Winchester brothers follow Sam's disturbing dreams of bison and demons to Québec, where they encounter a creepy Céline Dion (there's another kind?) and a Cirque du Soleil casino extravaganza. Both brothers are keeping secrets from the other: Dean is having an affair with a cirque contortionist; Sam neglects to tell Dean that he's dreaming of his own death. Dean is increasingly worried that Sam's powers will fundamentally alter his relationship with Sam. Sam's visions reveal that Dean is in danger if Sam doesn't sacrifice himself, and so he is protecting Dean, something that Dean vehemently rejects in a loaded confrontation. Drive on, James…

--

Sam didn't know what time Dean had rolled in. One minute, he'd been watching crap TV from the bed, flipping through the five or six available channels before settling on a luridly colored Japanese monster movie. The next, he was waking up with the sun in his eyes, shoes still on, a family of dust bunnies well-established inside his mouth. That's what four beers on an empty stomach and a fight with his brother would do: create a mild hangover and dreamless sleep. The former was penance, the other, welcome.

On the next bed, Dean lay curled up in a ball under the faded orange and avocado coverlet, a thin pillow over his head, protection in only the vaguest sense of the word, bare arm dangling over the bed's edge, fingers grazing the floor. Indelible smell of bar about him.

At least two in the morning, Sam decided. According to the newspaper listings, the badly dubbed movie had ended at two, and he was pretty sure he hadn't stayed awake for the end of it. He didn't remember Dean coming in, which meant that his brother had been quiet, because Sam was a light sleeper. Dean hadn't been that drunk, then, if he could sneak into the motel room, switch off the TV, undress and get into bed without waking him.

Sam lurched to the bathroom, brushed his teeth, took a quick shower, and avoided assessing the hangover's impact on his general appearance in the cracked vanity mirror. When he came back into the room, Dean hadn't moved an inch. Dead to the world.

Sam sighed. Sure they had arguments, what brothers didn't? But Dean wasn't really made for it, not with him. Dean wouldn't think twice about getting into the middle of fight between Sam and their Dad, would jump in with all the ridiculous zest of a rodeo clown, but going head-to-head with Sam wasn't in his nature. And while evasion was a known ploy of Dean's, especially when it came to women that Dean took beyond a one-night stand, Dean lying about something as patently dangerous as Béatrice Viau was reckless. Dean was a lot of things, but reckless wasn't usually one of them.

They were completely out of synch, within themselves and with each other; with each misstep, they grew further apart. Trying to figure out a rhythm with Dean had taken months; at first, Sam had been just managing day by day, barely coping with the fact and manner of Jess's death. Then Sam had realized that Dean had fallen into taking care of him, just the same way he had when they were kids. Sam had bridled at that, and Dean had wordlessly backed off.

Without their father around, both of them nominally adults, and with the immediate grief easing, something new was emerging and Sam didn't quite know what it was, but he suspected it could become a friendship between equals. A surreal, wonderful prospect. They had quite a way to go for that, though. Sam didn't know if they'd be allowed to figure it out; time wasn't on their side, not with the looming cliff and the running buffalo.

I should tell him about the dreams. He should know. Sam collected the empty beer bottles from the coffee table and slid them into the cardboard box beside the tiny fridge. He'll freak. If I tell him that the demon wants me, and it's threatening Dean to get to me? Dean wouldn't stand for it. He'd march right in, get himself killed.

And where would that leave me? Couldn't even think about that, staring at Dean's shoulder, noticing faint scars crossing the summer tan, connecting freckles like one of those constellation maps he'd studied as a kid. He'd throw himself in front of a train, take a bullet for me. I know that. How can I not do the same?

Silently, he picked up his shoes, stepped over the saltline at the door, eased himself out into the early morning heat. He sat down on a white plastic chair on the covered concrete beside an old coffee tin masquerading as an ashtray. For a moment, he stared at the morning traffic beyond the parking lot, mind loose and wandering like a stray dog.

He was twenty-two years old and understood that he wasn't going to get any older than this. If the dreams were right. The current dreams. He'd once had less prophetic dreams, he recalled, ones that were made in the light of day. Plans, not dreams. Maybe dreams. What was it that Springsteen wrote? Is a dream a lie if don't come true, or is it something worse? All the plans he'd made for himself, that he'd dreamed of with Jess, none of them were going to come to pass.

This was what his life was, what it had come round to, come back to, an unbroken circle. A decrepit motel instead of a home financed with major credit card scams, the most dependable thing in their lives a car pushing forty. A seemingly endless series of unknown evils to banish. A brother fucked-up by a hard father and an innocence lost too soon, reared to fight and to kill and to sacrifice. Dean was too smart to waste time on reflection, because reflection meant hesitation and in Dean's life, hesitation often meant death. Sam knew all this, had seen it played out a hundred times, thought maybe he loved Dean more for his selfless headlong acts of pure faith.

Sam knew he was no less affected by this same upbringing, manifest differently. He'd also been reared to fight, but he thought that maybe because he didn't remember the fire that killed his mother, didn't carry that around like an albatross, he was more able to question, to push. To feel anger at what their father had done, had taken from them. Anger always revealed loss; and loss, need. Sam needed. Needed home and justice and love.

Home he didn't think he could do much about, not anymore. But justice and love? Those he could serve. Thought that just as he saw a sports car, a convertible, pull into the motel's heat-shimmering blacktop, silent as a raptor circling in the sky. It worked its way over to where Sam sat watching, already knowing who was behind the wheel. Unsurprised, somehow. Of course he knows how to find us. He got up, padded barefoot as though across living coals to the passenger side, leaned over.

"Good morning," Etienne greeted him, a convention. "Coffee?" And handed Sam a cardboard cup of good quality coffee, strong, from islands in the Pacific. Sam thanked him, took a cautious sip. Etienne ran one slender hand across the top of his head, teeth white against his skin, eyes shuttered behind black reflective shades. "I hope you don't mind. I didn't know if you had a ride. It's almost nine o'clock. Don't you need your notebook?"

Almost friendly. Sam nodded, put his coffee down on the ground beside the chair, slipped on his shoes and disappeared back inside the room. Dean had moved his position, but was presently motionless.

Let him sleep. Sam picked up his bag, not checking the contents, and wrote a quick note, but legible, telling Dean that he'd gone out, that he'd phone him later. They'd have lunch. That he was sorry. Sam looked at that last sentence, didn't know if Dean would be alarmed or amused by it. Might roll his eyes, mutter 'pussy' under his breath. Hard to know.

Looked long and hard at the back of Dean's sleeping head, wanting nothing more than to rouse him, to tell him everything. But he'd written 'sorry' and that was the most important thing, and it would have to do. Carefully, he stepped over the saltline, hoped it would hold back evil. It looked pathetic in daylight, as though a drunken chef had trashed their room as they'd slept. One morning when they were kids, Dean had sprinkled some of the leftover saltline on homefries their Dad had brought back for breakfast. Such was their fucked-up childhood, that Sam could never think of seasoning without thinking of protection.

Holding his breath, he shut the door. Didn't look back as Etienne's powerful car slid from the parking lot and picked up speed on the highway.

They didn't exchange a single word on the way to the casino, and Sam was thankful for that. He didn't think he could bear small talk. The clown's demeanor was confusing: genial, helpful, mocking. Sam didn't know much about this René he was ostensibly going to interview, only that he was Dion's husband and manager, looked to be a lot older than the diva. Though Céline herself looked weirdly preserved, could be anywhere between thirty and ninety, he supposed.

Etienne had never made an appearance in Sam's dreams. Sam didn't know what that meant, because the clown sure as hell factored in this, was some kind of agent. As Etienne parked in a reserved spot, Sam undid his seatbelt and was about to get out, but Etienne made a noise, a cleared throat, and Sam turned. Saw himself distorted in the dark glasses.

"You're very trusting," Etienne observed.

"What? You were going to take me somewhere else? Murder me, leave my body to rot in a riverside park?" He'd seen his death, and it involved bison and demons, and Etienne was neither. Sam knew there would be a purpose to his death; not a bad end, as these things went.

Etienne laughed outright at that, but then his mouth pursed thoughtfully. Sam wished he could see his eyes, although he suspected it wouldn't do him much good. "No. You just surprise me, that's all. I'm difficult to surprise, so it's always such a pleasure. I want you to stick around. And I wouldn't like to make an enemy of your brother. He seems a bit...relentless."

The clown got out the car without further comment, leaving Sam speechless.

By the time Sam caught up with him, Etienne was already inside the building and making his way through a throng of people who had gathered by the doors leading to the theatre box office. Etienne waited for Sam, asked him if he had his press credentials – he'd pushed his glasses on top of his head, so Sam saw the sparkle of mocking delight that accompanied that – and Sam reached into his bag, found the press tag he'd purchased their first night with his winnings from the slots.

They showed their ID to the security guard, who opened the door, keeping the Céline fans at bay. Sam realized what the presence of the fans meant: the singer must be at rehearsal, which only made sense, if her husband was there as well. Huh, he thought. This would all be more interesting if the celebrity was one he actually wanted to meet, but he was stymied as to who that might be, and immediately was distracted by Etienne opening the door to the theatre, guiding Sam in.

"That's René there," he said, pointing. "I'll introduce you. You'll have a half hour, maybe, if all goes well. Céline is rehearsing on stage at the moment. Don't try to say a word to her." It wasn't a threat, seemed more like a friendly piece of technical information, as though he was advising Sam how to work a particularly complex microwave oven.

René was a tall man, imposing, with dark brows and a gleaming scalp fringed with hair the color of whalebone. His eyes were small, deep set, and Sam peered cautiously in the darkened theatre, his own vision sun-blinded, still. Etienne introduced Sam deferentially, then beat a quick path to the back of the theatre, all the while with that grin that Sam would have liked to kick out of him.

"Sam Winchester?" René said, mangling the pronunciation so much that Sam had difficultly immediately understanding what he was saying. On the stage, a strong single spotlight illuminated the stick-figure diva, who had her hair back in a high ponytail, wore a pink t-shirt and who was shouting something at René in French. He called back, eminently calm.

His voice made Sam's skin crawl. He didn't know what it was, but knew from years of hunting, even his years at Stanford where he had hunted other things like 'a decent apartment', 'a part-time job' and 'good grades', that he shouldn't second-guess himself, that he should just trust his instincts. And that resonated with what the clown had said in the parking lot. Trusting. Luck had nothing to do with it. Sam trusted his instincts, not his luck.

His instincts were telling him he ought to run, not walk, away from this man.

"So, you wish to know about the Inferno?" René began, gesturing to the stage steps, slowly mounting them. Some vestigial impulse was triggered: Sam did not want to get on that stage. Across the stage, quite far from where Céline stood, Tadeusz and three other gymnasts, their broad hands chalked up, hauled ropes attached to the metal framework arcing over the theatre. They were dressed in gray and navy sweats, manifestly here to work, not to perform.

"Um, yeah," Sam said, following with all the enthusiasm of a sentenced man ascending the gallows. Céline, only a few yards away from Sam, comprehensively ignored him and spoke rapidly to René, who responded again, calling 'encore' to the band behind the stage, not an accolade, but a command. The musicians were in darkness, and Sam couldn't tell how many there were. One of the gymnasts, a tiny woman who barely came up to Sam's bellybutton, ran up the rope Tadeusz held, climbed maybe fifty feet in under five seconds. Sam watched, terrified and mesmerized.

Sam walked slowly across the stage, past the singer, not wanting to meet her eyes. She was elsewhere occupied in any case, shouting at the musicians, her hands chopping the air, absolutely impossible for Sam to figure out what she was talking about, except that it was upsetting her, whatever it was. René took a spot on the far side of the stage, closer to the gymnasts, waved Sam over.

"You see," he continued, pointing at the girl high above them, "the aerialists have to be very brave. It's a tall ceiling, yes? The big guys down here," and he nodded at Tadeusz, who was concentrating on sweeping the rope in ever faster circles, "they control the speed, they use small pressure and see how they make them go. The little ones at the top? They are everything."

Sam looked at him, and saw black desire in the darkened eyes, staring up at the swinging girl. He swallowed, looked back up to the girl, watched her hook her foot into a smaller strap, let go of the rope, start twirling independently of the rope in Tadeusz's capable hands.

The music started up, and Céline Dion, not twenty feet away from Sam, sang into the dusty chalk-filled air, no microphone, nothing to distort or filter her voice. The hair on the back of Sam's neck stood straight up and he thought he knew where this might be heading. Desperately, he cast about the room, searching for backup. Which wasn't there. He'd avoided backup, hadn't he? Only Etienne, slumped elegantly in a far seat, examining Sam with veiled interest.

René shouted at Céline, something that sounded like 'ploo four' but must mean 'louder, stronger'. Sam looked quickly at her, then at the girl on the ceiling. His heart sounded as loud to him as Dean's had. René laid a hand on Sam's shoulder and he tore his attention from the girl to stare at the manager.

He wasn't smiling, his face was a blank. His eyes were completely black, like oily pools of viscous tar, waving with heat straight from hell. Sam drew away, took several steps backwards, then Céline's voice climbed with the speed and the inherent danger of the girl going up the rope and Sam knew where the note was rising to, and looked up with the note, to meet the note and the top, and saw the girl spinning like a top.

The secondary strap came way with a snap. For a moment, the girl still spun, but she was lose from anything that held her safe and she caught the light as though she was a bird lit by a noon-day sun. And then, directly above where Sam stood transfixed, she began her long fall to the ground, cut away from the living. Beyond the high held note Sam heard Tadeusz's quick terrified gasp, but all these things seemed desperately far away because the note was a meat cleaver taken to Sam's head.

He watched the girl fall; he was also falling. The note tore a hole in Sam's world, felt like it was tearing a hole inside his brain. A chasm opening up, fiery and evil, and the note went on and on and on. The hole became bigger, reaching for him, a black vortex. The note and the girl and the pain inside his head all met at the same time, there on the stage, and Sam might as well have been hit by lightning for all that he was able to stop any of it.

--

Whatever you want, Sammy. Go ahead, don't tell me where you're going. A little privacy works both ways, Dean thought, crumpling the note and throwing it in the bathroom's garbage, knowing full well that in about ten minutes he was going to fish it out again, rub it flat on the table, stare at the words 'I'm sorry' one more time. Fold it into a small wad and keep it in his wallet until it fell apart.

That's how many times Sam had said those words in his life. Sam was never sorry. Sam was sure, was adamant. Was sincere and was unbending. It was why Sam and their father arguing was something close to a medieval bloodletting.

The apology made Dean nervous.

He thought about phoning Sam, just to see where he was, but he was hungover, needed a coffee and breakfast. He'd watched the end of the Godzilla vs. Mothra movie last night, then the movie that was on after it. He was beat, in every sense of the word. So what if Sam could read his mind? What was there worth reading, really? Lying to himself again, getting good at it, because it was the principle of the thing. Some places were his, not Sam's.

Got the note out of the garbage. Went to get some coffee.

Returned to the motel room, sat there, miserable. Fuck it. He should make himself useful, at least figure out what Tadeusz and Béa had been talking about. Work it like usual. It was a fairly credible excuse, as these things went.

Got Béa on the second ring, sleep-fuddled, just waking. Dean invited her round; no point in secrecy now. Sam knew everything anyway, though Dean felt mild regret as he hung up. Secret affairs didn't come around often – hell, since when had he had anyone around to keep anything secret from? – and they never lasted.

Sam was right, though, much as Dean didn't like to admit it, and would never, in fact, actually admit it to Sam: getting involved with Béa was dangerous. Getting involved with anyone was dangerous; how many times had he said that? Still. Béa was no demon, nothing evil about her. Just caught in the middle. A scared, flexible girl that needed some comfort and a good -- shit. Work it like usual, he told himself again, knowing that he was lying again. Nothing usual about this.

She appeared at the motel's door in forty minutes time, a bag of warm sesame bagels in one hand, two coffees balanced in the other. Dean had the laptop open and running, had pieced together a history of the Cirque, found a web site about human contortion that triggered his gag reflex, and read more than he cared to about buffalo lore.

"Too early for poutine," Béa said with a sly smile, probably expecting a warmer greeting than the one he gave her.

"Breakfast of champions," he mumbled, taking the bag and setting it on the table between them. Béa followed him in, sat with both feet tucked under her, removed the lid of her coffee, which was creamy and sweet. Creamy and sweet was not how Dean normally had his, but he wasn't completely tactless. He drank it, tried to think of it as dessert, not coffee.

Béatrice considered him over the brim of her cup; her eyes were the color of bitter chocolate, liquid and warm. Not spooked, not now. Because she was here with him, Dean realized with a stab of guilty pleasure. She thinks I'll make it okay. Nothing else was needed to motivate him, nothing but someone's trust. He smiled in return, got up and bent over her, thanked her properly for the coffee and the bagels.

"Where is your brother?" she asked after a moment, after he'd sat back down at the computer. He concentrated on the screen.

"Went out," he murmured, taking a swallow of the coffee. "He's pissed off at me."

She was quiet, so quiet that he'd found the search screen he'd been looking for and was about to ask her another question, but got snared in her stare. Surprised at her concerned expression, he opened a hand questioningly.

"You had an argument?" she responded.

"Yeah, no big deal," Dean said, suddenly prickly and putting up walls. Not her business. Same way as she wasn't Sam's business. Maybe if he said it enough times, he might come to believe it. In fact, if he didn't say it at all, that was even better. Change the subject. "So, who were the other girls who went missing?"

"You guys aren't reporters, are you?" Béa asked, quiet, a little resigned.

Dean shook his head, unsure how he was going to answer the next question, which inevitably would be, 'What the hell are you, then?' He'd done this often enough to recognize the pattern.

Béa only nodded to herself, her mouth quirking. Dean couldn't tell what she was thinking, but felt her curiosity slip away. Maybe she didn't care what they were, only that they were here to help. Or thought that she'd been taken in by a lying huckster -- how far from the truth was that, really? Or maybe she knew what kind of things he and Sam hunted, had recognized them from the start. Maybe she hadn't found him that first night, so much as had been sent. He opened his mouth to ask, but she took the moment from him, protecting herself, hiding. Went back to his original question.

Three girls, she said, all of them known to her, fellow performers, friends: one during the initial rehearsals, one during the audition process for local talent, and one just last month, the one that Béa had replaced. "I was working one of the Cirque's Las Vegas shows," she explained. "And the Cirque main branch in Montréal gave me a call." She shrugged, graceful, her one shoulder bare as the strap of her tank top fell to her upper arm. She adjusted it, raked fingers through her haphazard hair, mussing it further. It looked as though she hadn't combed it in days. "Good opportunity. Close to home. You ever been to Vegas?"

He nodded. Yeah, he'd been there. A poltergeist, if he remembered correctly. His father and a vengeful spirit that haunted a parkade, of all things. Dean had been thrown from the parking garage rooftop and required three stitches to his elbow, which had gone through the chain link fence that had softened his landing. Fucking stupid poltergeists, no reasoning with them. As for Vegas, might as well have been Grand Rapids, or Dayton, or Des Moines; not even one game of craps, only Dad with a needle and thread, and his Marine Corps first aid method for snapping a dislocated shoulder back into its socket. Didn't make postcards for that, even if Dean had had anyone to send one to.

"Not much to do if you're not gambling," he said instead.

"Sure," she extended her leg, crept her foot over his chair, rested it on his thigh. Took a quick sip of coffee. It was warm outside and in; he'd left the door open, no air conditioning. Different from the last rented room they'd been in. He dropped one hand to her bare foot, tried not to think of the Hilton. Here, at least, he felt more like himself. She licked her lips, might have been nerves. Looked away before asking, "You think those three are just playing blackjack somewhere?"

Something young in her voice: she wanted him to tell her that, yes, they were probably just cutting loose in Vegas, or Montréal, or New York. Were alive somewhere. He ignored her foot for the moment, typed their information into the search engine he'd accessed with a purloined code, asked her if she knew anything else about them – tattoos, marks, height, hair color, birth dates.

Located one of them dead more or less immediately, burned body found in an abandoned car on the American side of the Québec-Vermont border. Burned body, not a burned car. The sort of weird that would usually interest him. Looked at a series of Vermont state police photos of the crime scene, judged them too gory, hid them beneath another window before turning the computer to Béa, who withdrew her foot, looked at the screen, eyes scanning back and forth, reading what she didn't really want to know or believe. Dean watched her face, saw hope fade, the dark eyes grow glossy, a line appear between her sculpted brows. One hand, fingers callused, imbedded with chalk, lifted to her mouth.

These had been her friends.

He reached out across the table, took her other hand, and she inhaled a shaky breath, nodded her head. "Tadeusz was right," she whispered. "I don't think I believed him. I thought he was a superstitious Lithuanian peasant." She wasn't the sort that cried. He already knew that, was glad of it now. Crying, he had limited patience for. This, though. Pain. He knew what to do. Wait.

Was waiting still, when her phone rang. She got up, adjusted her clothes, and went to where she'd dropped her bag by the door with her sandals. She spoke quickly in Lithuanian, exhaled, looked at Dean and such was the expression on her face that he froze.

"There's been an accident," she said, eyes frightened, "at the theatre. One girl is dead. Your brother is hurt," and all the blood in Dean's body felt like it was either rushing to or from his head; he couldn't really tell which. "We should come, Tadeusz says." But Dean was already up, grabbing his keys from the table, halfway out the door.

--

First of all, what the fuck was an angel doing in hell? Because the amount of pain he was in, this sure wasn't heaven. But the light? Strong and not scary. Maybe it was...God. And the glowing, angelic face with the big eyes staring unblinking at him, musical murmuring that he couldn't understand at all.

Holy shit, I've been abducted by aliens.

Softness under his head, which hurt as though he'd been struck by a two-by-four. He almost starting laughing, because the last time he'd been hit by a piece of lumber, it'd been the world's dumbest rawhead and Dean had...jesus, what had Dean done?

Didn't matter. The alien was singing. Kinda nice, stroking his face, took a cloth – what kind of fluffy white cloth did they have in this screwy-ass space ship...oh, it was a t-shirt, that's fine -- and pressed it to the side of his face.

Goddamn, that hurt, and Sam tried to sit up, because he didn't want an alien singing to him while doing a crappy job of mopping up his blood with a sweaty t-shirt. A hand to his chest made him still: René, so close, eyes not all demon-y black, but an expression of avarice on his face that chilled Sam to the bone.

Oh, that's why it's so soft – his head was resting in Céline Dion's lap. This is nice, he thought. I mean, weird. Dean is so gonna laugh his ass off about this. Just don't sing that note again, lady, and everything'll be okay. Mmm, would be just great if someone would tell me –

"Can you 'ear me?" the alien-Dion said, eyebrows so far above its overly large eyes that Sam wondered how that was actually possible. The question wasn't for him, was it? He thought about that, and then Céline rapid-fired something in French and René, man, that dude jumped. Didn't look pleased. Haha, screw you demon. Céline Dion's got your number, man.

"Mon dieu," she whispered, all big eyes and nose, especially this close. "Please be all right. You are all right."

Oh, okay, sure. If you say so. Wasn't able to respond, but she wasn't actually expecting him to say anything, was she?

The diva stroked his forehead, lifted the balled up t-shirt experimentally from the side of his face. It came away red and she looked alarmed, pushed it back down again. Sam rolled his eyes to the left, away from the blinding light above, which wasn't god or the mothership, he realized, but the spotlight high above the stage.

Beside him, only a few feet away, was the girl. The aerialist that had fallen. Her back was arched strangely, mostly because one arm was caught at a sickening angle behind her body, trapped beneath her insignificant weight. Not so insignificant, Sam realized, not for her, and not for me. Not when she fell fifty feet on top of me.

Her face was turned to him and her eyes were open, terrified and unseeing, rivulets of blood running from nose and mouth and ear. René leaned over her and Sam felt an arctic cold front sweep through him, ice water in his veins.

Suddenly had to turn quickly, which didn't do his head any good, and threw up all over the stage. Céline gave a half-scream and his human pillow removed itself so quickly Sam slumped against the boards, breath wheezing through his lungs as though they'd been squeezed in a juicer. He hacked and would have thrown up more, possibly, except all at once he realized that something was horribly wrong with him.

If his head hurt, it was nothing to what he now felt in his shoulder, a wicked hot pain true and undeniable as mallet to the chest. Sam's vision turned an unreasonable red and he must have cried out, because another person, a man, middle aged, speaking French at a rate Sam had hitherto not thought possible, came beside him on his knees, hands searching out the hurt. Finding it.

Sam tried to slap the man away, but his left arm wasn't obeying him, and his right was firmly in this man's grasp. After a second of this, the man said, "I'm a doctor. Can you 'ear me?"

God, I think I just barfed on Céline Dion, Sam wanted to say. And that husband of hers is possessed by a demon, okay?

Behind him, hovering like a wasp at a picnic, was Etienne. His expression puzzled Sam, because it wasn't triumphant, or amused, or anything like Sam had come to expect. It was almost sad, a little disappointed, maybe.

Is this all there is to it? Sam thought, all there is to dying? Just walk across the stage and let someone fall on you? With effort, Sam stared at Etienne, willed him forward. The doctor turned to let the clown come closer, got to his feet to converse with Céline and René. Sam had no idea what they were talking about. Fastidiously avoiding the puddle of puke to Sam's right, Etienne leaned in, attention flickering briefly to the arguing diva, demon and doctor.

"That was dramatic," Etienne whispered. "But not very smart."

Sam reached up with his right hand, barely understood how he could do such a thing when he was in this much pain, and grabbed a handful of Etienne's silk-woven shirt. Pulled him down close. Hissed through his teeth, "We're even. You leave him out of it."

Etienne's eyebrows shot up. Now he looked amused. Looked fucking delighted. "Your brother? Out of my hands. He's his own worst enemy." He disengaged Sam's fist from his shirt, then patted Sam on the chest in a way that would be interpreted as reassuring in any other context. "Make your deal with someone who's threatening him, Sam Winchester. I only set things in motion and watch what happens. Oh," and looked up as the doctor came back into Sam's line of vision. "I think you're about to be transported. Could be a little uncomfortable." Shrugged, looked apologetic, made room for the doctor to settle in at Sam's side.

Sam wished he understood what Etienne had just told him, but the agony of whatever it was the falling aerialist had broken in him was becoming unmanageable and he didn't even feel the pinprick that knocked him out, was only able to stare at Etienne beseechingly as the trickster waved goodbye.

--

Etienne was leaning on the cinderblock wall next to the backstage door, smoking a cigarette, a bottle of expensive water dangling from one hand. He observed Dean illegally park the Impala in the loading bay without any discernable alarm, although it was very apparent that Dean's mood was less than amicable, since the car had practically roared into the lot at a speed exceeding the highway limit, the tires screeching to a sudden violent stop. Dean was out the car before Etienne had a chance to either duck back in the door, or wave him over.

"Where is he?" Dean shouted, rushing up the poured concrete steps two at a time, had every intention of beating it out of the little shit if –

"Gone," Etienne sighed, took a drink of water, eyes serious for once.

Dean pulled up short, uncertain. "What do you mean, gone?"

Obligingly, Etienne opened the metal door. "See for yourself. Gone, no longer in the building." Looked Dean up and down. "Don't you want to know what happened to the girl?" Glanced behind him to where Dean could hear Béa getting more slowly out of the car. The clown's expression changed slightly, but Dean couldn't tell what Etienne thought about the contortionist's presence. Interested, maybe. Curious.

Dean had one hand on his hip, the other grasped the iron hand rail and if he let go of either, it was only going to be to punch this jerk in the face. Still, as Béa came closer, came right up behind him, he altered his stance, put her protectively behind him. She didn't trust Etienne, and neither did he. "Where is Sam?" Dean rasped, voice beyond threatening.

Not easily intimidated, I'll give him that, Dean thought as Etienne sighed. "Madame Dion is taking care of him. She feels very responsible when accidents happen in her shows, you know."

"Where," Dean began again, this time knowing that he'd have to follow through, that there was only one way arrogant little guys like this one would –

"The girl is dead. A fall like that usually kills someone. You should be thankful it wasn't your brother."

Felt, rather than heard or saw, Béa at his shoulder, wished she'd stayed in the car, because everything, everyone, who came under Etienne's beady scrutiny was a target. "I'm not the one who should be thankful," he warned, eyes locked with the trickster's.

Etienne withheld a smile; Dean knew it, and it was almost as bad as him actually smiling. "Céline has a private wing at the Château Montebello, complete with medical staff. She wanted Sam to have the best medical care possible. Do you know how long he'd have to wait in a Canadian emergency room?" Gestured with his fingers, eyes slightly widened.

"Get out of my way," Dean growled, and pushed his way past Etienne, used a shoulder to knock him to one side of the door. He wasn't about to trust this fucker's information, and he wasn't going to ask for directions. He tried to take Béa's hand, to get her out of the way, but she turned her wrist, stood on her own.

"If you're looking for Tadeusz, he went out to Montebello with the rest of the Cirque performers." Etienne's voice carried in the empty gloom of the backstage. Dean slowly turned, realizing that Etienne was talking to Béa now. Something hard and sharp jumped in his chest. Worry.

"Why?" Béa asked, keeping it in English.

Etienne shrugged. "Who knows the mind of the diva? She wants everyone to gather at Montebello, have a...wake? Is that what you call it?" Chuckled like he was amused. "She wanted to know where you were, of course. We all did."

The stage area was empty, no sign of anyone. Swept clean, not even police. Shit. Some pull, if a performer can die in a fall and every witness is relocated before the cops can show up. Including his brother.

Etienne had his phone out, was dialing, but still talking, nothing in his posture or tone changed. "Let me see if I can reach the...Allo?" All French for a moment, then he looked at Dean, who had come back to the open door. Etienne held out the phone to him, apparently solicitous. "The staff doctor at Montebello. English okay."

Dean snatched the phone from his hand and was told, in excellent English, that Sam was resting comfortably, but had required five stitches to his brow and a relocation of his left shoulder. Bruised and bloodied, but not profoundly damaged. He'll want to see you when the sedative wears off. Funny, Dean thought as he snapped the phone shut and handed it back to Etienne without a thank you or any other words, how a dislocated shoulder hurt worse than a lot of more serious injuries, but was treated almost nonchalantly. Thought of Vegas again, and how the elbow injury had been nothing next to that horrific pop of relocation. He had actually passed out, which didn't happen all that often, and certainly not in front of their father.

He felt almost faint with relief now. He put a hand out to the doorjamb, tried not to let any of it show on his face. Even so, Béa took a step toward him, but Etienne angled a shoulder between them, spoke quickly to her in French and Dean watched her face pale. The dead girl, he thought. Another friend, likely. He straightened, wanting to be as far from here as possible. As far from him.

Grabbing Béa's arm, he returned to the Impala, not looking behind to see what Etienne was doing – laughing, cursing, making faces – and got into the car, started it, barely waited for Béa to sit before throwing it in reverse.

"You know the way?" he demanded. He didn't care if she wanted to go. He didn't care if it was dangerous for her, or for him. It was dangerous for Sam, and that was all that mattered.

"Château Montebello?" Face a blank mask, a statue's lovely and remote stare, she turned to him. "Of course. It's a long drive." A beat, one moment, a spasm of concern flashed on her face, repressed. He'd reacted badly to concern last time, every time, Dean knew. She learned fast. Didn't ask, which meant he could say it.

"Sam's going to be okay," he announced hoarsely, and she told him to turn left, like they were negotiating more than an unknown highway, were making some kind of tacit deal. You tell me; I tell you. Take this route. What the hell is going on? Left at the lights. Did you find me on purpose? Are you being threatened? If only he opened his mouth, he might get some answers, but he was too worried. About Sam, about her. Whose side are you on, Béatrice Viau?

--

This was very nice, as nice as that place where he and Jess had celebrated their first anniversary, that had cost an entire week's pay for one night, that place up in the mountains with the broad beamed rafters and the river stone fireplace. Sighed, ran his right hand over the down duvet before reaching up to touch a line of stitches above his left eyebrow.

Hi gaze wandered past the bed, to his right, past the coverlet, past his own hand and he saw her, sitting in a rocking chair not three feet from him, eyes closed, headphones on, bare foot swinging back and forth to a melody he couldn't hear. Fireplace so big three santas could have come down it at once, same river rock, yellow cedar mantelpiece decorated with a hundred white candles. Sunlight streaming in French doors, mullions wrought iron, outside pine trees, glimpse of river.

It suddenly occurred to Sam that he was naked under the duvet, had no idea where his clothes were and had no idea where he was. Sat up suddenly, discovered that was a very bad idea, cried out from the pain in his bound shoulder, and from the sudden pain in his head.

With a small scream, Céline's large eyes flashed open, dropping the iPod in her hand to the floor as she bounced to her feet, the chair slapping back against the artfully sculpted plaster wall. Sam stared at her in shock, fell back onto the pillows, sunk into them like they were quicksand, not feathers.

"You are awake!" Céline cried, a happy smile transforming her face, lighting the room as though it generated a thousand watts. "You are alive!"

Sam cleared his throat, utterly devastated, no language in him at all. His breath came in little tiny gasps.

"Oh my god, I am making you sick!" She searched somewhere on the floor, but the bed was so high and the singer so tiny she might as well have fallen through the floor. Finally, she reemerged with a small telephone in her hand. "I will call the doctor!" she announced breathlessly, veering between a stunning smile and a pouting frown. "René will be so pleased. He was very worried about you, Monsieur Win-ches-ter." Punched in a few numbers, "'Allo?" Tons of French.

Sam wondered if he buried himself in the bounty of pillows, if he just started digging, what country he might come to on the other side.

She dropped the phone on the ground, hovered over him, on tiptoes. "You feel bad, yes? I will get you some drugs!"

And pattered out of the room into an ensuite bathroom. He heard her rattling about what he presumed was a medicine cabinet, took the opportunity to lever himself with his good right hand into a sitting position, forced himself to stay there, though the room turned an amazing shade of orange for one full minute while he concentrated just on drawing breath. He tried to swing his legs over the side, thought his clothes must be around here someplace, when he noticed the bruises.

Down the left side of his torso, big purple and blue blotches, both knees, left thigh. Oh my god, I look like I've been hit by a truck.

Céline came back into the room, several bottles clutched in her freakishly large hands, looked up, stood amazed at Sam for a moment, both realizing between one second and the next that he was naked, before she turned with a yelp and Sam flipped the cover back over himself.

"Excuse me," he said, and it came out about an octave higher than his normal speaking voice. "Sorry," he continued as she turned around slowly, gamely smiling again, klieg light bright. "Please, where am I? And can I use your phone?"

Dean is going to kill me.

Céline Dion came to the bedside, dropped a pile of bottles there, everything from aspirin to Demerol. "I have a suite and rooms here at Château Montebello." Smiled again, gestured to the room as though she was presenting it as a prize on the Price is Right. "A veryfine old hotel here on the river. Is veryvery beautiful, non?"

Sam swallowed. "Um, yeah, it's um, beautiful."

"I 'ave a doctor 'ere. Veryvery good doctor. 'e fix your arm. Epaulette. Your shoulder, it is injured." She shook her massive head, like a horse too long in a stall. "That poor girl. I cancelled the performance tonight and tomorrow. The show, she does not always go on, n'est-ce pas? We will 'ave a party. No show!"

And she stood up, determined to make the best of what was obviously a bad situation. Sam's eyes tracked her movement, but it was painful. Maybe the Tylenol 3s would help. "Water?" he asked.

"Oh, you poor boy! I am an idiote!" Came back with water. The size of the diamond on her finger made Sam feel queasy because he'd never seen something that size outside of a Bugs Bunny cartoon, but he picked up the bottle and handed it to her. The diamond flashed as she opened it for him, shook out two pills, which he swallowed gratefully, the water almost more so.

"Now," she said, jumping up again and reaching for something on top of a high chest of drawers. His phone. "I will make your phone call. Your boss, 'is name? Must be veryvery worried by now. I will talk to 'im, tell 'im what has happened."

Oh, this was not going to work. She flipped open the phone, seemed very conversant with how to use it, scrolled down numbers on his speed dial function.

"Dean," Sam squeaked, didn't even know he'd actually said it until her face lit up and she smiled again.

"'ere 'e is!" She looked to Sam, eyes wide with concern. "Don't be worry. I will explain every-- Oh?" she turned half away, nodding with pleasure, smiling at Sam, one hand held out to him, placating. "'Allo? Is this M'sieur Dean, Sam Win-ches-ter's boss?" A moment and she straightened, her voice going to a place that Sam could only describe as on stage, "I am...Céline Dion!"

Sam was holding his breath and it made him feel dizzy, so he tried to think about breathing, but his heart was thudding massively in his chest, making it hard to concentrate. He watched the diva listen intently, her brows drawn together.

"I do not understand you!" she announced loudly, as though volume helped with comprehension. "Répétez s'il vous plait!" Sam silently begged Dean not to repeat whatever it was he'd just said. Another pause, and then – amazingly – she started talking to his brother in French. Long, beautiful strings of French, then listened, then nodded, then more French.

It took him about thirty seconds of this to figure it out, and he didn't know if he was more angry, or fearful. Probably an equal mix of both. He tried to sit up again in the bed, held his right hand out, not giving a shit that this was Céline fucking Dion, because he knew who she was talking to, and it wasn't Dean.

Finally, still smiling that meaningless smile, the diva handed the phone over, but not before saying in a dramatic stage whisper, hand covering the phone, "I think your boss is maybe screwing the contortionist."

Oh, brilliant subterfuge, Dean. The world's wackiest diva just had you pegged in under a minute. Sam held the phone awkwardly to his ear, head pounding, wishing he'd had four or five Tylenol 3s.

"Dean?" he barked, recognizing the way he said it. Like their father when Dean had made a rare mistake. Fuck, tone it down, man.

Lucky this time, though, because the response was "'Allo? Sam?" And Sam could just imagine Dean grabbing the phone from Béatrice Viau's hand, because almost immediately his brother's voice flooded the line, "Sam? Sammy, is that you?"

Oh, god, he sounded so worried, so thrashed, that Sam felt all the anger leach out of him. He swallowed what had just leapt up his throat before whispering, "Yeah, I'm okay. Where are you?" and was distressed at how young he sounded with that question. Had just gone from Angry Dad to Kid Brother in two seconds flat.

"Jesus Christ, Sammy, I'm on some highway halfway to Montebello. Who the hell was that on the phone? Sounded like she was on crack or something. Is this place a fucking drug house?"

And despite everything, Sam started to laugh. He thought he might have a hard time stopping.

TBC