A/N: Same stuff applies as in the first chapter. Oh, and unfortunately I neither own Supernatural nor Dark Angel. Just this.
A/N part two: I assure you I hadn't seen "The Real Ghostbusters" before I wrote this chapter. Thus, the bungee line came before the episode. I didn't steal credit!
A/N part three: Specific episodes of Supernatural mentioned are: "Route 666," "Everybody Loves a Clown," and "Dream a Little Dream of Me." Specific episodes of Dark Angel mentioned are: none. Also a reference to Resident Evil (that has another link, given that Jensen Ackles was rumored to star in that. Which is a side note of no real importance).
Of Desire and the Status Quo
Chapter VIII: Temptation of the Damned
Cindy tends to like bicycles over their motorized counterparts, but when Max tells her, in a speed that's so fast Cindy almost needs subtitles, that somebody named Zero had called declaring that he was miraculously with Dean, she follows Max out the apartment, Max's motorcycle accompanying them. She hops on behind Max, her hands somewhat uncomfortably around her friend's waist, and they're down the street before Cindy can think it all through. It's only about ten minutes until Max pulls up beside the paper mill, but when Cindy gets off, her hair is frizzier than normal, and she feels like she'd just got off riding a horse for hours. Max, of course, doesn't look bothered in the least.
Zero comes out of the warehouse door, obviously having heard Max pull up, and in spite of their previous hurry, she envelopes him in a big hug. It surprises Cindy a little, simply because Max hadn't talked much at all about the guy, yet she was embracing him like he was a close friend. Nothing escapes her, though: "Where's everyone else?" she asks.
Zero shifts his weight, suddenly wishing Max had followed Dean's example and just dropped the whole subject. Then again, he guesses he'd just forgotten about Max's take no prisoners attitude. Certainly, Dean struck him as having those same kickass traits, but at least Dean hadn't used them against him. Nevertheless, Zero doesn't show that he's supremely ill at ease with Max's grating.
"We got separated," he answers, realizing belatedly that his words echoed Dean's verbatim.
"Manticore?" Max asks fearfully, her mind already coming up with worst-case scenarios.
"No," Zero clarifies with a clenched jaw. "Not exactly."
Max persists, "Then what?"
"I'd rather not discuss it," Zero snaps sharply, honestly a tiny bit bemused at his own snideness. On the other hand, he figures it's mainly because last time they'd met, he may have acted like a dependent kitten, but that's all over now. Months of having virtually no chain of command does that to a person. Why he'd stopped referring to Max as superior and yet felt the inherent compunction to do so with Dean, he isn't quite clear.
Max looks somewhat affronted, but Cindy nudges her and speaks up. "Enough," she snipes, fearing a fight. "Where'd you say Deano was?"
Zero's grateful for Cindy's involvement, but doesn't let it show on his face. Instead, he gestures to the looming, gray building behind him, picturing Dean's still-sleeping figure. "He's in there. But," he adds hastily, "he's out cold, so be quiet."
Max and Cindy brush past him, Zero following on their heels, shutting the heavy—and yet not very, given Zero's genetic strength—metal door silently. He doesn't know why, but he'd half-expected to see Dean to have disappeared or something, but he hadn't; Dean's still lying on the floor, almost in the fetal position, his breathing deep. Max and Cindy, for their part, let out a sigh of relief.
It's when Max kneels down and reaches out to nudge Dean's shoulder to awaken him that Zero suddenly feels the need to tell her to stop. But she doesn't, and in the next second, she's on the same end of Dean's reflexes as Zero had been not too long ago. When Dean doesn't let go of Max's neck, Zero realizes that Dean just might not recognize Max. Knowing there's no way Cindy could break them up, Zero runs forward and, with a great deal of effort, pries Dean off of Max. She takes in a shuddering breath of fresh air, and Dean stares at Zero like he's the one off his rocker.
"Who the hell are you?" Dean demands, his voice now more low-pitched than raspy.
"Max," Max answers, now standing up straight. "You escaped out of Cindy's apartment."
Dean glances over to Cindy, who waves, a little frightened. Though she does notice that Dean's expression isn't as homicidal to her as it was to Max. That makes her ego do a little foxtrot for a second or two. For a minute, she ponders the strange possibility that Dean had been awake for some of when she and Max were talking. Maybe he had feigned some of the sleep. Obviously not all, she amends, considering no one could fake that nightmare, but he had escaped pretty quickly after she and Max had—
Oh. That would explain it.
"Boo," Cindy says calmly, glancing once at Dean. "I think we gotta tell this boy why we're here and what we know."
Max shoots a glare at her friend, a mild betrayal in her eyes that Cindy can't really compute. Was she the only one who saw Dean inches away from strangling her? "Cin," Max hisses, like it's some big secret.
And Cindy tells her as much. "Sugar, you gotta come correct on this," she chides. "Look at 'im! He's spooked as a baby horse."
Dean's obviously perturbed at this analogy, but he doesn't say anything about it, nor does he refute it, which is a little surprising. Max, meanwhile, doesn't see what Cindy does. "What are you talking about?" she asks. "He seems okay to me."
Cindy stares at her friend, aghast. "Max," she says sternly. "You forgot what happened back there? You saw jus' as good as I did what went down. And what you did for 'im."
Dean looks uncomfortable, Cindy can see that, and she knows then that she was spot on about her suspicions of him being awake for some of it. At least for enough that he remembers Max's consoling. Which, apparently, Max does not. "I didn't forget," Max says, concluding that being gentle with Dean obviously wasn't the way to go. "I was just trying to leave that behind; I didn't think it best to, you know, dwell."
"Well this has been fun," Dean interrupts sharply, causing the two girls to look at him, "but I've really got places to be, people to find—er, see. So if you'll excuse me—"
He starts to run out the door (okay, not quite run, considering his muscles are still getting used to actually working after thirteen years of inactivity), but doesn't get more than ten feet before Zero blurs and catches him in the chest. Dean looks down the few inches to Zero's eyeline, murderous. It's something Zero's seen a million times before, but somehow, coming from his new acquaintance, it zings a lot more.
"Dean, wait," Max calls, apparently having lost a silent argument with Cindy, given the former's sour expression, and the latter's smug. Seeing he has virtually no choice, Dean turns to face Max, simultaneously shrugging off Zero's arm. "We want to help you."
Dean snorts ungracefully, and folds his arms across his chest with a small grimace of pain from phantom wounds. "Help me?" he echoes caustically. "You don't even know me." Thinking back to what he'd overheard earlier, he amends with ice in his tone, "Or maybe you do. Tell me: Did you find the charges about Satanic tagging, or did you just get to the part about grave desecration and mass murder?"
Max knows better than to show any affectation on her face, but truthfully, Dean'd just hit the nail on the head. She'd read all his crimes that she could find, but now that Dean's confronting her with it, and in conjunction with her previous concerns, what does she really know about him? Hell, she just met him a few hours ago! And even then, he'd been practically seizing with invisible demons playing through his head. Max hates being out of her element, but that's exactly what's going on, and she's pretty damn pissed off with it, to be honest.
"Well, is it true?" Max asks, and Cindy raises an eyebrow at her friend, surprised at her lack of not just tact, but foresight. Is Cindy the only person that sees that there's something off about the crimes they read about, and Dean's face twisted into something between malice, dislike, and resentment?
Not known to sit idly by and not play to her strengths, Cindy notices the opportunity. Putting her hand in a stop signal to Max, she states, "Back that train up, girlie," and then turns to Dean. "Boy, you come wit' Original Cindy. We gonna talk."
Without waiting for a response from any of the three other members in the room, Cindy puts her arm around Dean's bicep and forcefully drags him away, down to the other end of the warehouse. She knows Dean's obviously letting himself be led, mostly due to the fact that he outweighs her about sixty-five pounds of muscle, but to her, all it means is that he's more willing to chat with her than to be interrogated by Max. She doesn't know what the bond is with Dean and Zero, who seem to have some sort of weird camaraderie (except for the whole Zero calling Max on Dean thing), but she does know that when she'd first met Dean, he'd seemed to take to her in a way. She's hoping that maybe he'll do the same thing.
"What's the dealio with you?" she asks, looking up to all six-one of Dean's frame. "You all scared outta yo' mind this morning, now you out strollin' with the gangbangers?"
Dean rolls his shoulders, like there's a literal weight on them. "What can I say? I don't much like people who make assumptions," he declares stonily, looking pointedly at Cindy.
Cindy holds her hands up, shaking her head. "Uh uh, that ain't gonna fly," Cindy rejects. "You gotta tell us what's on yo' mind. Only looked at that stuff to find out who you are. Adds up to a whole lotta nothin'. Want to fill it in?"
Dean crosses his arms over his chest defensively. "I can't," Dean says painfully. Then, realizing the emotion that had come through, he amends more roughly, "And you wouldn't understand anyway. Just leave me alone."
"Dean—"
Sighing, Dean puts his hands on Cindy's upper arms firmly. "Look, lady, you're pretty okay," he says, thinking on how, thus far, Cindy's been as objective as one could be with Dean, and that means something. "But I have to find m'brother. I don't care what your guys' issue is, but I have to go. I just need to find him."
"Sam, yeah?" Cindy clarifies, even though she already knows the answer. Dean nods, unsurprised. "Y'know, more people lookin' for him would be better."
Allowing Cindy a hard exhale that faintly resembles a laugh, Dean drops his hands from her shoulders and shakes his head. "Y'all would just want to pick my brain, or worse. Just—let me go. Please."
Cindy looks over her shoulder back at Max. Her stance is unsettled, hand on her hip and exuding impatience; Zero's merely looking uncomfortable with everything. Unfortunately for Cindy, however, Dean's made his decision, and although he's not pleased with it, he doesn't see any other option. He has to get to Sam—he won't let himself be trapped like a specimen under a microscope. He won't.
"I'm sorry," Dean says somberly. "It's nothing personal."
Cindy turns her head back to Dean and her brow creases, dark eyes trying to find clarifying purchase in Dean's. "What you talkin' 'bout?" she asks. "What do you—"
Before Cindy can finish her sentence, Dean wraps his arm around her neck, grasps that hand with his left and applies pressure inwards, cutting off the blood flow by way of her carotid arteries, and within seconds, Cindy goes limp, her eyes rolling back in her head. Dean prevents her fall and instead lays her carefully on the cement, but keeps his eyes upwards in preparation for Max—she wouldn't be as easy to drop as Cindy. Especially if, as Dean predicts, Max would notice either the lack of her friend's voice, or even heard the virtually silent fall.
True to that, Max immediately snaps her head away from staring irritatedly at the wall over to Dean crouched next to Cindy's body on the floor. Dean can see it plain as day on Max's face: horror, horror stemming from her thinking Dean had just killed her best friend in virtual silence. At Max's movement, Zero had looked over as well, and has a similar expression, if more confused than horrified. Simply put, Zero doesn't think that his new acquaintance would've just up and strangled someone to death.
Zero's right…but Max doesn't know that.
"She's not dead," Dean says quickly, standing up. Max's face remains incredulous as she takes steps toward him. "Just unconscious. Please, just…just let me go. I won't hurt you, just leave me alone."
Max snorts in disbelief. "Don't think I'm the one that'll be in trouble here," she says. In the heat of her fury (despite the fact that, now that she can see Cindy's chest moving, Dean hadn't been lying), she temporarily forgets her previous care for Dean, now only viewing him as an opponent who had dropped her friend like a sack of potatoes. Not to mention that she has no intention of letting him out of her sight. Not while everything about Dean, let alone what he has to do with Alec, is shrouded in mystery, which is in turn obscured by perplexity, which is saturated with a conundrum.
Blurring across the warehouse, Max aims a well-powered punch at Dean's face, again refusing to see him as exactly what he is. For Dean's part, he'd readied himself for Max's attack (not that he'd expected her to blur like that, but he's had innumerable supernatural creatures do the same thing, so it doesn't take much adjustment), and blessed adrenaline begins to pump through his bloodstream, counteracting his lesser muscle mass. Judging the trajectory of her hit, he ducks just in time, and puts his own fist into her stomach, forcing the breath out of her but, owing to Max's heightened abilities, doesn't take her down.
Appraising Dean's form again, she then sends a kick at the side of his ribcage, with a quicker speed than she'd normally consider. Dean's affected by the increased force, and although he's able to grab her ankle to prevent his ribs from breaking, her foot still catches him, and he winces at the stinging sensation running through the right side of his torso. Max takes advantage of Dean's momentary lapse in attention and swipes her leg underneath his, sending him sprawling to the ground, his side hitting the concrete with a sick, solid thud.
In spite of this, he recovers quickly, rolling onto his back and, using his momentum to its greatest capacity, flips onto his feet again. Transferring the same momentum, he plays a kick of his own into Max's chest. As her sternum rages in protest from the intense power behind Dean's move, Max is shoved back a few feet, both adversaries' breathing more strained than before. In the part of her mind not currently watching Dean's every twitch, Max wonders why Zero hasn't stepped in yet, but guesses he just doesn't want to get in the middle of it; let the two work out their issues physically, or something to that effect.
Covering the heightened distance between them instantaneously, Dean launches another punch to Max's face, his silver ring making a gash in the soft flesh as it hits her cheekbone. His other fist comes around to knock her in the jaw, causing her ears to ring like she has chronic tinnitus, and another kick to the kneecap jolts Max off balance. It's all the opening Dean needs, and with a final blow to her temple, Max's brain shuts down and she drops to the floor, her consciousness sufficiently wiped away.
Putting a hand on his ribs where he wouldn't be entirely shocked to hear are bruised, Dean looks up from Max's alive but very much inert form to the one other member in the room who isn't blacked out. Zero's watches from his position with amazement free of admiration, but from his current stance, Dean wagers that he's not in danger of being in another fight with a transgenic any time soon. (Which is good, because while Dean's adrenaline did him much good, the endorphins are starting to wear off, and his body is very much upset with him.)
Still breathing heavily, his side stitching a little, he sighs. "I really don't want to take you down, too," Dean says, trying to sound intimidating, ignoring the fact that he's nearly a hundred percent sure Zero would be the one taking him down.
"You didn't have to knock them out," Zero says after a couple moments. "Don't you think that was a little excessive?"
Dean shakes his head, recalling just how Catwoman Max may as well have been. "Oh, come on, man," Dean says obviously. "They weren't going to let me go. And speaking of," he goes on crossly, "what the hell did you call them for? What, think I'm some kind of head case?"
"I didn't know what else to do," Zero admits, dropping his shoulders of tension. "I'd never met you before, and Max is the only person I could think of to help with this. How was I supposed to know she'd react like that?"
Dean doesn't move his eyes from Zero's, but doesn't respond either. Truthfully, he can see what Zero's quandary would have been. Should he call the one woman he actually knows in the city to assist him with a guy that he somewhat bonded with, yet he doesn't know much about? Or does he keep hanging out with Dean, the first person he's actually talked with for an extended period of time without wanting to maim them? Moreover, Dean has to remind himself, despite the fact that Zero could kick the ass of someone twice his size, he really is only at most seventeen years old. When Dean was that age, he hadn't even fought one measly demon yet.
"You're right," Dean says in defeat, backing down a little on his Fort Knox defenses. "But I have to go get my brother."
Zero doesn't have to see Dean's face to hear the truth in his words, and they're heartfelt to the point that Zero can even ignore Dean's sending both Max and Cindy to the floor, blacked out. He knows family—biological or otherwise—and just because his situation didn't work out, it doesn't mean that Dean's has to follow the same route.
Sighing, Zero steps aside, more in a metaphorical sense than literal, since he technically wasn't in Dean's way in the first place. Dean can't manage a smile (he's not sure when he'll ever be able to smile again, honestly), but does hesitantly clap Zero on the shoulder with a tiny flicker of remorse before straightening his shirt and walking purposefully out of the room, into the now driving Seattle rain.
He'd resigned himself to walking however far he'd have to, but then something catches his eye, and when he turns to look at it, he's met with a sleek, black bike that he can only assume had belonged to either Max or Cindy. He casts a quick glance back at the warehouse, before twisting the keys that were left in the ignition, flaring the bike to life with a growling turnover. Releasing the clutch and revving the engine, the motorcycle speeds off, whipping up sprays of water and grime as it impels down the alleyway.
Ever since Alec had overheard that Max and Cindy are kicking it with Dean—whose last name hadn't apparently struck their "holy fucking hell" radars like it has Alec's—he's been on edge. Not only just because he knows as much of Dean's history as archives will tell him at the moment, but because he's nervous as to what would happen if Max brought Dean here. Maybe Max can't see it (she does tend to be blind to a lot of things), but Alec's pretty sure that anyone with half an imagination could deduce that, huh, Dean looks eerily like Alec. And then what would that do? Cause a crapload of trouble for everyone. Moreover, given the reported potential of Dean to be on a hair trigger, Alec allows there a very high chance of him wigging out when he'd see Alec.
Then there's, worse yet, the small little detail that Dean is, well, Dean Winchester. How's Alec supposed to see past that? Whatever weird fondness Max might generate for the guy, Alec at least knows that she's dealing with a psycho murderer. And because of her lack of self-preservation and thus lack of reporting and returning to T.C. with info on Dean, Alec can't do anything about it. It's a little nerve-wracking, Alec's not proud enough to deny that.
As he sits on the rooftop of one of T.C.'s buildings, the frigid air and drizzling rain attempting to calm his nerves, he allows the annoying part of his mind to acknowledge the other reason he's upset about this. It's not just because it's Dean Winchester the person, not specifically. It's more…Dean's M.O. It just…okay, Alec's not an irrational person, he's really not, and regardless what Max and a whole host of others think, he doesn't just hop to conclusions or go into situations half-cocked. But ever since he'd seen Dean's picture, associated it with the crimes, didn't fail to notice how damn similar the guy looks to Alec himself, he's been drenched continuously with the thought of another person who could fit in as well.
The thought being, naturally, of Ben. Of X5-493. His twin.
His psycho twin.
Okay, schizophrenic, if that makes Max feel better.
And fine, Manticore did all the tests they could come up with, tortured Alec beyond what he'll ever, ever want to remember, to make sure that Alec hadn't inherited the mental illness. Alec doesn't have it, Manticore proved it. But…but what if they hadn't? If they'd somehow missed something? Because Alec looks at Ben, and Alec looks at Dean, at Dean's and Ben's records, and he wonders. If both people that he's found resemble him past coincidence exhibited signs of at least some kind of brain on the fritz, the chances of Alec having the same thing is very high. It's not a fluke either, those statistics—Alec's a pro at stats. He hates the subject, but he's good at it.
He just doesn't want to find out he's defective. The horrific word that Manticore bastards attributed to those X's that showed signs of the shakes, of their own minds, things like that. It's true, to some extent, though. Technically, Ben's brain was defective. Dean's brain probably is. Max already regards Alec differently from all the other residents of T.C. With them, she's warm and friendly, and trying to be all-inclusive, because Manticore sure wasn't.
But at Alec, for all of what she'd proclaimed, he knows she's seeing the mask of Ben over his face. It has no bearing that Alec and Ben are as far apart in personalities, behaviors, actions, and thoughts as possible. Doesn't matter how many times Alec's proved himself, or come up with plans or saving-someone's-ass that Max couldn't even dream of, let alone carry out.
He's tried, time and time again, to make Max see that he's Alec, that he's not fucking Ben, but she doesn't. He knows she doesn't. So now that Dean is in the picture, is Max going to see Dean in Alec as well? Over Ben? Instead of Ben? See Alec or Ben in Dean? Somehow, Alec doubts the latter. If anything, Max would see past Dean's façade and instead go straight for the internal being. Unlike what she does with Alec.
He's insecure, he'll say that at the moment. He just doesn't know what to do. He'd never been trained, never taught, what to do in this kind of situation. He doesn't know whether he's supposed to brush this all off and pretend it's going to set itself right, or whether he needs to take control, tell Dean just where he can stick himself, tell Max that Dean's the one unhinged, that Alec's the sane one.
He just wishes it were that simple.
In general, and fairly akin to Cindy, riding a motorcycle isn't Dean's favorite thing to do. It's not the stealing of one—that really doesn't faze him much—but rather the schematics of the whole thing. He doesn't understand the appeal of rumbling around with little to no protection from the elements, let alone way less structural support than even the crappiest of cars. Maybe it's the fact that Dean usually drives only long distances or something, but he'd take internal heating and windshield wipers over nature's twenty-four/seven AC and a wimpy helmet facemask.
Don't even get him started on that Orange County Choppers shit…
That all being said, however, Dean does know how to drive one, and even with the jump into the future, apparently the mechanics of a motorcycle haven't changed much. He can appreciate the sleek black lines of Max's vehicle, the waxed exterior glaringly cared for unlike the rest of Seattle, the metal on it shined to perfection. He doesn't want to remember that he's absent of his beloved Impala, but he can't help but compare the two, to an extent. At least to the point that Max obviously was as—okay, maybe not as, but at least very—obsessed with maintaining her bike as Dean was about his Chevy.
Holy fucking Christ, he hates that it's in the past tense. Where the hell is his car?!
He's not quite sure when exactly he notices that he's being followed, the prickle on the back of his neck having persisted for a while. Dean had written it off as nothing—though in the recesses of his mind, he never did—but it had been there long enough that Dean knows something's up. Once he realizes this, he comes to notice almost scarily immediately that it's a nondescript, dark blue Toyota sedan, the type of car meant for doing recon on someone. Well, presuming that someone isn't Dean who's had way more instances of having to get rid of a stakeout in his life.
Dean isn't familiar with the streets of Seattle, and he definitely has to pay more attention to the debris littering the roadways, but he feels it's not really pertinent where he goes, as long as the people following him get the hell away. What's more troublesome to him, however, is the mere act of it. He'd been on Earth for, what, a few hours? As far as he knows, he hasn't broken any laws or ripped anyone off, or hustled a cop or anything. He's just been gazing around confused at everything, or else having bitches of nightmares and throwing down with a woman who, if Zero had been telling the truth, is some kind of genetic freak.
Okay, fine, he's gone through a lot of crazy shit in those few hours, but it's not like that's the craziest shit he's ever had to deal with. A racist truck, killer clown, and real-life Freddy Krueger anyone? Yeah, genetic freaks aren't anywhere near the vicinity of Dean's level of weirdness. He's like friggin' Leon Kennedy.
The tail has been following him for a good six miles now, and Dean's frankly fed up with it. He's tired, he's in pain, he has no idea what's going on, he wants to see his damn brother, he's been accused of being a clone, he's already been punched in the face. His day is not going well and he needs a fucking beer. He thinks he's beginning to lose the vehicle somewhere around the eighth mile, and as he looks away from the side mirror and back to the road, he finds he's coming up on the derelict Space Needle he'd seen earlier. It's all run-down and graffitied now, but from the looks of it, it's got more than a few hiding places.
Dean's not one for wanting to hide instead of fight, but he also knows when to pick his battles, when to recognize his limitations. Right now, he's not at his peak health. So, groaning, he quickly dismounts the motorcycle, drops it underneath a fallen down piece of sheet metal—he's sorry that the bike itself probably scratched, but he thinks Max deserves it—and hastens over to a break in the chain-link fence, running silently through the dirtied outer yard, staying as close to whatever shadows he can find as possible. He supposes the fact that Seattle has gray skies about two hundred and forty days out of the year is a small mercy at the moment.
The entrance to the base of the Needle is ajar, and Dean makes use of it. He peers out from between the doorway and the structure, and sees the sedan slowly crawl through the alley where Dean had been not but ninety seconds ago. A couple guys get out, both dressed nicely, and take a few steps towards the fence. Cursing under his breath at his crapshoot of luck, he jogs into the bowels of the monument.
He'd only been here once before, when he was about twelve—a poltergeist, if he remembers correctly—but he'd never been up to the top, because John had commanded Dean to take Sammy and look around the downstairs museum while John took care of the beast. It had been up on the service entrance to the roof, where no one could see him, and John hadn't been gone for more than a half hour before coming down the stairs calm as you please (if looking a little worse for wear) and quickly shuffling his boys off into the then-thirty-years-old Impala and heading back to the motel to freshen up before leaving again.
That said, even at twelve Dean was an expert at casing out places, at noting entrances and exits and everything in between just on the very off chance he'd need to use them. Of course, his main reason for that was to please his daddy, who rarely acknowledged more than saying "good job taking care of Sammy."
But whatever.
Still, Dean remembers the layout, and hurriedly jogs to the staircase, the elevator quite obviously broken down by now. He's not pleased at how many stairs he has to hike up, but it's better than being dead or kidnapped or what have you, so he starts climbing. And climbing. And climbing some more. He'd counted for a while, but gave up around stair number four hundred. Normally, he'd just give up and just deal with whoever was dumb enough to tail him, but damn it, he's annoyed and really not in the mood, which propels him the last hundred some-odd steps to the no longer revolving restaurant. The windows are grime-encrusted, which actually works to his benefit. It would prevent his moving body from being seen, anyhow.
Dean's pretty sure that he'd be safe enough there, but just for kicks, he spies the maintenance entrance that he presumes John had taken all those years ago, and takes the rickety stairs as quickly as he's able. There's a hatch that he has to hoist open, oddly isn't rusted shut, like he would have thought given the state of things, but it's not something he really can bring himself to care much about.
Stepping up onto the metal peak of the Needle, where the air feels about twenty degrees colder and the wind billowing through his soaked shirt like he'd jumped in a pool clothed, Dean crouches behind the iconic pointed statue up top, and peers around it to where he'd last seen the car. Considering he's no fewer than six hundred feet, give or take, above the ground, the foggy clouds are that much more pronounced, and the rain is still in torrential stage, he doubts he's visible to anyone from the ground.
The car's right where it'd been last he saw it, and he can just make out people inside of it, looking through the slightly tinted windows to see if their intended target had gone through the fence or had otherwise disappeared somewhere within the labyrinth of a city. After rolling down the window, getting out again, and huffing in defeat, they get back in the Toyota and roll away in a squeal of burnt rubber.
Sighing in relief—and the fact that he's still out of breath—Dean falls against the needle with a dull clang, sliding down the wet surface until he meets the lightly sloped bottom. He closes his eyes against the pelting rainfall, running a hand through his hair that's currently stuck to his forehead, raindrops catching on his long eyelashes and then finally relinquishing their hold, his breaths bringing much appreciated oxygen, but in addition water as well. Granted, he most assuredly prefers the harmless wetness of rain versus the scorch of fire or chest-crushing waterboarding, but still.
Now that Dean's able to calm down a little, and get back on track of figuring out how to find Sam, Dean realizes something that both irks and depresses him. Which is, predictably, Sam's geekiness. (Eloquently put, yes?) Dean had never really acknowledged the depth to which Sam's skill for research went—a skill Dean bets was cultivated even more during his college years—but right now, regardless of how much shit he'd always given him, Dean wishes he had that adeptness. If someone were missing, there'd be a good ninety or so percent chance they'd be found fairly quickly. Don't get him wrong, Dean's not shabby in the least in terms of research, but Sam had always had a slight edge over him. Then again, the person Dean needs to find is Sam himself, so it'd kind of defeat the purpose if Sam and his locating talents were close to Dean.
On the other hand, Dean was the one who was consistently better in the tracking and fighting business—for the life of him, Sam could never ever hang onto his damn gun, always letting the adversary knock it out of his hand; Dean was this close to strapping a bungee cord around the gun and Sam's wrist—as well as sensing where things or people were. It made them a pretty kickass team, what with Sam being able to hone in on the damsel (or dude, either way) in distress and Dean being able to kick, punch, shoot, and slash his way through to save them. Sam could hold his own for sure, but it was Dean was the one who had the prowess, generally.
He'd discovered that that skill was still most definitely in effect both when he'd sensed Zero's presence, as well as when he'd beaten Max, but now it's whirring up again. And although for a second Dean simply internally groans—his bad day is going to get worse, he wagers—and then simultaneously snaps open his eyes and jumps up into a tensed standing position, ready to take on whoever or whatever may be intending him harm.
It takes him a second to focus through the foggy rain, but when he does, he takes a small step back. Even though he hadn't seen them very well before, it's blatantly clear that the two men standing in front of him now are the same two he'd seen stepping out of the Toyota. They're not thuggish, nor do they look particularly strong, and it's rather jarring to see them dressed to the nines in pristine, if partially inundated, suits, shined loafers and coiffed hairstyles to boot. Dean gives them both a quick once-over and thinks he can take them, even though he really doesn't have the inclination to do so.
"Who the hell are you?" Dean asks, centering his muscles. "Why are you following me?"
"Don't be like that," says the man on the right, the one with light brown hair and blue eyes. "I know you remember me. 494."
Dean's face remains neutral, except for a small frown that appears. 494? What? Dean has no freakin' idea what that means. He doesn't even know if he's supposed to know what that means. Then again, bad guys tend to be weird all the way around, and these guys, regardless of the preppy way they're attired, are doubtless made in the same mold.
"Look, I don't know what your kink is," Dean says, having to raise his voice through the noise of the rain and wind, and disliking the way it feels like his throat is being scoured with Brillo steel wool. "but I really don't know who the hell you are, and I haven't done anything to piss anyone off, so I'd really appreciate it if you'd just fuck off."
The man who'd spoken to Dean turns to the other one, a darker-skinned man who looks a little less mobster-ish, and nods. Dean hates it when they nod. It's never good. "You know, I'm really actually surprised that you came out of your little rathole to go up here. Thought you people would have learned by now that that's a bad thing to do," says Suit (Dean decides to nickname him that; sounds more movie-villain, more Oddjob). "Though if you're stupid enough to start a bar brawl, I guess I shouldn't put anything past you."
"A bar brawl…" Dean stops mid-sentence, recalling just that. He wouldn't exactly term it a brawl—after all, Dean had only thrown one punch, just like the other guy—but obviously Suit has other standards. "Look, that guy hit me first. Self-defense, man."
Suit shakes his head, in a pity-like way, like Dean's a child who doesn't understand what his parent is trying to say. "Well, I suppose it doesn't really matter anyhow," says Suit in ponder. "It'll just turn out the same way for you, 494."
There's that name again, Dean thinks, annoyed. He's frankly fed up with all this confusion that's been surrounding him the entire day, and would like it to go fuck itself. Away from him. But why would his luck start now?
Suit's obviously done talking to Dean, and immediately the other guy takes steps towards Dean, attempting to take him down, Dean supposes. The guy had his form right, but Dean's reflexes are too good for that. Glad to note that the man's strength is very much human and not to Max's degree, Dean uses the momentum of the man's punch to twist his arm around, the bones creaking in protest, and then knees him in the groin. The man stumbles, but shakes off the pain, and gives a quick glance over to Suit, whose face hadn't changed much, beside expectation.
The man circles around for a moment, before Suit takes something out of his jacket pocket. "It's really unfortunate you couldn't come quietly," says Suit. "I'm a little disappointed you aren't fighting better. Ah, well."
Before Dean can realize that the man who had lamely tried to fight him was really just aiming to get him closer to Suit, Suit aims a gun-like object at him, and with the force of a pellet gun, leads spout out of the weapon, attaching themselves to Dean's stomach. Dean shakes violently with the electricity running through his veins for a few seconds, and then slumps to the ground, motionless.
"Come on, Otto," says Suit. "We've got work to do."