Chief Vick leaned over her desk with a look that was more than doubtful but less than confident. "You're sure about this?" she asked.
Juliet gave a resolute nod.
"Absolutely," Carlton said.
"We're not one-hundred percent yet," Juliet said in a far more measured tone. "It's more of a hunch."
"But it's my hunch," Carlton said, "Which means it's ten-times more credible than anyone else's. And, so help me, I'm going to find out who's responsible, because they sure as hell picked the wrong detective-
"I get it," Vick said with a look.
Carlton shut his mouth.
"And you have no specific evidence of an informant or mole?"
Juliet inwardly winced. She'd been dreading that part. "There's a pattern, we think. We only really started having trouble about five weeks ago," she said, conveniently vague, but hinting that there was, indeed, something. "We've been going through our notes, but we didn't want to tip anyone off in the station, so it's taking some time."
"I see," Vick said. "And… If you don't have specific evidence- other than the results of recent cases- how did you come about this theory?" She asked both of them, but mostly Carlton.
Carlton's mouth pressed into a thin line. He muttered something.
"What was that?"
Sounds were mumbled again, which might have been words, through gritted teeth.
Vick leaned forward. "Come again?"
Carlton grimaced, then scowled, then-
"It was Shawn, originally," Juliet said with a thin smile. "He told Carlton. Apparently."
The Chief looked at Juliet with a raised brow. "He told… Carlton?"
Juliet's smile threatened to melt into a wince. "Yes. Apparently," she said through slightly gritted teeth, as if it wasn't an absurd idea. As if Shawn talked to Carlton all the time with his concerns, just breezing past Juliet's desk, which was right there, when she knew for a fact her number was on his speed dial-
"Carlton," the Chief repeated dubiously.
"That's right."
Carlton looked up to find both woman staring at him. "What?" he asked. Then, he scoffed. "Spencer tells me things, sometimes," he said. He had a very good reason for not correcting them, and that reason was pride.
No, Shawn hadn't told him, per se, not directly. He'd just eavesdropped on a conversation and learned about the rat in the station. But those were minor details, anyway.
Vick considered with a frown. "Well… Unfortunately, this is a very big accusation. We'll need more to go off of if there's going to be an investigation from internal affairs."
"We understand," Juliet said.
She paused to look between them. "But, I'll admit, the lack of progress lately is very unusual for the both of you."
"You've got that right," Carlton said.
"I think it might be worth exploring, but- carefully," she said with a pointed look at Carlton. "Quietly. Just some precautions until there's enough evidence for something more official. You can start by keeping any new information on open cases locked down between the two of you. Limit information to as few people as absolutely necessary without jeopardizing safety or investigations. Hopefully, that'll give us an idea of what kind of leak, if any, we might be dealing with."
The detectives nodded. "Understood," Carlton said.
"Yes. Thank you, Chief," Juliet said.
Henry's house was like other beach-facing homes in that the backyard was in the front. A short picket fence separated it from a thin road, which was used as a walking trail moreso than not. A strip of grass lay between it and the ocean. Despite the distance to the beach, it was a nice enough view. And, as an attractive woman jogged past, Dean and Gus were inclined to agree.
Dean sat, beer in hand, leaning against a table next to the grill. Gus also stuck around, eyeing the steaks, following their every movement from the plate to the grill. He carried a can of grape soda.
"So. That your car out back? The old Chevy?" Henry asked while adding another steak to the grill. It sizzled.
Dean smirked. "Yeah, it is. Got it from my dad a few years back."
"Nice," Henry said "You know, my buddy had one of those back in the day. Is it a Caprice?"
"No, sir. Impala."
"Oh, yeah? What block engine?"
"Three-twenty-seven."
"Not bad. My buddy had a four-twenty-seven SS Caprice. That thing was a beauty."
Dean grinned. "I'll bet. You have a thing for the classics?"
"Yeah, you could say that. I used to rebuild 'em in the high school shop. Back when they taught useful things like that. Nowadays they barely teach math." Henry paused, gesturing with his metal spatula. "How do you get your parts? Do you stick with NOS or try to hunt down the real thing?"
"A bit of both," Dean admitted. "Got a family friend with a vintage junkyard, he helps keep an eye for originals."
"Sounds like my kind of friend." Henry smirked as he added another steak to the grill. "You know, it's nice to have a real conversation about cars for a change," Henry said. He glanced over his shoulder. "No offense, Gus."
Gus looked up and shrugged. "None taken." He paused. "But an old Impala gets terrible gas mileage. I bet you stop for gas all the time."
Dean raised a brow. "Hey, don't knock the classic muscle cars. My baby's got almost three-hundred horsepower ready to go, right under the hood. Any modern car get in a race with me, they'd eat my dust." He paused, smirking. "And besides, I've seen that speck of a thing you drive."
Gus recognized the cocky smirk on Dean's face. He knew that, were they twenty years younger and in a classroom, Dean would have stolen his lunch money.
Gus leveled an indignant stare. "It's a company car!"
Dean chuckled, more than slightly belittling. "For your agency thing?"
"No. For my real job. I'm a pharmaceutical salesman. Solving cases with Psych is my side job."
"Unlike Shawn, Gus here has an actual job," Henry said approvingly.
"With a 401k," Gus said.
"So… You push pills?
Gus gave him a flat look. "No. I sell medications to doctors," he said proudly. "Pharmaceuticals is a thriving industry."
Dean look another sip of his beer. Gus looked the part, he realized, with his stuffy slacks, belt, and shoes. A real pencil-pusher. And yet he was running around with a fake psychic, sneaking into places and solving murders, apparently. But Gus had the exact sort of fake courage Dean had seen before. That didn't translate to handling actual danger, in his experience. Even if Gus didn't immediately run after learning about the brother's true jobs.
Then again, being a consultant for the police didn't make sense for him, either. Dean knew Gus and Shawn's types. They were the first to freak out and bolt at the earliest sign of danger. But, in the days he'd known them, they seemed very bad at that. In fact, they seemed to have the innate propensity to run towards it instead.
"So, why'd you take up the whole detective thing?" Dean asked.
"It's a side hustle. I like to diversify my income. "
He paused. "That it?"
Gus nodded. "Besides. You've met Shawn. Would you really want him doing all of this work unsupervised?"
Dean couldn't object to that.
"And he's my best friend," Gus added. "What about you? How did you get into-" Gus discreetly looked at Henry, who was preoccupied with the steaks-, "-handyman work?"
"Through my dad. It's kind of the family business."
"Good for you," Henry said as he flipped another steak.
"And, uh. How long have you been working?" Gus asked uncomfortably.
"Since I was a kid. Old man didn't believe in training wheels."
Gus frowned and gave him a concerned look. "Really?"
"Get a hammer and nails in their hands as soon as possible, I always say." Henry flipped another steak.
Dean turned back to his beer, since Gus' look was too close to pity, and that was going to piss him off. "Yeah, well, sometimes you can't afford kiddy gloves. Otherwise someone gets hurt."
"Now, hold on," Henry turned. "You can start early, sure, but you can't skimp on safety." He pointed with his tongs. "Never forget your goggles and gloves. That's important."
Another wave of dad-energy coursed through the air, and Dean straightened instinctively.
"So… You just travel around, looking for work?" Gus asked.
Dean nodded. "Wherever we'd needed. Just keep an eye out for… jobs," he said, a little too casually, mindful of Henry. "Been to near every state and back more times than I can count."
Gus frowned. The idea was thrilling in a way that nine-year-old him would have loved to read comics about. Going around, fighting evil monsters, following the wind wherever it took them.
As an adult, he wondered how one could keep up with teeth cleanings, and doctor check-ups, and knowing which dry cleaners could be trusted without a careful sampling of their quality of service. Drifting around, far from home, never knowing who made the best smoothie within a five-mile-radius? Gus shuddered.
There was also the whole idea of getting in violent, dangerous situations. That was important, too, he supposed.
The kitchen table was covered with food. Only small patches of wood were still visible between platters of steak, potatoes, broccoli, and garnishes. An extra chair had been wedged next to Gus. Sam sat, uncomfortably, careful not to jab with his elbows in the cramped space.
The steaks looked juicy and, even to Sam's inexperienced eyes, seemed cooked to perfection. Shawn and Gus gazed at each plate of food in turn, practically drooling, but not quite. Their fingers twitched around forks and knives.
"Is there anyone else coming to dinner that I don't know about?" Henry asked.
"No," Shawn said without looking up. "Not unless Val Kilmer finally accepts my invitation."
"That was 1988, Shawn," Gus said. "He's not coming."
"Oh, ye of little faith."
Henry stabbed a steak. Then, it was a frenzied free-for-all as far as Shawn and Gus were concerned. To his right, Dean cut into his steak like he hadn't had beef in years, grinning like an idiot. A tug-of-war broke out between Shawn and Gus over the butter dish.
Sam made a single cut into his steak.
Gus leaned over. "Are you going to eat that?" He stared at the plate, transfixed.
Sam blinked, confused. "Uh… Yeah?"
Gus glowered, disappointed, before leaning away.
Dean made no secret of how amazing he found every bite of food. Sam nodded politely and muttered compliments- even if the food was on the heavier side for his taste. And he could still sense the distinctively father-like energy in the room that made him sit stiffly in his chair.
"So… Gus has this theory," Shawn started. He cast an eager look about the table.
"Oh boy," Henry said. He busied himself with cutting his baked potato. "Here we go."
"What theory?" Sam asked despite his better judgement.
"My theory that any show or film can be improved by combining two titles featuring the same actor," Gus said confidently.
Dean paused in spearing his second-to-last piece of steak. He raised a brow. "Oh, yeah? Like what?"
Shawn cut in. "Michael Landon- Little House on the Highway to Heaven."
"Or John Travolta's Pulp Fiction on Spaceship Earth," Gus said.
"Wait! No, even better. Little House on Bonanza," Shawn grinned.
Dean paused thoughtfully. He smiled. "Yeah, I'd see both of those. Freaky alien Travolta running around after a suitcase? Sign me up. I don't think the prairie's ready for Hoss, though."
Sam frowned, trying in vain to piece it all together.
"Levar Burton," Gus started, "Star Trek: The Next Reading Rainbow."
Shawn grinned. "Nice! Children and stay at home moms wouldn't even stand a chance. Or me, for that matter."
Dean stared in concentration. "Larry Hangman! I Dream of Dallas," he smirked, pleased.
Shawn and Gus nodded, smiling in appreciation. "Jeannie would've known who shot J.R," Shawn said.
"I'd watch that," Gus said.
Sam just stared. He couldn't remember anything from Dallas other than it was an old show, and some tagline about 'shooting JR'. "I don't… I don't get it."
Dean looked at him incredulously. "Larry Hagman? J.R. from Dallas? He was the major in I Dream of Jeannie."
Sam paused. "You mean Darren?"
"Darren was on Bewitched," Gus said.
"There were two of him, though," Shawn said. "But, sadly, no one noticed."
"What?" Sam asked.
"The Encino Mummy," Dean smirked.
"Frasier could sell that," Gus said.
"Okay," Sam said with a smirk. After a moment, he finally said, "X-Men: The Next Generation."
"Eh…"
"That's kind of weak."
"Not bad," Dean said. "You know what's better? X-Men in Tights."
Sam scoffed. "What? No way! There's no way that's better."
"It's okay, Sammy, not everyone's a pop-culture genius like me," Dean smirked.
"Who was even in both of those?"
"Patrick Stewart. He was King Richard."
"Who even knows that?"
"I do."
"I did."
Sam let out a disbelieving chuckle. "Ah- Okay. Nevermind, then." He saw the glimmer of pride in his brother's eyes, and how he so confidently thought of himself as the expert. Two could play at that game. He leveled a confident stare. "Harrison Ford. Indiana Jones and the Return of the Jedi."
Sounds of approval spread across the table. "Nice," Shawn smiled.
"I would see that," Gus said.
Dean's smirk faltered. Sam basked in the victory.
Before Dean could speak up, Sam said, "Mission: Top Gun."
Shawn and Gus nodded appreciatively. Shawn spoke in deep, dramatic tones, "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to win at fighter school."
"That's not how it works," Gus said.
"What do you mean? That's totally how it works."
Dean finally found his words, unable to let his younger brother one-up him even at such as simple non-existent game. "American… Wars."
Everyone stared at him, confused. Even Henry looked up.
Dean forced an awkward smirk. "It's, uh, American Graffiti and Star Wars."
The table was lukewarm.
Sam grinned. "Really, Dean?"
"Shut up! They can't all be winners." Dean busied himself with finishing his steak.
"Indiana Jones and the Hunt for Red October!" Shawn gushed.
That drew excited looks from the table. Even Henry would've watched that.
Sam smirked, a kindle of an idea rushing through him. "T2: Dante's Peak."
Gus raised a brow. "Sarah Conner? Against a volcano?"
Shawn smirked. "That's hot."
"In more ways than one."
Sam laughed.
Dean paused, considering, before muttering, "Yeah, okay, that one's pretty good."
Across the table, Sam saw the half-grin his brother tried to hide as he shoveled more food in his mouth.
After dinner, as the others were caught in an intense discussion involving Shawn's phone- or lack thereof- Sam found Dean sitting on the front porch. Darkness had cloaked the yard beyond. Yet, the faint rush of the ocean wafted along with the salty breeze. It was too dark to see the beach, but from the sound, it was close. Sam couldn't remember the last time he'd simply relaxed near the ocean. Probably back at college. With their work, there just hadn't been a chance for it.
Dean reclined in a wooden chair, another half-finished beer in one hand. He was staring out into the abyss, seemingly transfixed on the ocean beyond. It took him a moment to notice Sam's approach.
"Hey," Sam called. "Wondered where you went off to," he said.
Dean smirked. "What can I say? Gotta get some beach time," he said easily.
Sam dropped into the chair beside him, setting his laptop on the table. He raised a brow. "At night? On a porch?"
"Yeah, well, it counts," Dean shrugged, his smirk resolute.
Sam shook his head with a chuckle. It was a far cry from Dean's earlier wish for a day around bikini-clad women lounging in the sun. Then again, the entire situation was unusual. First, a mundane family dinner, and then Dean lounging on a porch like an old man, lulled by the crash of nearby waves into the night. His expression was lax, despite the smirk; a hand loosely wrapped around his beer. There was something in his gaze, an odd sense of calm. The same that Sam had noticed earlier during dinner.
The perpetual Winchester-brand of constant alertness was gone, Sam realized. Had Dean ever stopped listen to the ocean before? Had there even been a chance for it in his life, molded and driven by their dad, focused on the hunt? No- Dean wasn't one for sentimental moments. Not outwardly, anyway. He always acted too tough for such things. And yet, watching him now…
Sam swallowed, a heaviness settling on his chest. Two months was all Dean had left. The man sitting before him was not a man doggedly fighting for his life. It was a man defeated; resigned to enjoying the things he'd never had and never would again. The mundane, the joyful things he would never admit to wanting aloud.
Sam's hands clenched into fists against the armrests. He let out a scoff. Had his brother really given up? Just like that? Even after he admitted that he wanted to live? Sam stared down at the white-planked flooring, torn between feeling sorry for his brother and shouting incredulously at him.
But he was never given the chance. Shawn and Gus poked their heads out from the door.
"There's Waldo! And his brother, Marvin," Shawn said.
Sam mentally shook himself. Dean's messed-up attitude would have to wait.
Dean stared. "Marvin?"
"Walter's brother is Odlaw, Shawn," Gus said. They both sat down in chairs of their own. Then, they loudly scooted them closer to the brothers, making them wince at the noise.
"Waldo has a brother? Since when?" Dean asked.
"How do you even know that?" Shawn asked.
"Nobody should know that," Dean said.
Gus stared. "What? I read the books as a kid."
"Everyone asks 'Where's Waldo?'" Shawn said. "But, pray tell, does anyone ask- how is Waldo? And who is Waldo, really?" He looked at the others. "Seriously- does anyone know?"
Sam shrugged.
Dean considered, finding it a question he'd never heard before, didn't have an answer to, and caught himself pondering it more than any sane person should have.
He let go of his beer and sat up straighter, leaning forward. A firmness came to his gaze as he looked expectantly at the psychic duo. "Yeah, whatever. Now, you gonna tell us about the rabbit's foot you two found?"
It wasn't a question.
Gus and Shawn exchanged a glance.
Juliet knew it was a win- small that it was- for the Chief to take their idea seriously. Usually, when one had a small victory, there was a brief window of encouragement and positivity. Especially with Juliet. A reason to smile, if for a moment.
But as she sat at her desk, staring at her work, the satisfaction eluded her worse than her nephews ran from washing dishes. She'd tried to read the same form, unsuccessfully, for the past ten minutes.
So what if Shawn had told Carlton about something as important as a leak in the police station? He was Lead Detective. It made technical sense, didn't it, to tell him? Even though Carlton dismissed most everything Shawn said, even the many times Shawn turned out to be right. And he scowled basically whenever Shawn came near. And he used any interaction as an excuse to insult him. And-
Juliet bit her lip. It wasn't her business, was it? Shawn and her were just coworkers, mostly. But also, somewhat, friends. Weren't they? It wasn't as if there was something special between them, though.
It couldn't have been anything personal if he talked to her partner instead. Or, so she told herself for the dozenth time in the past hour. Even as a frown came to her face at the thought, her focused gaze turning to a distant stare. She shook her head, redoubling her resolve to focus on the case.
This lasted two seconds.
He should've told her, she thought. He usually let her know something the moment he found out. He trusted her. And she usually trusted him.
They were friends. She was a great friend, dammit, and Shawn told her partner instead of her?
Juliet stopped. She sat up straight, took in a breath through her nose, and let it out slowly through her mouth. She needed to focus on other things. More important things, she told herself.
Even as a corner of her mind remained fixated on a certain psychic.
