Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural.
The black '67 Chevy Impala rolled slowly to a stop in a lot overlooking the Mississippi River Canal.
"I can't believe we're paying for parking," Dean barked as he got out of the car and slammed the door shut. "Damned street parking; there's never enough! Would it kill anyone to, you know, have free parking?"
"At least we got this," Sam replied, leaning against the hood of the Impala, breathing deeply, allowing the smell of the river to fill his nostrils. It wasn't the most pleasant smell in the world, but it was better than the inside of the Impala, which was beginning to take on a rather Dean-like aroma after fourteen hours of driving. Not to mention the fact that Dean wanted to stop at every Tex-Mex place in Texas for burritos, of all things.
"It's a Friday night in the French Quarter," Sam continued, "what did you expect? Not to mention, it's probably the height of tourist season."
"Yeah, yeah," Dean waved his hand at Sam and pulled the parking stub from the machine. He resisted the urge to kick it as THANK YOU! scrolled across the screen. "I'm thinking we hit up some of the local spots and talk to some people, see if they know anything about this underground bake-off."
"In other words, you want to go to a bar and ask the closest pretty girl if she knows anything about local baking lore?" Sam rolled his eyes
"Sammy, I am liking your plan," Dean smirked. He ignored the flabbergasted look that crossed his brother's face. "Come on, Sammy," he continued, "it's been a long drive, let's have some fun in this city before we raise a little hell."
Sam smiled reluctantly. He opened the back door of the Impala and grabbed a brown leather messenger bag from the back seat containing his laptop. "Well while you're interviewing the locals, I'm going to do some research and see what I can dig up on this bake-off."
Lights and music pulsed in conjunction with one another in the bar. Dean glanced around, the bar was packed with people of all walks of life; all talking, drinking, and doing some things Dean hadn't seen in quite a few years.
"I'm going to find a table," Sam murmured, gazing off towards the back of the bar, where it was darker and it seemed the throbbing lights and music were a little less invasive.
"You sure?" Dean asked, eyeing up the bar. Draped over the counter were two blonde women in skin tight dark jeans and low cut tank tops, giggling as they downed shots.
"Yeah, I'm good," Sam reassured him. "I'll grab a beer in a little, I want to get started with research first. You have fun though."
"Okay," Dean nodded and headed towards the bar. He leaned against the bar and surveyed what people were drinking around him. It appeared hurricanes were the drink of choice here. Dean allowed his thoughts to wander as he watched the bartender drift up and down the counter, pouring and distributing drinks to the people around.
It was all so simple and meaningless, it reminded Dean of time he could no longer go back to; one in which he was far less jaded and had seen less of what horrors the world, heaven, and hell could dredge up. His hand went absentmindedly to his arm, where the Mark of Cain was burned into his flesh.
"What'll it be?" the young woman behind the bar asked, leaning against the counter just enough to show off her cleavage.
"Whiskey, neat," Dean said, his voice deepening.
"Coming right up," the bartender responded, turning and reaching up for the whiskey as Dean looked her over. At least there were still things in life that were simple.
Across the bar, Sam typed away feverishly at his computer. He was supposed to be researching lore on the bake-off, but as usual, his research turned back to the Mark of Cain. Dead ends, that's where all his leads led, but he wasn't about to give up. Dean was his brother and the one person he couldn't live without. There had to be a way over this hurdle.
Sam took a sip of his beer and began typing again, watching Dean out of the corner of his eye. The Mark left his brother slightly unhinged lately, and this type of environment—crowded, loud, lots of people with different agendas—could easily set him off. However, in this moment, Dean looked content. He was busy chatting it up with one of the blonde women at the bar.
Sam exhaled, took another sip of his beer, and then closed the open window on his screen. He opened a new one and decided he should at least try to get some actual research in on the case they were working.
"So, you've lived here your whole life?" Dean asked, raising an eyebrow and taking a sip of his drink. The young blonde next to him giggled and played with her hair, inching ever closer to him.
"Born and raised, honey," she murmured, getting close to him. Dean could smell the alcohol on her breath and suddenly felt very uneasy. "Why don't I take you back to my place and I can show you how Southerners get down?" she purred.
Normally, Dean would've eagerly taken her up on that offer, but something just wasn't right. Maybe it was the fact that she was at least 8, maybe 9, years younger than he was? He didn't want to think he was getting old, but every man should have his limit, right?
"Maybe not tonight sweetheart," Dean said, taking another sip of his drink and turning his back on the young woman. He heard her mutter a curse under her breath and then loudly proclaim to her blonde counterpart that the bar was too crowded with old men and suggested they go elsewhere. Dean closed his eyes and held his glass against his forehead. The cool crystal felt comforting against his skin.
"Long night?" a voice asked. Dean looked up and noticed the chestnut-haired bartender looking at him with large eyes.
"You could say that," Dean mumbled, sitting down his glass. The bartender smiled and grabbed the bottle of whiskey from behind the bar.
"On the house," she said, as she poured him another glass. "Are you from out of town?"
"Yeah, and thanks," Dean said, pulling the glass close to him. He was hoping she wasn't looking for any favors tonight.
"What brings you in? The festival? Work? Pleasure?"
Dean ignored the way she said the last word and downed his whiskey, "All three," he said, pushing the glass back towards her. "Thanks for the whiskey, but I really need to get going." He turned and saw Sam hunched over his computer, eyes darting across the page. Damn it, he did say he was going to talk to some locals…
"Actually, maybe you can help me with something." Dean turned and noticed the bartender still watching him, examining him almost; it was rather unsettling.
"Sure, what do you need? Directions? A motel or something to stay at?"
"Well, yes to the motel, but do you happen to know anything about a bake – off that happens every year during French Quarter Fest?"
The bartender looked taken aback by Dean's comment. He noticed her cheeks turn a deep scarlet, however, she attempted to play it off like it was nothing. "Can't say I have," she responded. "There used to be one, but not anymore, not since...well, never mind, it's not important. How about that motel? Let me get paper and I'll write down the name for you."
"Yeah, sure," Dean said slowly. The bartender returned, carrying a small notepad and a pencil. She quickly scribbled down the name of a motel and directions how to get there before handing the piece of paper over to Dean.
"The motel's in a beautiful part of town," she said, "one of the more historic areas, hopefully you like it."
"Thanks. Hey, when you said there used to be a bake-off, what did you mean by that?" Dean hoped playing the ignorance card would work for him now like it had so many times in the past.
"I didn't say anything about a bake-off, did I?" the bartender asked. She too, was playing the ignorance card. Dean rolled his eyes and leaned against the counter once more. He was tired and he was getting impatient, he really didn't want to play any games tonight.
"Yeah, you said there used to be one, but not anymore. What did you mean by that?" Dean raised an eyebrow and stared the bartender down.
"Look, I don't know a ton about it, just that some weird things started happening a few years ago and they shut it down. People started disappearing or whatever, so of course they aren't going to keep holding it! If you're really that curious about it, go talk to Roscoe, he'll be able to help you, but if I were you, I wouldn't go looking for anything. That bake-off was bad news."
"Roscoe? You got an address?" Dean handed back the piece of paper with the motel name written on it. He got a name at least. He wondered if Sam had found anything as well.
"He's right around the block," the bartender said, scribbling nervously on the paper. "You can't miss him. Oh, and if he asks, you didn't get his name from me, okay?"
"You got it," Dean winked and tucked the paper into his shirt pocket. "Thanks again for your help."
Sam looked up as his brother made his way over to the table and sat down, a goofy grin on his face.
"What? No chicks?" Sam asked, downing the last of his beer. "Did you strike out?"
"Me? No, tonight wasn't the night Sammy," Dean replied, producing the paper from his pocket. "But I did get us a lead on this bake-off! Guy named Roscoe—the bartender was real hush hush about everything though. I think it's worth checking out."
"Great! Let's go," Sam said, shutting the lid of his laptop, hoping that Dean hadn't seen that he was still researching the Mark of Cain.
A/N: As always, please read and review!
Kathy – Thanks so much for your support! I hope you enjoy chapter 4! Thanks for reading!
Piquelabaleine – I'm interested to see where it goes too, haha! I hope you enjoy chapter 4! Thanks for reading and reviewing!