11 - Tomorrow Is A Trap
It was a long drive up to Seattle - a longer drive thanks to traffic - and they did a little discussion of strategy. From the address that Lyla was texted, Sam figured out they were going to a skyscraper in the middle of downtown.
Of all the places they thought they'd be ambushed, that hadn't crossed Dean's mind. Had he guessed it was at the waterfront? Something like that. A nice quiet spot where it was easy to get rid of the bodies. A skyscraper, especially if full of people, seemed to open up many logistical problems. For instance, collateral damage was now an issue. Also, someone calling the police because there seemed to be violence going on. Yeah, this could go bad in dozens of ways, and he could imagine all of them. A quick glance at Sam showed he was thinking the same thing.
"There's no way in fucking hell they just wanna talk, is there?" Dean wondered. The idea was bananas, but that didn't mean it wasn't possible.
Lyla shrugged. "I have no idea what any of them are thinking. I just know they were impressed the Mark of Cain would saunter into their joint."
"Yeah, who wouldn't want that power on their team?" Dean said, feeling a familiar burn in his gut. Everybody wanted the power, but no one realized it was like trying to wrestle a lightning bolt until it was too damn late. Some power couldn't be controlled, or even contained. Some power simply destroyed everything in its path. Even the stupid bastard trying to wield it.
"That's when you became that maniac, right?" Ramon asked.
Dean almost laughed. He thought Ramon had never seen him when the Mark took over, but in retrospect, he probably had. "Yeah."
"But that's not true anymore?"
"No. He's still a maniac," Lyla said.
Dean sighed, and looked at her in the rearview. "You're really going to make me say it takes one to know one, aren't you?"
She scowled and gave him the finger, but rather than be annoyed with her, he suddenly realized he recognized Lyla. Not as who she was, but what she was doing. This sour, prickly act was just to keep everyone at bay, so she couldn't get hurt. She wore it like the tattoo on her neck. And he recognized it, because sometimes he did it too. The fact that they were more alike than they realized must have bummed her out. Dean felt a little sympathy for her, but not too much, because the possibility of her betraying them was still on the table.
It was hard to imagine her getting hurt, but it probably wasn't physical. The worst wounds never were.
Ramon turned to impale Lyla with a scrutinizing stare."So that's your thing, huh? Just be a complete dick to everyone?"
Sam quickly rubbed his face to hide his smile.
She returned his stare. "Back off, kid."
"Being an asshole isn't a substitute for a personality," Ramon said.
Sam was still hiding his face, but Dean knew he was laughing now.
"Being a sassy gay stereotype isn't a substitute for a personality either," she replied.
Ooh. Dean knew he should probably stop this, but to be brutally honest, he was kind of enjoying it. "I'm not sassy, I'm insightful," Ramon replied. "But thanks for admitting you see me as a stereotype."
"Kids, behave, or I'm turning this car around," Dean said.
They both ignored him. "This life is going to get you killed, sooner rather than later," Lyla said. "You're a red shirt, and I'd be surprised if you lasted five minutes against a real monster."
"And you're a sour cockwaffle who decided to lay low and not get involved with monsters picking off people one by one until they targeted one of your friends. Even though you have a clear and obvious superpower. How selfish do you have to be?"
Jesus. That cut right to the bone, and Dean could see the shock in her eyes. On the one hand, Dean was tempted to let out a Mortal Kombat style "Finish her". On the other, he still felt a little bad for Lyla. That was one hundred percent true, but he wasn't sure she thought of that in those terms. Ramon was right - he was insightful. A little too insightful, to be honest. You had to beware of those quiet people in the back of the room, because they saw everything. Especially the stuff you didn't want them to see.
"Okay, let's stop this now," Sam said. He had managed to stop laughing and smiling, probably because he recognized how devastating - and true - Ramon's accusation was. "We're on the same side here. Don't forget that."
"Also, cockwaffle?" Dean asked, looking at Ramon in the rearview.
"We make up our own insults now," he replied. "A new world requires new words."
Dean couldn't argue with that. In fact, it sounded like fun. He was going to have to try that later, assuming there was a later.
The rest of the trip was done in frosty silence, but that was better than open warfare. They needed to save their energy for what was to come.
Seattle was more densely populated than Tacoma, and it didn't have the steep hills either. Well, maybe a couple on the outskirts, but not downtown. The real drawback to this was parking was impossible. The skyscraper that was their destination had a parking garage, but it was weirdly full. When he finally did find a spot on the second level, Dean wondered aloud, "How many people are we gonna be facing? The entire Persian army?"
"This is Seattle," Ramon said. "People will park anywhere, especially in places they shouldn't. This is probably all people from up and down the block."
Since he was the local, Dean took his word for it. He and Lyla got out of the car, while Sam and Ramon remained inside, as they had to wait before attempting to follow them. Dean checked his phone to make sure it was on and open, so Sam could hear if they needed emergency backup.
Lyla got a notice on her phone as they walked towards the elevator. "We're going up to the penthouse," she said.
"Fancy." He tried to figure out a penthouse/Penthouse joke, and couldn't, so he abandoned it.
The elevator was fairly new, a sleek tube marred by beige carpets. Layla hit the appropriate button as the doors slid closed.
The silence was weird, especially since it was a long trip up. Dean found himself looking at the tree on her neck, and he came to a surprising realization. "What?" she snapped, catching him staring.
"You're the reason your family tree is dead, aren't you?"
Anger flared in her eyes, but not soon enough to smother the fear that kicked in first. "What?"
"It's your penance, and you're wearing it for the world to see. I get it. Some of us have sins that won't leave us alone." Unconsciously, he rubbed the arm with the fake - but once real - Mark of Cain on it. "If you wanna tell the story sometime, I'm willing to listen."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she said. Her voice was low and cold, and she was so obviously telling a lie Dean once again felt bad for her.
But he didn't have time for that. He had to slide back into the toxic Mark mindset, the one that was happy to kill everyone and light the world on fire. The Mark had no pity. It had appetites and curiosities, and nothing more.
Having never been in a penthouse office before, Dean really didn't know what to expect when the doors slid open. It was the biggest office he had ever seen in his life, ending at humungous window walls that seemed to let in every scrap of available light. There were towering bookshelves on the side walls, the size of some of the old ones back in the bunker, only the books seemed to be grouped by color. A blue section fading to a brown section, a red section fading to green. Who shelved books in similar colors? For some reason, Dean felt really offended by that.
A plush carpet with geometric designs woven into the threads led to a wide, ornate desk probably made out of some extinct wood. It was easily forty feet from the elevator to the desk, and the man behind it was hard to see, as he seemed to have found the one pool of shadow. "Ah, there's the Mark of Cain," the man said, standing up. The shadows around him obscured most of him, but he was clearly wearing a sharply tailored, expensive suit, the cost of which could've housed all the homeless in the state, with a pool of cash to spare.
As they stepped out of the elevator and into the room, Dean's instinct told him they weren't alone, and he saw there were a couple of huge men standing off to the side, huge slabs of men whose actual species was currently unknown. Also, they had bulges under their jackets that indicated they were carrying guns in shoulder holsters. Dean wondered what monsters carried guns, but no one ever said they couldn't. He clocked them out of the corners of his eyes, but didn't dare look at them directly. The Mark wouldn't give a shit about the bodyguards. He'd only care about the king.
"As soon as I heard you were in town, I had to meet you. I mean, how many chances does a guy get to meet the spirit of murder? And his charming ... girlfriend?"
Lyla stiffened at the descriptor, and the Mark didn't give a shit about that, but also, didn't want to be lumped in with someone else. "Partner in ass kicking." He stopped where he was, and said, "Who the fuck are you and why I am supposed to care?"
He threw back his head and laughed, like this was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. He needed a moment to gather himself, although Dean felt the wiping away of tears was pure pantomime. "Delightful. No human would dare talk to me that way. I don't suppose you'd be interested in a bodyguard position?"
"I'd kill you the first chance I got." Dean was aware his actual bodyguards tensed, but the man didn't care at all.
He continued chuckling as he walked over to a gold bar cart, full of crystal decanters and cut crystal glasses. Dean bet all the alcohol was expensive too. "So, do you drink, or is that something you no longer require?"
"I don't require it, but I wouldn't say no to a good scotch."
"Excellent. And you, my dear?"
"I'm not your dear. And pass."
"Ooh," he said, plucking perfectly clear, square ice cubes from a silver urn, using matching silver tongs. Each cube seemed to ring like a bell inside the glasses, and Dean wondered if they had been made to do just that. Also, who waters down good scotch? But he pushed that aside, as the Mark really didn't care, and also, they'd already established this guy was evil. "Spicy. I guess the companion of murder wouldn't exactly be a party girl, would she?" He poured amber liquid from one of the decanters into two glasses, and as Dean watched him, he started to get the sense that this guy was familiar somehow. He wasn't sure how as of yet, but it was gnawing at him.
"Are you going to tell me what I'm doing here, or do I hafta beat it out of you?"
The bodyguards didn't just tense but step forward, as if ready to close in on him, but the man waved a hand at them. "Stand down. He'd just make you eat your guns anyway." The man picked up both glasses, but walked back towards his ornate desk. Dean could now see the legs of the desk were carved like lion's legs, their claws digging into globe shapes on the bottom. He was ostentatious with his wealth, and he had the worst fucking taste in the world. "No, the Mark is special, and must be handled delicately." He put one glass on the far side of the desk, then sat back in his plush black leather office chair, which seemed to be somewhat throne shaped. Really? Dean wanted more than anything to dropkick this fucker out the window, but they had no answers yet. "Come, join me. Let's talk terms."
"Terms for what?"
"For joining my organization, of course. You can kill as many people as you want, have official cover from any possible consequences, and I get a human-ish wrecking ball to point at my enemies. We can have a great deal of fun together, you and I."
"I can kill everybody I want right now." He approached the desk, feeling the bodyguards' piercing stares. It didn't matter what their boss had said, they were good dogs, and had been trained to act a certain way. "Why should I work with you?"
"Because it'd be a lark. Haven't you ever wanted to run an entire city?" The man sipped his drink, and the ice clinked musically against the glass.
Dean stepped within the pool of shadow and could make out the man now. He was very generic looking, a general every man sent from Central Casting, although his dark hair was well coifed, and undoubtedly expensive. That's what tipped it, and reminded him of the man he'd seen in the paper. Davis Miller, CEO of LunaCorps.
Holy shit. Sarge had been right all along.