fic: how the mighty fall (in love) - 1/6
prologue | one | two | three | four | five | six | epilogue
Dean glances over at Sam, who is sitting on his bed with his computer on his lap, surrounded by tomes upon tomes of books and sighs. "Sam, if this is another one of those stories about reverse Mormonism, I swear to God I'm going to shove-"
"That was one time," Sam interrupts, indignant. "And no, it's not that. I think we might have a case."
"Yeah?" Dean sits up, swinging his boots off the table. "Let's hear it, then."
Sam moves aside as Dean walks over, and Dean pretends he doesn't see the books open to pages about Lilith and crossroads and demon deals. He shifts some of the books to the side and sits down, pulling the laptop closer and clicking through the tabs. The sheer amount of them is staggering; Dean doesn't know how Sam can keep all these pages straight and not be able to find his toothbrush in the morning-although that may or may not be because Dean hides it.
Sam's already catalogued the tabs by type, so Dean mouses over the ones that are from news sites. All the articles are of unsolved murders: five males, each with their throat slashed so deep that the bone shows, and Dean wishes that were an exaggeration.
But other than that, the killings are in four different states-with the youngest victim being twenty-one, the oldest sixty-four. Dean doesn't quite see the connection, so he tells Sam as much.
"I don't see the connection."
Immediately, Sam starts fucking glowing, which Dean usually never takes as a good sign, but upon closer inspection and consideration of the slow grin spreading across Sam's face, Dean realizes this is his brother's post-research coital glow.
"Okay," Sam starts, and Dean braces himself for nerd-impact, "I did some research and they all live in places located in Arizona, Utah, Colorado, or New Mexico."
"So?"
"So, those are the four states located at the quadripoint in the Southwestern United States where the corners of those states meet!" Sam is getting really excited now, waving his hands and gesturing rather unnecessarily, "I think we should go there-see what we can dig up. It's the only place in the country where four states meet, so they call it Four Corners. It's, like, the most epic crossroads ever-there's a monument marking it and everything! It also happens to mark the boundary between the Ute and Nava-"
"God, Sammy, okay!" Dean interrupts, unable to take anymore of the info-vomit. "We'll go, if it means that much to you," he adds, barely hiding a grin when he sees his brother's face light up.
"Thanks-"
Dean cuts him off again. "Before you thank me, I've got one condition."
"Anything," Sam promises as he's throwing things into duffels.
"You can't complain about my music," Dean says as they head towards the car. "No telling me to turn it down, change tracks, nothin'. Got it?"
Sam nods as they open the doors and slide in. Dean grins, triumphant, and cranks up the volume.
+ + +
Sam is starting to show physical signs of distress over Billy Gibbons wailing out of the Impala's speakers despite Dean adjusting the volume after the third hour-hey, he does care!-so they stop at some no-name motel after only about seven hours of travel. Sam stands outside the car and tries to get his head to stop pounding as Dean goes into the office to get them a room.
He emerges moments later, proudly displaying a tarnished silver key before throwing it in Sam's general direction. "Got us a discount, Sammy. Clerk wasn't even a chick!"
Sam snorts as he catches it-the clerk is a distinctly sleazy-looking guy with a bad combover and an inability to stop looking at Dean's ass. "Better check the room for hidden cameras, then."
Dean frowns at him. "Why? S'not like he-" Sam can literally see the lightbulb go off in his head, and laughs at Dean's instantaneous scowl. "Why do they always think we're gay? Jesus, people are pervs."
Sam opens the door. "You're one to talk."
Dean grabs their duffels and steps over the threshold. "Bitch."
"Jerk," Sam replies easily, and knocks Dean into the doorway as he pushes past him into the room. He's feeling a lot better.
+ + +
They've set up their things and Sam's been happily clicking away while Dean shoots freethrows with wads of paper and garbage into the wastebasket from different places around the room. Soon Sam makes an excited noise and turns his laptop around to show Dean.
"Look. Look at this," he says, practically bouncing in his seat. "I was going through the victims' financials, and they all made payments within the last few months to this weird offshore account somewhere in the Caymans-not important. Anyway, I traced it all back to a place called The Dovetail Bar."
Dean sinks his last shot perfectly and allows himself a celebratory fist pump before turning his full attention to his brother, only to find Sam looking at him with a highly amused expression. He clears his throat. "The Dovetail? I think I might've picked up a chick there once." He rubs his jaw, wondering how Sam manages to get so excited over doing research. "Turns out she was friends with the owner. Told me he was struggling and she was gonna buy it from him."
"Yeaaah," Sam says as he scrolls and clicks some more, ending up on a very shady-looking webpage. "It's a-wow-it's an underground brothel now."
"A whorehouse?" Dean perks up. "Sammy, this case just got a hell of a lot more interesting. Tell you what, why don't I look her up and give her a call."
Sam nods. "Sure. You still remember her name? I'm impressed."
"She was hot; of course I do," Dean scoffs. "Her name was Branson. Rebecca Branson," he declares, confidently, and reaches for the yellow pages and a phone.
Ten-and-a-half Rebecca Bransons later, Dean covers the mouthpiece and pulls his ear away from a particularly heated rant about female oppression and depravity; mouths at Sam that maybe her name wasn't Branson and winces when the phone screeches, "ARE YOU EVEN LISTENING TO ME?"
Dean hangs up. "Let's just go to the damn bar tomorrow."
Sam laughs. Dean scowls. Rebecca Bransons numbers eleven through thirty get crossed off the list.
+ + +
Sam crashes through the door of their hotel room, clutching bags of breakfast, a newspaper, and balancing coffee precariously on his arm. He tosses one of the bags in Dean's general direction, sits down, and shrugs his jacket off before handing him a cup of coffee. Dean gratefully takes a gulp and promptly chokes on the froth and taste of sugar.
"What the fuck is this shit?" He asks, coughing and looking up to glare at his brother.
"Sorry," Sam is sporting a rather impressive grimace on his face as well, "The barista probably got the cups mixed up."
"Must've been distracted by your incredibly girly coffee order, Samantha," Dean gripes as they exchange drinks, "No self-respecting man drinks 'half-caf, double vanilla lattes at 140' and asks for extra coffee after taking a single sip."
Sam's eyebrows have receded into his hairline at this point; fork paused halfway to his mouth. "How do you know-"
Dean cuts him off with a wave of his hand and grabs for the newspaper, taking a bite out of his eggs as he does so. "Look, they found a body." He chews and swallows. "Charles Wright, fifty. Throat slit. No pants." He frowns, peering closer at the photo. "Should've taken the necktie too. I'm pretty sure I saw the same exact color on some roadkill a week back. But if the whole 'no pants' thing is anything to go by, the tie didn't keep him from getting laid. Good on ya, Charlie!"
Sam rolls his eyes and pulls the paper from Dean's hands. "His wife called the police
when he didn't come home after his business trip ended. Police found jack-no prints, no murder weapon, no evidence at all. Sounds like our guy."
"Fantastic." Dean stands, swallowing the last of his coffee. "Let's go talk to the wife."
+ + +
They pull up to a large, sprawling ranch, complete with token farm animals and the smell of manure. Dean pulls the Impala to a neat stop. Grinning, he passes Sam an ID card and shuts off the engine.
"Showtime."
They walk up to the front door and ring the doorbell. Sam looks appropriately horrified as they pass the lawn gnome and Dean is inclined to agree: the naked thing with its come-hither pose is all manner of horrendously kitschy. Before he can make a comment, however, the door swings open and the owner of the tacky monstrosity leans against the doorframe.
Sam and Dean flash her their badges. "'Scuse us for interrupting, ma'am," Dean says, "I'm Special Agent Schreck, and this is my partner, Very Special Agent Weine."
Sam digs his elbow into Dean's ribs and he chokes a little on his next breath, but the older woman doesn't notice as she perks up. "Oh, hello, agents," she titters and ushers them in, not even bothering to disguise her roving, appreciative gaze on their backsides. "What can I do for you?"
"We'd just like to ask you a few questions about your late husband, if that's okay with you, Mrs. Wright," Sam explains as they enter her living room and she gestures for them to join her on the couch. Sam hesitates and starts to move towards the recliner, but Dean bumps him from behind, forcing Sam to not-so-gracefully fall on the cushion right next to Mrs. Wright.
"Please, call me Georgia," she insists, laying a hand upon Sam's thigh as she scoots closer.
Dean sniggers at Sam's floored expression, hiding it behind a coughing fit while Sam continues. "Um, okay. So, Mrs-Georgia. Your husband-"
"Ex-husband," Georgia interrupts, frowning slightly.
"…Ex-husband; did he often go on business trips?"
"Yes, Agent Weine, he did-or, at least, he did when we were together. You see, Charles and I had been separated for some time now. The papers just hadn't been finalized yet. It's partially why I left him, you know," she says as she starts trailing her hand higher up Sam's leg. "It just-got so lonely at night, and a woman can only deal with a cold, empty bed for so long before she starts to yearn for something more…"
Sam looks like a dog trying to lay an egg, and Dean can barely contain his amusement as he stands up. "Sorry, uh, Georgia, if you could just direct me to the restroom-"
"Up the stairs and on your left. Next to my bedroom," she adds meaningfully, eyes still on Sam, who is subtly trying to slide away from her.
Dean gives Sam a thumbs-up and a wink from behind her back, receives a spectacular bitchface in return, and heads up the stairs.
He enters Georgia's room and sees a desk across from the dresser, which he assumes to be Charles's. Pulling open the drawers, he notices one at the bottom that's locked. Making quick work of the lock, Dean finds a folder full of files and receipts and photocopies of checks.
Sliding the folder into his jacket, he relocks the drawer and makes his way back downstairs. There's lipstick on Sam's cheek, and Sam has graduated to cowering on the edge of the couch while keeping his pen and pad in front of his face to deter Georgia's advances.
"Agent Weine!" he calls, and Sam's head snaps up (Dean is never going to let him live this down). "No fraternization on the job!"
Sam stands hurriedly, too relieved to even come up with a retort. "Sorry to cut you short, but Agent Schreck and I must be going now," he says as he pries her hand off his upper arm.
Georgia reluctantly lets go and shows them to the door. "If you must," she sighs dramatically, leaning against the doorframe. "But a gal does get so very lonesome sometimes…do come back, won't you?"
Dean flashes her his winningest grin. "I'll be tied up with paperwork back at headquarters, but I'm sure Agent Weine here would be more than happy to make some time in his busy schedule-"
Sam stomps his heel down on Dean's foot, hard. Dean doubles over in pain and just barely manages not to get his head cut off as Sam slams the door shut.
Dean smirks. "C'mon, Sam. You could've gotten in on some hot cougar action there. I was just tryin' to help-"
Sam turns and glares at Dean. "I hate you."
+ + +
Back at their hotel, Dean pulls out the folder he took and waves it around. "Guess what I found."
Sam pokes his head out from the bathroom, where he'd been busy scrubbing the lipstick off. "What? Please don't tell me you lifted her underwear or anything."
Dean grins. "Why, Sammy, you kinky bastard." Sam scowls. Dean ignores him. "No, I've got financial records. Maybe there's a pattern."
Sam takes the folder from him and flips through the pages. "I don't see anything out of the ordinary." He pulls out a map. "But maybe-"
Dean sits back and watches as Sam draws dots and lines and crosses across the map. Sam opens up his laptop and scrolls through tabs, clicking madly, and turns back to the map to scrawl some numbers and names of places and finally draws one big circle and spirals it inwards. "Seems like he visited this place pretty often," he taps the map, "293 Lenox. Scottsdale."
"That sounds familiar. I think it's-" Dean grabs Sam's laptop and types an address into the box. "Got it! The Dovetail. I guess ol' Georgia wasn't puttin' out for Charlie." He turns back to Sam. "Guess where we're going next!"
"Someplace where you're the one getting propositioned by fifty-something-year-old cougars, I hope," Sam snipes.
"Aw, don't be like that," Dean replies easily. "Cougars are your thing. I wouldn't touch your territory."
+ + +
They pull into the parking lot of the Dovetail just as the sun is setting. There are already people gathering at the entrance of the establishment, lined up neatly (or neater than Dean's ever seen, anyway) and waiting to get in.
"Well," Sam says as he takes in the glass-windowed, floodlighted establishment. "It sure doesn't look like a brothel. Think we can get around back?"
Dean eyes the wide-set, heavy-built tank of a bouncer at the door apprehensively and shakes his head. "No good, Gigantor. You're outta practice, and that guy's even bigger than you. 'Sides," he adds, noticing Sam's affronted expression, "Too many witnesses."
Sam nods slowly, conceding the point, and hands Dean his tie. "Gear up, Agent Shreck. Time for Plan B."
Dean pushes the piece of fabric back towards Sam, shaking his head. "Sorry, Sammy, but I'm gonna stay out here-keep an eye on my baby. Too many drunk people millin' about with their keys in their hands."
Sam lets out an exasperated sigh. "You just want to 'help' the pretty girls walk to a taxi."
Dean huffs. "Look, we all know you're the one that likes playing emotional footsie with the people. Go be useful."
"While you stay out here and leer at college girls?" Sam crosses his arms and narrows his eyes. "No dice. Try again."
Dean rolls his eyes, reaches over his brother, and opens the side door. "Look, man, if you don't get your pretty little ass out of this car and into that bar right this minute, I will forcibly push you into Ultimate Muscle over there and tell him you want to know if he works out his ponytail."
Sam gets out and shuts the door; sizes the bouncer up one more time and sticks his head back in through the window. "If you do anything that could even be remotely classified as stupid," he threatens, "I'm going to key this car myself."
"You wouldn't dare."
Sam ignores him and flounces (yes, Dean insists, flounces) away.
+ + +
"Nice ride."
Dean looks up, grin at the ready, and his smiles widens when he takes in the sight of the person before him. She's tall, with legs that go on for miles and long dark hair that Dean thinks would look just fine spilling over the edge of a bed.
"Don't I know it," he leans up against his baby's hood and dips his head, acknowledging her comment. "What's your name?"
"Karma," she says. "D'you come here often?"
"I think that's my line," Dean chuckles, "but nah. We're just passing through."
"'We'?" She widens her eyes comically; cranes her neck and makes a show of peering around Dean. "Is the other one your imaginary friend, then?"
"Yeah, I'm Thing One and he's Thing Two. Stick around long enough and you might see a cat with a hat."
She laughs: a pretty, warm sound. "What's your name, Handsome Stranger?"
"It ain't Schwarzenegger, I'll tell you that much. I'm Dean."
"Nice to meet you, Dean."
"Pleasure's all mine," he says. "Speaking of-you here for business or…?"
"Maybe a little bit of both. I like to have fun in more…adult ways." Karma's smile is seductive, and vaguely catlike. "And I'd pay good money to have you in my bedroom."
Dean runs a hand through his hair. "Well, uh, there's always money to be made, isn't there?"
Dean's not sure if he isn't just imagining the slightly predatory tilt to her mouth as she gives him a slow once-over. "I've had a fortunate year so far."
"Wow, look at you."
Karma's voice is low. "How about yourself? You're a regular Vitruvian Man, dollface."
"I-" Dean pauses, noticing his brother, and shifts reluctantly, making a move to get up.
"Aw, leaving so soon?"
Dean's expression is apologetic. "Yeah, sorry. That's my guy over there," he says and lifts his chin to indicate Sam, who is coming out of the bar.
"Ooh, he's a cutie," Karma coos, before turning back to Dean and dropping her voice back down. "Just remember-I saw you first." she says, and winks before leaving down an alleyway to their right.
Sam walks up, making no indication that he saw Dean talking to Karma. "So while you were out here being useless, I found out that there is indeed a whorehouse here, and that all four vics paid the same girl."
"A hooker to die for, huh?" Dean says. "Maybe we'll come back later when it's a little less crowded."
They hop into the Impala, already bickering about what to eat for dinner. Dean refuses to eat anything remotely healthy today. Sam leaves the door open and snarkily reminds him that he's not getting any younger.
"Or thinner," he adds pointedly.
"Burgers and fries, man. Breakfast of champions."
"You're disgusting."
"Aw, come on, Sammy. I'm adorable."
Sam shakes his head. "Fine, whatever, spike your cholesterol level. See if I care when your organs fail."
Dean cups his crotch protectively. "Not my organs!"
Sam's mouth twitches. Dean sends him his smarmiest grin, reaches over to shut the door, and starts the car.
Just out of sight, Karma slinks out of the shadows, a smile stretching its way across her face.
+ + +
They visit the local police the next day, decked out in full FBI-agent gear. Sam hands Dean a badge as Dean pulls at his tie and makes a face as they walk across the lot towards the red-roofed and stucco-walled building.
"God, Sammy, would it kill the FBI to have some sort of summer uniform? Damned monkey suit's got me feelin' like I'm boiling in my own juices. "
Sam groans inwardly. "I really didn't need that mental image."
"Please. You know I could rock the polo shirt and khaki shorts."
"Seriously, Dean."
"You're just jealous."
"Of what? The fact that you actually own a polo shirt and khaki shorts?"
"That was for an undercover gig! I had to wear the volunteer uniform!"
Sam scoffs. "Bet the nurses loved that."
Dean's expression turns downright lecherous. "Well, there was this one named Rhonda-"
"Can I help you?" A man with graying blond hair and a wide grin cuts in, effectively interrupting Dean. Sam could kiss him.
Dean flashes his badge. "FBI. I'm Agent Schreck; this is Agent Weine. We're looking for the guy in charge."
"That'd be me. Chief James Evans, at your service. Walk with me, boys. What can I do you for?"
Dean steps ahead of Sam, following Evans into the building. "We're here about the recent string of murders. Nothing big, just doin' a little follow-up. You understand."
"Oh, the Four Corners murders. Yeah, the media's havin' a field day with that-folks with their throats slit to the bone, and all they wanna do is sell their damn papers. If the FBI wanna investigate, I'd be happy to help."
It's a welcome relief from the usual hard time they get from the police, and Sam's smile is genuine when he thanks the chief. "The FBI appreciates your cooperation."
"Anything to give those poor folks their peace. Whatever you want-manpower, files, leads-it's not much, but I'll give you everything we've got."
+ + +
She sits on her customary stool at the bar, sipping her drink and eyeing the patrons.
Karma wonders why she hadn't thought of channeling Da Vinci before, but figures that this will make up for it, so long as it's perfect, and then she sees him-tall, late twenties, short close-cropped brown hair and the look of a man that needs release.
Just like Dean.
She waltzes up to him after he leaves his friends to go to the bathroom, and at this point, it's so easy, she almost feels bad, but she needs a canvas for her newest masterpiece.
+ + +
"My daddy taught me everything I know," Karma says casually as she slices from his armpit to his wrist. She can't remember his name-Jason? Jeffrey? Johnny?-but it doesn't matter, because he won't live to correct her.
She kind of regrets that fact, actually. But it's not her fault the human body is so good at bleeding out.
She ignores Andy's (Aaron's?) screams and continues, "Dear old dad. He was a real hands-on kinda guy, y'know? Loved his job so much that he came home and demonstrated exactly what people were willing to do to other people on me." Karma takes his leg and wedges her knife into his thigh, pushing past the resistance of skin and muscle. She gives it a neat slice, nice and deep; revels in the red line that follows the curve of her blade and watches the blood spill neatly down the tarp and funnel into buckets.
She keeps things clean. Blood is a bitch to get out of silk.
+ + +
It's barely daylight, and Sam watches with mild interest as Dean somehow manages to keep his hand under the pillow as he rolls over in his bed, scratches at his stomach, and smacks his lips together before continuing to sleep.
Sam watches him a little while longer before returning his attention to the windows open on his laptop. He's determined to do everything he can to keep his brother from going to hell, and if Sam doesn't make it through, then so be it. What's dead should stay dead, anyway.
Just as he opens up a new tab, the police scanner they lifted crackles to life and announces that there's been another victim-Adam Jain, aged 28, dead as a doornail in his own home.
He pulls a pillow out from behind his back and launches it at his brother's head. Dean's awake in seconds, and chucks it right back at Sam's face.
Sam grins, dodging the feather-filled projectile. "New vic. Get dressed."
+ + +
They get in the Impala and drive to the crime scene, ducking underneath the yellow tape to see officers backing away from the corpse on the floor, and Sam thinks that it's an awful lot of blood for a slice across the throat.
But that's the thing: it isn't just a slice across the throat, because whatever they're hunting has escalated from a one-stroke kill to full-on slice-and-dice. Adam's arms have been slit from wrist to shoulder, and his legs have been cut vertically from his hip down to his ankles; skin peeled back, nothing but a mess of muscle and tendon and bone on display for all to see. He's been eviscerated-his lower torso is gaping open, and his organs are incredibly clean, as if someone removed and washed them with soap and water before returning them to the cavity.
And it really is an awful lot of blood-so much so that it seems like it's pooled and created a circular shape around the victim. In fact-and Sam learns this the hard way-the carpet is so thoroughly soaked that just walking on the bloodied areas produces a sick wet squelching sound that (despite all he's seen) makes Sam want to hurl.
Dean is just as disgusted. "So I'm guessing 'vengeful spirit' ain't exactly on the list anymore."
"Yeah, the radius is across four states-way too big for any spirit, especially not if it were tied to bones."
Dean sidesteps a tech and crouches down to peer at the gigantic wound in Adam's abdomen. "What if it's something on a person? Like with-remember that reverend's daughter? Lori, or whatever? The chick with the hookman-silver necklace?"
Sam frowns. "Possible, but I highly doubt it. This change in MO is way too drastic for this to be attributed to a vengeful spirit. They kill people, but it's pretty much the same method each time."
"Well, shit. Are we hunting a psychopath or something?"
Sam peels the bloody cover off his shoe, accepting the new one that the forensics tech offers him. "I'm hoping it's 'or something'."
Dean nods, says "Yeah, Sammy, me too," and stands back up, but both of them know it's wishful thinking.
+ + +
They drive back to the motel in relative silence until Dean mentions talking to Karma.
"So this chick I met earlier called me something."
Sam snorts. "Was it 'asshole'?
Dean shakes his head. "Nah. 'Vitruvian Man'."
"That's not something you hear every day."
"I know. Felt like a line out of the Da Vinci Code."
Sam grimaces. "Or something equally as cringe-worthy. Who'd you say called you this?"
"Met her outside the Dovetail-she said her name was Karma. Tell you what, Sammy, why don't I drop you off back at the room. You can have some private time with the books, and I'll see if I can't scrounge up some grub for us. "
"Sounds like a plan," Sam agrees as Dean pulls into the parking space, and he clambers out of the Impala. "Is it too much to ask you not to socialize with the waitresses?"
Dean grins, sending Sam a wink as he reverses out of the space. "Aw, you know I don't sleep on the job. I'll see you later."
+ + +
Dean pulls into the lot of The Dovetail and heads inside. He spots Karma almost immediately, coming from a curtained-off section in the back and heading towards the bar on the arm of a guy who looks like he should be managing 401(k)s somewhere on Wall Street instead. Karma isn't wearing anything special, is still dressed in street clothes, but as she sits down on a barstool he sees the man pass her a sizeable roll of cash and she pecks him on the cheek in thanks as he leaves.
Dean walks up behind her and taps her on the shoulder. "Will that be business or pleasure?"
She turns, practiced smile at the ready, but it morphs into a distinctively delighted expression when she sees his face. "Pleasure is my business, but in your case, it's customer's choice. Can I help you with anything?"
"You can let me buy you a drink."
"Ooh. Special occasion?"
"I just wanna talk."
Karma grins. "I can do that," she says, turning towards the bartender. "Stan, would you-?" she starts, and grins when he slides a gin and tonic across the counter. She raises her glass and tilts it towards him. "You're the best."
Dean smiles, amused, and asks for a beer. He pops the lid off and takes a sip before setting it back down. "So, what, you're-"
"-A sex worker, yeah," Karma finishes for him and takes a sip of her own drink. "Don't worry about it. Past those front doors, it's a different story, but in here there ain't a cop in sight, and we don't exactly go out of our way to keep things on the DL."
"Sounds like you guys've got a pretty lucrative business here."
Karma inclines her head. "Bex definitely knows what she's doing. I'll give her that."
"Bex? Who's that?"
"Oh-Rebecca," she explains, jerking her chin towards a dark-haired woman near the door. "Rebecca Branson. She's the owner. Bought it from the guy who used to own this place." She stands and almost knocks Dean's bottle over before catching it and placing it back next to his hand. "I'm sorry! Sorry, I just-if you'll excuse me for a moment."
"Sure," Dean shrugs, and takes a long drink as Karma walks off towards what is presumably the bathroom.
He shoots off a text to Sam; types man, chicks name WAS branson and takes another swig of his beer. But it's weird-Dean definitely feels like he's getting drunker faster than normal. And-yup, his vision's blurring and his heartbeat's in his ears, and suddenly he can feel Karma's body heat radiating at his back.
He throws a punch, but he's so uncoordinated and unsteady that he misses and she blocks him easily. She leans in close and turns to whisper into his ear as he topples off the chair.
"Sweet dreams."
+ + +
Dean comes to, only to find himself shirtless and tied securely to a bed.
"Heya, dollface." Karma grins at him as she saunters in, removing her jacket as she crosses the room. "Sleep well?"
"You soulless bitch," Dean says.
"Oof." She draws a breath sharply through her teeth and mock-frowns as if wounded before turning her attention back to her closet. "That hurts. Now, what d'you think, hmm? Should I go bold or stick with the neutrals?"
"You can go fucking nude for all I care. Untie me."
"What, are ropes too kinky for you?" She laughs and slips her shirt off; singsongs, "What's the safeword?"
"Fuck you," Dean spits, and his restraints quiver with the force it takes to keep him bound.
"Oh, honey, you know you gotta pay for that. It's nothing personal," she says as she folds her shirt up and places it on the bed, "but I don't work for free."
"Cut the crap, Karma. What do you want from me?"
"Isn't it obvious, Dean?" Karma plucks a plain white shirt off a hanger and starts buttoning it up, turning to face him. "I just want you to stop lying to yourself."
"The fuck're you talking about."
"Your boy. 'Sammy'," she says, and Dean tenses. She notices, and her smile is venomous. "Ooh, you didn't like that. Is it just Sam, then?"
"What's he got to do with this," Dean grits out.
Karma's eyes flick towards him. "You look at him like he's your world."
+ + +
Sam's eyes snap open at the sound of his phone vibrating and falling off the nightstand. The caller ID reads Chief Evans.
He sits up and rubs his eyes; clears his throat but his voice is still groggy when he answers the phone. "Hello?"
"Agent Weine! I'm sorry if I woke you."
Sam stifles a yawn and rolls his shoulders back. "Don't worry about it. Did you find something?" Sam looks at their second phone, whose digital face blinks 3:47 AM like a vindictive lover and frowns. Dean's last text was five hours ago, and it had nothing to do with getting food.
"Yeah, we-well, you really gotta see this to believe it, Agent. Come down to the station, stat."
Sam is already half-dressed, balancing the cellphone between his head and shoulder. "Will do. Thanks, Chief," he says, and calls Dean.
He doesn't pick up. Sam leaves a message, one part anger and two parts concern, and floors it all the way to the station.
+ + +
"You're special, Dean, you know that?"
Dean's eyes track Karma as she crosses the room to light a candle and bring it back over, setting it on the nightstand. "I can't quite put my finger on it," she continues, "but there's something about you that reminds me of someone who was very close to me once."
She pauses and huffs a soft laugh. "I mean 'close' in the sexual way, of course. He had the same problem you do."
"Oh yeah?" Dean asks, sneering. "Why don't you share with the class?"
She pinches Dean's cheek. "Aw, how precious. You think I don't know anything. Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but you'd die for this Sam of yours, am I right?" Her grin widens as Dean's face darkens. "Yeah. You're the same-too self-sacrificing; too willing to give everything up for the good of others."
She picks the candle up again and flips it, dumping its waxy contents onto his throat and watching it spill down his chest. Dean screams.
Karma watches him, detached. "I hated him."
+ + +
Sam squints at the picture in his hand under the harsh fluorescence of the morgue lights, his eyes stinging from plunging into brightness after he'd been driving in pitch-black.
As his vision refocuses, he almost drops the photo-it's an aerial view of the last crime scene, and the image is unmistakable.
Adam Jain, age 28: spread-eagled, disemboweled and a perfect representation of the Vitruvian Man.
+ + +
"I didn't just kill 'em, you know," Karma says. "Give me some credit, here. I mean, maybe all I did was slit a throat, but I waited for the perfect moment-that moment of give; when our breathing was one, and our hearts beat together…until his stopped, of course."
She tests Dean's restraints, pulling on them as Dean lets out an involuntary grunt. She grins widely at the sound, and cinches them even tighter. "You ever slit a throat, Dean? It's like Christmas. The red is so festive."
She uses her knife to scrape at the wax on Dean's throat and chest; nicks him carelessly and watches the thin lines of blood as they bead into tiny drops.
"Oops," she says, insincerely, and slices in deeper the next time around.
+ + +
Sam peels out of the station's parking lot and speeds through the streets of Scottsdale, not giving a damn. He's at the Dovetail in minutes, and bangs the door open.
A young, blue-eyed woman with dyed-black hair appears immediately in front of him with a disgruntled look on her face. "Look, I don't know who the fuck gave you the right to go breaking down my door, but it's four in the morning, and we're closed. You have to leave."
Sam flashes his badge. "Are you Rebecca Branson?"
Her eyes narrow. "What's it to you?"
"One of your employees works under the name of 'Karma'. Where is she?"
"I'm not at liberty to say."
Sam tries again. "Miss Branson, my partner is in danger."
"I'm sorry," she says, not sounding at all apologetic, and turns to leave. "I can't help you without a warrant."
Sam's in front of her again in a flash. "Look," he says (and if he's a little angry Sam thinks it's understandable), "I don't have time for this, and if you don't want to cooperate with the FBI, I won't think twice about breaking everything else in your damned bar. Where. Is. She."
Silence.
"Answer me!" Sam roars as he levels his gun, and he's suddenly angrier than he's ever been in his entire life.
Still silence. Sam raises his arm and shoots one of the lights, the sound of glass crashing to the floor almost as satisfying as punching her in the face like he really wants to.
Rebecca shoots him a dirty look. "You better be paying for that."
"Answer the damn question, Branson. Where is she?"
Rebecca relents. "Her name's Karma Hill. 325 Casper, just outside of Mesa-if you hurt
my best girl, I swear I'll-"
Sam's smile doesn't reach his eyes as he cuts her off. "If your 'best girl' hurts my partner, that's the least of your problems."
+ + +
Karma smoothes her hand over the bedspread, toying with the shirt she left there earlier. "I'm not who you really want, Dean," she says. "I was never who you really wanted to spend the night with."
Dean snorts. She brings the flat of the blade up to his face and taps his cheek with it as if punctuating her words. "No, listen. You're all the same-can't have who you want, so you get someone to fabricate that feeling. But you don't really believe you're fucking the person you want to fuck-because you don't pay a girl for sex, you know. You pay her to leave afterwards."
"I-" Dean starts, but Karma doesn't wait for an answer, and proceeds to stuff her shirt into his mouth.
"Shh," she shushes him and tapes a rectangle of duct tape neatly over his mouth. Her smile is a thin sliver of white; unforgiving and razor-sharp. The lamplight flashes menacingly off the edge of her blade.
Dean looks her in the eye, steels his gaze, and waits, bracing himself as she moves closer and-
CRASH!
They're both distracted as the wooden door splinters open with a deafening smash, and Sam towers in the doorway. "Get away from my brother, you bitch."
Karma's face positively lights up, and Dean thinks shit before she turns and pouts at Sam as if offended, casually ignoring the Taurus aimed at her head.
"You're both just 'bitch' this, 'bitch' that. Didn't anyone ever tell you that words hurt?"
Sam's voice is thunder-dark, and Dean can feel his anger in the air; tension so thick he could choke on it. "You'll be begging to go back to words by the time I'm done with
you."
Her demeanor changes instantly, voice curling into something black and poisonous and mildly amused. "Oh, will I now? Because I certainly don't think so, Sammy darling."
"Oh yeah? Why is that?" Sam's mouth quirks upward in a smirk, gun still raised, his voice soft and threatening. "Think hard, because the wrong answer wins you nothing but bullets in your brain."
Karma laughs. "I'm a live wire, dollface. Guess no one ever taught you about unpredictable killers, either."
Sam cocks his gun. "The fuck're you talking about."
"You might wanna take a step back," she says, offhandedly, and reveals the matches in her hand before lighting and dropping them onto the floor. Flames leap up almost immediately, and Sam scrambles backwards as he fires off five rounds in quick succession.
Dean hears the sound of glass splintering and Sam cursing up a storm. He's on Dean in seconds, ripping the tape from his face and Dean winces as the adhesive peels what feels like his entire face off.
"Fuck!" Dean spits the shirt out. "That hurt more than I thought it would."
Sam disregards him, frantically cutting the ropes around his hands and feet as the flames climb higher, licking up the curtains and up the legs of the nightstand. "C'mon, man, you gotta-we gotta get out of here, Dean, let's go-" but the fire's spreading, and the door's blocked.
Sam's freaking out, and Dean's not sure if it's because they're trapped or if it's because the prospect of burning alive hits him harder than it used to. But Dean's focused; he's got a goal-reverts back to a state he knows all too well-take your brother with you; now, Dean, go!.
"Sam," Dean says, and coughs because he hasn't had anything other than beer in what feels like forty hours, "Sam. Window."
There's glass on the floor under the window and there's a rope already hanging out the
window frame. He can see Sam's shoulders visibly relax and as they climb out they notice a couple of strands of black hair caught in the hinges and waving in the breeze.
They climb down as fast as they can and look for footprints, but Karma's gone-escaped into the desert that is her backyard, no sign of anything but the silhouette of cacti.
next