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Chapter Three:
Mr Gucci Chicken Wings
As Sam and Dean joined the melee in the clinic reception area, hoping to break up the fight and diffuse the situation, Dean realised two things. One: the people of Eufaula, Oklahoma, had a lot of repressed anger just waiting to burst out. And two: Doctor Sarah Idris did not mess around. While the brothers struggled through the crowd, dodging punches and doing their best to incapacitate without causing any serious harm, the doc walked back into her office and came out carrying a shotgun. She aimed for the ceiling and pulled the trigger. The shot rang out through the room, and everyone froze mid-action, gazes swinging to the little woman with the big gun.
"This is a hospital," the doc said, forcing the words out through gritted teeth as she glared daggers around the room, "a place of healing, not a boxing ring or fighting pit. If you cannot behave accordingly, kindly, get out."
Dean had never before seen so many full-grown men shuffling their feet and staring down at their toes like little kids caught under their mother's glare. Mumbled apologies rustled around the room, and nervous gazes flicked up to check the doc's reaction. Sarah locked gazes with every person present, and none dared hold eye contact for more than a few seconds. When she eventually relaxed her grip on the gun, a relieved sigh rippled through the crowd as though some of them had been entertaining the possibility that she might actually shoot them. As everyone went back to whatever it was they'd been doing before the brawl had broken out, Sam and Dean walked back over to Sarah.
"Nice gun for a place of healing," said Sam when he and Dean reached her.
He wasn't wrong. The Browning Automatic 5 was a must-own classic for any gun-enthusiast, but Sarah didn't hold it with the appreciation it deserved. She knew how to shoot, that much was clear from her posture and her firm grip on the barrel, but she held the gun at a distance from her body, tension running down her arm to her fingers and back again.
She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "It's one of my dad's. I borrowed it after the second fight happened."
"So this has been going on a lot?" asked Dean. He rubbed a hand over his upper arm where someone had hit him. Less than an hour in, and he already had cut knees, a bruised backside, and a sore arm—that had to be some sort of a record, even for him.
Sarah glanced pointedly up at the ceiling, and the boys followed her gaze to the pockmarked plaster. Dark against the blinding whiteness, the holes and cracks were the only flaws in the otherwise pristine room. A few of the fissures had been hastily patched up, the joint compound a sickly yellowish colour and lumpy under the glaring fluorescent lamps. Most hadn't, though, and Dean stopped counting the holes after he reached twenty.
"It's worse when they gather in a crowd," said Sarah. "They egg each other on, and when one goes off the rails, the others are quick to follow."
Dean nodded—he'd been in enough bar fights to know the truth of that. "They seem to calm down pretty quickly, though."
"For now." She lowered her eyes from the ceiling as her features scrunched up, eyebrows bunching and lips thinning. "But it's been getting worse."
Dean shot another glance at the ceiling, then down to Sarah's Browning and over to the crowd. How long before things got out of hand, and one of those shots had to be fired at a person? Sarah followed his gaze, and her breath shook on her next exhale as her thoughts matched his.
"You mentioned calling the CDC," said Sam. "You think whatever's causing this is a disease?"
She heaved a sigh and let her eyes wander over the room. "I don't know what else it could be. I've run all the tests that I can—blood works, CT scans, MRIs… Some of the behavioural symptoms are similar to the ones you might see in cases of bovine spongiform encephalopathy, but even spinal fluid tests came back negative."
Dean frowned and pursed his lips around the unfamiliar words but failed to figure out what they meant. "Sorry, bovine… what?"
"Bovine spongiform encephalopathy. Mad cow disease," she explained. "The psychosis fits, but only at a stretch, and physically, there's nothing wrong with them, so…"
"Right." Supernatural mad cow disease; that would be a new one.
"Well, thank you for your help." Sam held out his hand to shake the doctor's, his giant paw dwarfing her far smaller one. "We'll be in touch."
Sam and Dean started for the front door, but Dean was quick to turn back around. "I've been wanting to ask: where is everyone? We drove around town for at least half an hour and didn't spot anyone."
"Downtown," said Sarah. She looked incredibly small and tired, leaning against the doorframe, gripping her shotgun. "That's where the biggest crowd is. Everyone else is either here, or they've skipped town."
"Downtown. Gotcha." Which meant he and Sam could snoop around the rest of the town with relative ease and privacy.
The brothers left the clinic in Doctor Idris's capable, but weary hands and stepped up to the Impala. As Dean opened the driver's side door, Sam crossed his arms on top of the roof and looked over at him. "Any idea what we're dealing with?"
Dean mimicked his brother's stance. "I got no clue. You?"
"Best guess says witch," he said, fingers drumming against the cold steel. "But what I don't get is the motive. What's the endgame?"
Dean thought back to Trisha, half-naked and leering at him. "Fun?"
"Fun?" Sam smiled, but it was strained and humourless. "People are dying."
"Yeah, but you saw Calvin. He had a smile on his face the entire time—"
Sam scoffed, "Because he was high."
"—And so did those people at the clinic. The only ones who are miserable are the ones who aren't affected. Everyone else is having a great time." Dean felt the folded paper bearing Trisha's number weighing down his coat pocket and held back a smile as he considered how happy he might get to be later today.
"Fine." Sam huffed. "Maybe it is for fun. But pulling something like this off takes serious juice. There's got to be more to it than simple entertainment."
Dean shook his head and lowered himself into the car, hiding his wince as his knees and backside cried out in protest. "You just don't know how to have a good time."
Sam followed suit, practically folding himself in half to get through the low door. "So smoking pot and totalling a car is your idea of a good time?"
Dean shrugged, and it was his arm's turn to give him hell for it. "It has its merits."
Sam heaved a sharp breath, but a dash of light snuck into his smile. "All right, George Michael."
Dean frowned over at his brother, adding in the appropriate dash of disappointment to the look he threw him. "A Wham! reference, Sam? Really?
"They're a classic," he said, voice rising as he tried to defend his poor tastes.
"They were a boy band," said Dean with a note of finality because that fact alone ought to clear up the entire matter.
Sam thought differently, though, because he turned and said, "Technically, Led Zeppelin was a boy band too."
Dean jabbed his finger in the direction of Sam's face, coming close to taking the guy's eye out. "You take that back."
A laugh bubbled up from Sam's throat, and the sound almost made Dean forget the blasphemy that had come out of his mouth. "Whatever, man," said Sam, the grin sticking to his face even as he tried to wipe it away. "We've still got to find out what's going on in this town and put a stop to it."
"Party pooper," Dean muttered as a smile tugged at his lips. He'd had it right—a case was exactly what they needed. "I say we check out that football field. Do a sweep and hopefully cross a few of the usual suspects off our list."
As Sam agreed, Dean turned the key in the ignition.
The football field was on the outskirts of town, next to the high school, which looked deserted despite it being a school day. The boys split up—Sam took the changing rooms and offices while Dean stayed outside in the stands. After an hour of peering under benches and rummaging through trash cans, Dean found—
"Bubkes," he said, as he and Sam met up at the car. "No hex bags, no sulphur, no EMF. You?"
Sam shook his head. "Nothing but dirty socks and gum wrappers."
"Which either means no witches, no demons, and no ghosts, or…"
"Or this isn't ground zero," Sam finished for him. He looked out over the empty field with a frown.
Dean sighed and rubbed his hands down his face. "Which means we've got to do a sweep of the whole town." It wasn't a big town, but a thorough check was still going to take longer than Dean cared to contemplate. "Super. I want food first."
Sam turned back to Dean with a wane smile. "I figured. I saw a diner on the way here. Hopefully, they have wireless, and maybe we can narrow this search down a bit."
Dean nodded and pulled open the car door. "Sounds like a plan."
They had to venture downtown to find a place to eat. The diner Sam had spotted on the way to the football field was a no-go, with shattered windows, graffitied walls, broken chairs and plates, and suspicious stains on the floor. They tried a few more places on the edge of town but found much the same. Everywhere was either vandalised, boarded up, or deserted. So the brothers headed to where they knew they'd find people.
Dean drove slow, waiting to see the hordes Sarah had mentioned, but the closer they got to the town centre, the more likely it seemed that everyone had skipped town. The sun dipped below the horizon, and the streetlights flicked on, yet none of the houses showed any signs of light or life. But then the Impala rounded a corner, and the townsfolk suddenly sprang into existence. People walked up and down the wide road of Main Street, carrying beer bottles and cocktail glasses. Others sat on the sidewalks, smoking joints and cigarettes, while couples stood, pressed up against the sides of buildings, making out. Fires burned in trash cans to drive away the February chill, but the cold seemed to be the last thing on everyone's mind. One man dressed in nothing but compression shorts sat at the feet of a woman wearing a Little Mermaid costume. A bunch of guys wore skirts, and one woman had gone all out with a full-on ball gown, puffy skirt and all. Everywhere Dean looked, he saw brightly coloured hair and flashy makeup as well as improbable outfits and smiles on every face.
"It looks like Mardi Gras out there," he said, letting the car idle in the middle of the road.
"Your theory about this all being for fun and entertainment is looking more and more likely," said Sam as he quickly turned his gaze away from a scantily-clad woman passing by his window, a blush creeping up his neck.
Dean snorted, flung his arm over the back of the seat, and looked out through the back window as he reversed into a parking spot.
The brothers stepped out of the car to the sound of loud conversations, peals of laughter, and music blasting out of speakers. The smell of smoke filled the air, almost masking the stink of weed, sweat, and alcohol, which blended together in a nauseating mix that had Dean's stomach churning. He scrunched up his nose as he closed the Impala door, but then one guy walked past him carrying one of those fancy designer handbags filled to the brim with chicken wings. Dean stared after him, stomach now grumbling as the smell of fried chicken lingered in the air, overpowering everything else.
He glanced over at Sam, who was busy surveying the crowd with a frown. "Come on."
They followed Mr Gucci chicken wings into the masses—a few hundred strong, all intoxicated with one substance or another, riding a high that teetered on a razor's edge.
Dean wasn't about to forget what had happened at the clinic. These people seemed happy enough now, but that could change at a moment's notice, turning the entire street into a riot scene. Evidence of past disturbances still lingered everywhere he looked. If he'd thought that the diners on the outskirts of town had looked bad, it was nothing compared to what every building here had suffered. It wasn't immediately apparent beneath the outlandishness of the people, but the street itself looked like the city setting of The Purge. Fires blazed in shop windows. Not a single door remained whole. Rude words and drawings had been spray-painted onto walls, which looked like someone had come at them with a pickaxe.
It was enough to set Dean's nerves on edge.
His gaze darted around, mapping out escape routes and worse case scenarios, when someone grabbed his coat collar and dragged him down. His brain had a split second to register blonde hair and a pretty face before warm lips pressed against his. Shocked but always up for a kiss, he returned it, hands sliding over her waist as her tongue sneaked into his gaping mouth. As far as stress relief went, it was pretty good, and by the time the kiss ended, Dean felt downright content.
The woman pulled away far enough for him to glimpse brown eyes and a dimpled grin. "Hi," she said, still clutching on to his coat.
He returned her smile with a slow one of his own as he recovered from the unexpected make-out session. "Hi."
"You're hot." There was no distance at all between them, but she somehow managed to press closer, grinding against him.
Dean gave a modest shrug even as his smile grew into a not so modest grin, but before he could say a word, Sam barked his name, his voice sounding like the crack of a whip over the hubbub. Dean snapped to attention, looking like he'd been caught with his hand in the cookie jar, and spotted Sam standing a few feet away, glaring at him.
"Gotta go," he said to the blonde, gently detaching himself from her hold.
Her expression fell, pushing out her bottom lip in a pout better suited to a two-year-old. "Boo. We could've had so much fun."
He threw her an apologetic smile as he stepped around her toward his brother. "Maybe some other time."
She grabbed his arm and pulled him to a halt with a surprising amount of strength for someone who was half a foot shorter than him. Manhandling his palm toward her, she grabbed a pen from her purse and started scribbling on his hand. "I'm going to hold you to that."
With a wink and a flick of her hair, she disappeared into the crowd. Dean chuckled as he looked down at the phone number scrawled onto his palm and wondered if he could convince Sam to give this town a chance. One look at his brother's sour expression suggested not.
Sam rolled his eyes and stalked off through the crowd, and Dean followed, wearing a somewhat smug expression.
Despite the state of the street, a couple of places were still open. One was a bar at the end of the road, and the other, surprisingly, was the library that sat next to it.
The bar was even more crowded than the clinic had been, but a bit of pushing got Sam and Dean to a tall table cluttered with empty glasses. The low light filled the room with shadows, and smoke clung to the air as people ignored the 'No smoking' signs. Anyone farther than a few feet away was distorted, a blurred outline against the dark backdrop. The street might have been noisy, but this place was deafening, with too many people talking and laughing way too loudly. A headache started to pulse behind Dean's temples, and he was almost willing to forgo food in favour of a nice, quiet motel room. Almost.
Despite the crowd, a waitress with tattoos running up her arms and piercings lining her ears got to them almost as soon as they sat down. "What can I get for you boys?"
"A veggie wrap for him, and a bacon burger for me," said Dean. "Oh, and two beers."
"Not for me," said Sam.
Dean glanced over at him, then back at the waitress. "Yeah, so two beers."
Sam smiled and shook his head as he took his laptop from his bag. The waitress nodded and flashed them a smile, turning to leave when Sam called her back. "How come the library next door is still open?"
Her smile grew. "Because when a group of people tried to ransack the place, the librarian fought them all off with her umbrella. If you guys want to be the first to tag the place, I'd think twice. Miss Delaney was near-lethal with a flowery little umbrella, but now she keeps a baseball bat by the front desk."
Sam guffawed, and Dean whistled. "This town, man."
The waitress disappeared into the crowd but returned not two minutes later with two pints of beer for Dean and a jug of water for Sam. It took a little longer for the food to arrive, and it wasn't really worth the wait, but at least it was a hot meal that hadn't been heated up in a microwave.
Dean dug into his burger, eyes scanning the rowdy crowd until Sam stopped typing and said, "Here we go."
Dean turned his attention to his brother whose face looked pale in the computer light, the bags under his eyes all the more pronounced.
"I couldn't find anything in the town history that might explain what's going on, but I had a hunch that might help us narrow it down. I looked up which out of town team played here last Sunday and checked that town for anything weird."
Dean nodded and swallowed his mouthful. "Because if the football pitch really is where this thing started, this town won't be the only going nuts. What d'you find?"
"It's not as widespread and not nearly as violent, but it's there. One guy went to work naked; another blew half his kid's college fund to rent a room and hire two dozen hookers to spend the night."
Dean's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. "Two dozen?"
Sam nodded, and Dean's mind whirred with scenarios, but he quickly had to stop as his jeans started getting tighter.
He cleared his throat and shifted on his stool. "So we know where ground zero is. But that place was clean."
"Maybe we missed something." Sam shrugged, eyes fixed on the screen. "Wouldn't be the first time."
Dean chugged the rest of his beer. There was nothing worse than a supernatural being that knew how to hide its tracks. "We'll head back there tomorrow morning and do another sweep."
A/N: Sorry for the delay! I got caught up with my exams, but now that those are over I'll hopefully manage to stick to a strict posting schedule.
A huge thank you to everyone who's left a review, favourited, or followed this story—you know how to make my day!