A/N: As always, thank you so so so much to toridw317, ImpalaLove, and rosesapphire16 for reviewing! You guys are awesome! I hope everyone enjoys this chapter.
Song: Sin City by AC/DC
CHAPTER 8
Sin City: Part 1
Everything is a bit murky, now. That night in Kansas left them… confused. It's not awkward between them – not exactly.
To Dean, Claire suddenly seems more… real. More multi-faceted, he supposes. She's no longer some girl he's saddled with because he needs to find his brother. Because of this, he can feel the roots of attachment begin to treacherously take hold in his chest, and it fills him with a distinct sense of dread.
Dean has a hard time with intimacy. There is his family – only Sam, now – and there are the girls. There is no overlap between emotional and physical relationships, or at least there hasn't been for a very long time. He has kept it this way for a reason, because this is how it needs to be. Don't put all your eggs in one basket, they say.
He does not have a physical relationship with Claire, but the boundaries have blurred. He has urges, urges that betray the boxes he places people into. These urges would be fine on their own, but coupled with their friendship are problematic. He doesn't know how to deal with them. His whole view of her has been disrupted, and this makes him feel things he never wanted to feel.
Claire feels terrified. Now that she's spilled her guts to him, she's vulnerable. She doesn't think he would hurt her, at least not intentionally, but he has the power to. Very few people outside of her family know the Story. Telling him was an act of trust, the most profound act of trust she is able to demonstrate. She trusts him not to mention it unless she brings it up herself. She is not as strong as he is – he can handle questions about Sam, about what happened. He hates them, but he can handle them. She can't. She can't talk about it. She told him the Story once, and she can't do it again.
When they awoke tangled in each other's limbs, they acted like nothing out-of-the-ordinary had occurred. The only difference in behavior was that Dean now looked at her with that particular sort of clarity she'd caught glimpses of before, and she treated him with more reluctance. It was bizarre. Oddly, Dean might have been more comfortable with the situation better if they had hooked up – he has his one-night-stand procedure down to a science. But this… this emotional exorcism thrust him into dangerous and uncharted waters. They were friendly before, but now it's different.
One thing was for certain – they could think about it all they wanted, but they sure as hell weren't going to talk about it.
. . .
They make it to Las Vegas without incident.
Dean had always loved Vegas, but somehow (and to his own consternation) he discovers he has grown to hate it. It's the city that unites his dream team of vices: gambling, booze, and women. It had always been a place where – once a year – he could completely immerse himself in his favorite acts of debauchery and forget about all the shit that was dragging him down in life. But now, he can only think that this place is not the same without his brother's nagging and generally stuck-up disapproval. It's not fun to throw yourself into hedonism if there's no one trying to pull you out of it. Without a Jiminy Cricket – without Sam – the thought of rolling in strippers and alcohol and poker chips just feels dirty and pathetic. Because if you don't have someone to drag you out when it's time to go, you'll never leave.
Their first order of business is to locate Lydia Allen, which Claire does on her computer.
"It must be our lucky day," she tells Dean wryly as he paces the motel room. "She's putting on a show at a hotel tonight."
"Awesome. So what, we meet her backstage afterwards and tell her Bobby sent us?"
Claire shrugs, taken aback. "I don't know – you're the one calling the shots, remember?"
"Right…" he murmurs to himself. For an instant, he forgot he wasn't working with Sam. He buries this deep. "That's what we'll do."
They're jammed right in the middle of the city, and it's extremely hot. It's a dry heat. This is not a motel like all the others – they are one of the top floors in a multi-story building, but thankfully there is air conditioning. Through the closed windows, they can hear the unfamiliar sounds of a bustling city bleed in, along with the stench of the street. There's a fat, dying black fly caught between the screen and the bit of window. It's futile buzzing cuts above the din of car horns and public transportation and even the woman yelling in another language in the apartment directly across the alley from them. It's amazing, Dean thinks, that such a thing can happen. It has the entire world at its disposal, and yet it found the smallest and most insignificant corner of it to trap itself in.
"Do we have to dress up for this?" he questions abruptly, pushing any quasi-philosophical musings out of his mind.
"Maybe a little. It's at a pretty nice place."
"I dunno what that means," is his blunt response.
Claire rolls her eyes. "Let me see what you have," she says, reaching for his duffle.
"You wanna go through my stuff?" he questions incredulously.
"No, I don't want to 'go through your stuff,'" she replies in exasperation, "I just want to see your clothes. I'm trying to help."
"Listen, I ain't exactly got what you would call a diverse wardrobe. We don't need to turn this into fashion week."
"Just let me see," she persists, starting to unzip his bag.
Now it's his turn to roll his eyes. "Fine. Whatever," he snorts in obvious annoyance. He doesn't really have anything to hide, so he surfs the internet as she scrounges through his clothes.
Eventually she states, "You weren't kidding when you said you didn't have much."
"Toldja," he answers without looking at her.
Nevertheless, she's laid out all his clothes on the bed and is scrutinizing them pensively. "Well, you definitely can't wear one of those flannel things you love so much… And it's hot, so you don't need that jacket you always wear. Come to think of it, you always wear some variation on the same exact thing…"
Dean could not be anymore uninterested in what she is saying. He'd just wanted to know if he was gonna have to wear a suit – he should have known he was opening Pandora's freakin' box.
Eventually she decides on his darkest of two pairs of jeans and a black V-neck tee that she's never seen him wear without another shirt over it. "This should be okay," she informs him, gesturing to the outfit.
"Awesome," he replies after granting her a millisecond of attention.
When they're both washed up and ready to go, Dean is wearing what Claire picked out for him and Claire is wearing a pair of dark-wash jeans and a blouse. She's also done her makeup in a way that she hasn't since he first met her, which is to say she is wearing makeup. He thinks it looks nice.
Dean announces, "I feel naked."
"Oh, shut up. You look good," she refutes objectively.
He smirks and quirks an eyebrow, like he doesn't need to be told this. She makes a face.
"You are so much," she complains.
"So much? So much what?" He appears to be genuinely confused.
"Never mind. Let's just go."
. . .
They buy their tickets in the hotel lobby and make their way to the auditorium. The room is incredibly dark apart from the stage, and it's hard to see much of anything. There seems to be a moderate crowd, but the fact that they were able to purchase tickets on such short notice doesn't really speak well for Lydia Allen's popularity.
They stumble through the dark to a small, round table with a maroon tablecloth and a dimly flickering candle on it.
The show has already started, but it's just the opening act – someone named Henry Hex. He has carrot-orange hair that's clearly dyed and is wearing a purple velvet tuxedo. He's a bonafide clown as far as Dean is concerned, and his performance is a circus act. He earns a feeble applause from the audience, and between his set and Lydia's a couple of waitresses come by to take drink orders.
"I'll have a whiskey, neat," Dean says expertly. The waitress is a pretty blonde, like so many of the others. Claire notices – for the first time since they've been on the road together – he doesn't undress her with his eyes. In fact, he hardly even spares her a glance.
"I-I'll have a vodka soda," Claire says after the blonde watches her expectantly for several moments. "Should we be drinking on the job?" she hisses across the table once she's gone.
"Have you been paying attention at all?"
"Yeah, but it just seems… I don't know…"
"You were a bartender," he drawls. "You're telling me you never snuck a few on the clock?"
Before she can answer, a sultry, mystical tune fills the room, signaling the start of Lydia's act. The curtain lifts, revealing the main attraction.
Lydia is around fifty years old, but still beautiful. She is dark and statuesque, with waist-length dreadlocks woven together into an elaborate hairdo. This, compounded with her calico attire, gives her the appearance of a witch or priestess.
"Welcome, my friends," she purrs. Her voice is low and smooth, like silk; it doesn't sound like a voice so much as it does a melody. "Prepare to open your minds."
The performance included an extensive amount of audience participation. One chubby, middle-aged woman broke into tears when Lydia was allegedly able to communicate with her dead cat, and an elderly man fainted when she "received" a message from his wife, who had been deceased for twenty years. They had to rush in the paramedics, but the man ended up being perfectly fine. While this occurrence in itself wasn't exactly humorous, Dean struggled to keep his snickering concealed for a large portion of the show. Claire kicked him in the shins under the table at least twice, when he was being particularly blatant in his disdain. And during at least one of these instances, Lydia looked directly at Dean with a knowing and unsettling twinkle in her eyes. And it certainly didn't help that the waitress kept refilling their drinks.
When it's over and the lights flip on, their retinas burn to adjust and their legs feel suddenly unsteady when they stand.
Dean doesn't seem at all affected by the alcohol, except for the fact that he has a mildly glazed look in his eye that doesn't at all match the gravity of his customary frown. Claire feels lightheaded for a second, but regains her bearings once she stops making sudden movements.
They find their way backstage, to an area that is extraordinarily bland when compared with the theatrical display they have just witnessed. Lydia's dressing room is sparsely furnished – just a vanity, some makeup, some lights, and some costumes. Her back is to them as she removes her gaudy gold earrings.
As they loiter in the doorway, she drawls, "Dean Winchester and Claire Shurley. Did you enjoy the show?"
"You know who we are?" he demands gruffly, giving no indication of his surprise.
She gracefully swivels around to face them. "Something told me you weren't here for an autograph… Of course I know who you are. People like you – a prophet and a Winchester – you make a big splash in the cosmic sphere, so to speak. And together – well, you might as well be wearing bells around your necks. I knew you were coming before you even left New Jersey, before Bobby Singer even gave you my name."
"So then you know why we're here?"
"I presume you are looking for the other half of the supernatural's most notorious duo."
"You think you can help?"
"That depends. What is it you would like to know?"
"We need to know where he is, and how to get to him."
"I can definitely help you with the first part," she starts, "but I am not certain about the second."
"Alright, well, let's go," says Dean, fidgeting impatiently.
"Not so fast. I'm tired – what you saw out there wasn't just smoke and mirrors, darling. My energy is drained – come see me tomorrow, at this address." She hands him a business card. "And bring something of your brother's. Something of emotional or spiritual significance," she adds. Her round, dark eyes bore into them, as to tell them they are dismissed.
"How did you know I was a prophet?" Claire blurts out.
She smirks slyly, in a way that is incredibly disconcerting. "I am more powerful than my career choice might suggest," she replies cryptically. "People have started talking since you've decided to team up with Blue Steel over here."
"Good or bad," he interrogates, ignoring the unsolicited nickname. Part of Claire almost wants to chuckle because he's wearing the exact expression Lydia was referencing.
"A mix."
"So then you'll understand why I need your help, too," interjects Claire.
"Why, my child?"
"My visions. They're excruciating – I want to know if there is away to manage them."
She peers at her in a mixture of empathy and pity. "We can discuss that tomorrow as well."
A/N: Sorry this one was so much shorter than usual! If I made the whole Vegas trip one chapter, though, it would be suuuper long, so I decided to break it up into two parts. And LOL this story was only supposed to be 10 chapters, but that's def not happening anymore. Let me know what you think! I hope you don't mind that this chapter was a bit fluffier than usual. Thanks for reading :)