|| SPN || AR || R || Slash ||
masterpost
prologue
"I was the only employee at Singer Salvage. I had an apartment. I was getting laid." He's talking to the mix of brick and brick powder across the road. Talking to an empty street and unquiet air. Everyone in East Main is tight behind warded doors, been that way since curfew hit. The only people out are the roamers raiding outside of East Main's barricades, fuckin' dangerous cons and crazy people that escaped from the jails and asylums all along Downtown's border, and Dean.
"I was a fuckin' cock piercer over in Hollsend," and the new voice is mellow, followed by a puff of menthol smoke. "I don't know. I kinda prefer this."
"Frank." The menthol scented shadow slides down the brick wall, pressed thigh to thigh with him. "You should be inside."
"Yeah. I know." The one street light left flickers amber and white, hits Frank's face all wrong. "You should, too. But," he shrugs, motion saying what're you gonna do? A beat, then, "I'd still fuck you, you know. That didn't have to go off the list."
Dean's turn to shrug. Crowded quarters. Thin walls. Sam sharing whatever space Dean can find. Usually, at least. And then, "smell that?" Some days it's worse than others. If the wind's too still, if the sun's too hot. If. If. If.
Rot and garbage and shit. The last remains of people that fuckin' exploded when the horde got ahold of them. So much mess that all the incinerators still left working were used to burn the remains, the piles of meat and bone that were showered all over walls and streets and blown out windows.
"Yeah," Frank says, and he flicks the ash of his cigarette. Dean watches part of the hotbox land on the broken cement sidewalk, orange-red glow hidden when Frank's shoe comes bearing down on it. "Kinda gets burned outta your nose after awhile, though, doesn't it?"
He grunts, smells the burn of Frank smoking down to the filter. "Maybe," Dean says. In the pause they can hear the distant sound of glass breaking, voices yelling. "Getting closer."
"Fuckers." Then, with a shift that brings him even closer to Dean's side, "I'd be inside, having my bedtime smoke, but that fuckin' fire alarm keeps going off." Heavy sigh, and Dean looks over, sees blacked out skin, a smiling mouth. "I'd fuckin' cut the wires, but I'm afraid I'll ruin the whole fuckin' building's electricity, you know?"
Dean does. Briar Pointe is one of the biggest apartment complexes left on East Main Street. It fits everyone that had made it this far after the demons first attacked. Their group. Dean's group, and when the danger's split between roamers and something like the demonic horde hanging around Downtown, well. No one's keen on giving up the safety of numbers. But Briar Pointe is fuckin' old, too. Even before, it's where the poorer workers stayed. No air conditioning, no heat, electricity that only works half the fuckin' time - worse, now, that a quarter of Downtown's transformers blew, and more are likely to when no one can keep up the maintenance or make repairs.
"We'll be all right," Frank whispers, tilting his head against the brick, speaking up to dark, blank skies. "This, too, shall pass."
He laughs, can't help it. They've been hiding in the nastiest building left standing in Drenn, hiding from a fuckin' demon or demons, they don't even know, that crawl inside you and make you explode. They're surrounded by gibbering crazies and bloodthirsty killers, and Frank, resident cock adorner, is fuckin' telling him things'll be fine.
Christ.
**
Dean relays the conversation to Sam when he goes back inside. He's not sure what he expected, maybe a glint of quiet humor, or a roll of the eyes. What Dean gets is, "I was a college student. Living in Pipers Gap with a girl I was pretty sure I was gonna marry." Sam's voice is less sardonic, more exhausted. Pained.
"Sam."
"No." Sam shakes his head, sitting cross legged on the floor of their tiny unit. What families are left get the bigger spaces. Everyone else gets the studio apartments. They're dingy, smelly, and Dean hates spending any fuckin' time in theirs. "It's fine. Not on you. But uh. I talked to Bobby, and the City's going to stop the ferry runs. Masters Bridge is already out. They're gonna completely cut the City off from Downtown. Riverside. Riverside's getting dangerous, I guess. Roamers everywhere. They've attacked the ferry crew a few times already."
"And?"
"I gotta get over there, Dean. Jess was. She went back to her family over winter break. I haven't heard anything - "
"I know, Sam." Because he remembers the panic, the fear, written all over his brother's face when they crawled out of the cellars alive, when they saw just what was left of Downtown. "What do you really expect to find?"
But Sam doesn't answer him, and they sit in the almost dark of their studio, one little lamp on, enough for him to see the familiar stone-faced look Sam's been sporting. "He's forging City papers for me. Got it lined up with next month's run, already. He's got somebody over there." And, yeah, that's not really a surprise, knowing Bobby.
"Alright," and Dean gets up, heads to where their mattresses are lined up against the wall. "We should get to bed."
It's only when Sam turns off the lamp, stumbles over to his own mattress in the dark that he finally says, "there's a copy for you, too."
**
Briar Pointe is quiet the next morning. The warped floorboards creak as he walks toward the stairwell; they're bare of the bloodsoaked carpet that had lined the hall. The walls are cold and stripped down to primer. It's nasty. It's home, or at least Dean and the rest have tried to make it home. Tried to pretend death isn't as obvious here as it really is, although it's hard to hide from that fact. It's even harder when he's the only one up, while everyone's still sleeping; even Sam, who was worn out and twisted in his sheets, a shadow of hair and bones.
Dean's tired, too, but he can't sleep. Dawn's still far off, and his ration of coffee even farther, but he's set on where he's going. Even with the building half dark his feet lead him down the hallways, down the service stairwell, into the subfloors of the building's maintenance rooms.
"Do you know what this is?" It's the first thing out of Bobby's mouth when Dean tracks him down to the leaky little manager's office in the basement.
"Yeah, Bobby. One look out the window'll tell you what this is." He leans against the door jam, and Bobby spares a look from under his trucker's cap and his bushy eyebrows. Shakes his head for a reason Dean doesn't really care about. "Why are you makin' Sam City papers?"
Bobby doesn't look up from what he's doing, but he snorts, heave of his shoulders under his worn jacket. "You ask Sam? Or are you still treatin' him like a three year old? You know why this is happening?"
"Bobby." It's a growl, and considering the man spent eighteen years raising him, Dean's not surprised when it has no effect whatsoever. Then, "no." He doesn't explain, and he can see Bobby's lips twist into a grin. "Because....God hates us all. Because WinCore Dynamics was busy playing God for decades?" He shows palms. They're dirty. "I don't know, but I know the general direction this shit came from. 'S still there, in fact." Swear to Christ, if the man doesn't stop his fuckin' scribblin. "Tit for tat," Dean reminds him.
"Right." Bobby finally pushes what he's working on away, and focuses on Dean. "I'm doin' this because Sam's like a son to me, and he asked." Dean stares. Bobby stares. Through the wall, Dean can hear the click of a freezer regulating itself.
"Uh huh."
"It ain't no job, Dean, obviously. The guy I know over there wouldn't let you hunt." Dean waits, and then, "it's just a look, seeing the general lay of the land, while Sam goes tryin' to find out whatever he needs to find."
"Lay of the land," Dean repeats slowly. "Huh. Considering the fact that neither me or Sam ever went to the City before." He nods. "Makes sense."
"What do you want me to say, then? You can go," Bobby waves a packet at Dean. "Here's everything you'll need to get over there. You can keep an eye on Sam yourself. Why don't you want to know anything about WinCore, anyway?"
"Do I need to? Is there somethin' vital about it that'll open all our eyes? Make all this go away? I know everything you do, and so far that is jack shit, about the horde. It was in WinCore's holding facility here in Downtown. It got out. It's demonic. We don't know why it's here, if there is a reason beyond just getting out."
"Oh, no mistake, Dean, there's always a reason," Bobby says darkly. "And, boy, you are seriously missing out on a lot of history with that attitude."
"Oh, what? Like how I didn't know about hunting until I was fuckin' twenty-three and dodging the fuckin' horde?" Dean snorts. Still angry about that, apparently. Good to know, he thinks. "No, ask Sam if he's interested. He's a geek like that. Me, I'm just glad everyone thinks my last name is an unfortunate coincidence."
"There's more. There's always more, and there's a good chance that your daddy was the one responsible for bringing them onto City property. Now, I know you don't give a fig about him, I know that, but you're just plain stupid if you're gonna shove any clues to the side just 'cause you don't like where they came from!"
"Like what? What clue?" This is useless, he knows that; him and Bobby - they've been on the outs for weeks. This ain't making it better or telling him anything new. And Bobby's flat-eyed and thin mouthed, on a scent and he ain't letting go, Dean knows that much.
"You know what I'm talkin' about, don't you dare play dumb with me." Bobby leans forward, hands fisted on the rickety desk he's stationed at. "And you know what everyone in East Main is whisperin' about, too. Don't pretend you don't," he adds when Dean rolls his eyes. "And that's on you, askin' so many questions in front of everybody. Tellin' Frank. Gettin' everybody's panties in a bunch when you knew they were upset already. Dammit, Dean. You played your cards bad, and you lost. Now you're not wantin' to own up to it!"
"Everybody was upset, even me, for chrissakes, and Sam - "
"What we talked about was a private matter, Dean, for a reason. Because nothin's been proven. Your daddy didn't have squat on 'im. It was words, and you goin' and losin' your mind. And - and," he rushes on when Dean opens his mouth, "for some reason only God knows, those people were lookin' to you. I don't care whether you wanted it or not, it fell that way, alright? And you should have done better."
Bobby sits back, like that's it, it's said and done. Dean guesses for the most part it is, except, "I didn't tell Frank anything, he doesn't know. Or he didn't. That one ain't on me, Bobby. And even if I did, Frank wouldn't blab his mouth about that shit."
"I know you've been friends since you were kids together, but that don't mean anything now, not with all this goin' on. A lot of things won't hold the same weight. Remember that, ya idjit, even if what you're sayin' is true." Dean doesn't know what his face is saying, but it's nothing that bothers Bobby. "Now get outta here. I've still got work to do."
**
"Dean."
"Frank." The sound and feel of cleaning guns is soothing, easy, not really something Dean has to think about all that much. Besides, the weapons stored in Briar Pointe's locker tend to need higher maintenance than most. Moisture, he thinks. These underground rooms aren't sealed against the damp. "Where's Sam?"
"Why do you think I know? I'm not his babysitter."
"No," Dean says, putting his oil rag down. Pieces and parts, and even intact new weapons. Every niche is filled with them, has to be every single thing that East Main and the outlying streets had. Still not enough, he thinks, and it makes his fingers skip over the gun he's holding. Probably not even the right weapons. "But you don't like him," and when Frank scoffs, he adds, "you never have."
"That's a lie. I thought he was cute when he was about two and still not forming complete sentences." Frank grins, but it's a sharp, stupid thing.
"Don't worry, he's never liked you either."
"Everybody likes me," and the grin fades into a real smile, bright and cheerfully annoying, before it clears, and he cocks his head. "He's with Ruby and gang. You know." Dean grimaces, can't hide it. Frank laughs, but he waits, perched on the edge of another, longer table across from Dean.
"Frank..."
"I know what you think." Dean stares hard, and Frank sucks his teeth, says, "okay, what Bobby thinks, about me. And I didn't go repeating anything you told me. I wouldn't do that, Dean." He shrugs, exaggerated and ridiculous, "and before you ask, no. I don't know who heard or overheard. It was buzzing around long before it got to me. That Rose already had a flock of..." Frank trails off and Dean can guess why. It's hard thinking of anything kind to say about Ruby and most of the gang that's settled around her, but Frank's trying, because Sam's been flitting around the outskirts. "People around her. Good, bad, whatever. I don't even know how the damned name got started. Do you?"
It's a more pointed question than Dean thought Frank would ask. Good one, though, and as far as he knows, using "the marked" for the small group of people with various - god, Dean still has a hard time thinking it for some reason - supernatural abilities started right around the time little Rose graced East Main with her miraculous story of surviving direct contact with the horde.
"No," he says, but he's got his theories, thanks to Bobby, thanks to Sam, once his brother picked up on the rumors and the whispers. Once people started attributing the same things to Sam.
"He's not. Like them, you know, if he'd stay away."
Sam has nightmares. Violent, bloody things, if Dean and the half of East Main that shares their floor aren't mistaken. He gets fuckin' killer migraines for days after a daydream. "Right," he says, and for a moment they don't look at each other. Dean studies the guns splayed out on the table. Frank eyes his ragged shoes like he's never seen them before. "Me and Sam, we're going to the City next month, last chance run, you know?" Frank's eyes widen, but he doesn't say a thing. "So." If anything, if Dean's some kind of leader for the hodge-podge group overrunning East Main, then Frank's a close second for the spot.
"Anything else?" Frank says it with an edge and gets Dean showing teeth.
"Yeah," he says, "if I ever find out it was you, Frank, you're dead."
**
They have a few cars, not a lot, most of them were toast when the horde swept through. But the handful they've got, well, with the reserve gas tanks, the cars can get them from district to district when they have to. Phones don't work here, really. Not well. Bobby has a gigantic monstrosity of a thing that can still reach over the New River and into the City where ever he has his contacts. Besides that, though, if Dean or anyone else wants to check on the groups sprouting up Downtown, they have to load for bear and take a ride.
And there's been a few times they were too late, when the roamers attacked a group and killed almost all but a small few that had managed to make it to East Main's barricades. After that they got smart enough or brave enough to form up patrols, use East Main's size and population to deter roamers from coming into the surrounding districts.
It's tedious and doesn't work all the time, but it's also one saving grace in a close-knit building housing at least a hundred people. Tempers flare (more than flare, Dean knows that from having to break up fights and arguments that carry more than words, carry knives and any makeshift weapon angry people have a knack for making), and getting people out and away from each other, into other districts for even a day is sometimes the only thing that makes this whole set up possible.
One carload of fighters comes in, passes on, "Reavistown. Creep is pickin' up around there, too, and it's getting roamers in a frenzy." Creep, the slang for the prickling, uneasy, watched feeling that comes with the horde's presence. It's what keeps most people indoors, underground, because extended exposure is a fuckin' bad idea, unless fun is characterized by hallucinations, paranoia, aggression. Basically, everything the roamers are. "We checked in with Hannah's gang up there, but our shift's over, you know?"
Dean nods, takes in red-rimmed eyes, thin, oily faces. "Right," and he looks at Frank, who's a step to the right and a little behind Dean, and Frank heads back inside. Ellen keeps track of names and people. She knows, better than anyone else, who's come off a ride and who's been hanging around East Main awhile.
"Frank," Dean tilts his head when Frank comes back out to him. "Who?"
"Victoria, Patrick, Amber and Robert."
"Hannah's group," Dean says, and Frank nods. "I want you to go, too."
It's not hard to tell the fighters in East Main. Half the time it makes Dean want to laugh: the darker clothes, the fingerless gloves, the badass look all going on. It works, though. Lets everyone else know who to hide behind if things go bad, so he manages to keep his amusement to himself. He just takes it and wears the black shirt, the jeans, and fuckin' refuses the gloves. So it only takes a quick glance to pick out the guys Frank selected as they spill out of Briar Pointe, quick and armed. The big guy Dean faintly remembers as Robert holds a sloshing gas can. They swarm the car the other group left, filling it up, looking it over, making sure it'll work reliably for what they need it to do.
"Why?"
"Because you have...a rapport with Hannah," he grins when Frank groans and slumps forward dejectedly, but he can also see that Frank's eyeing the small dark haired woman standing near Robert. "And because I really don't think you're gonna mind."
Frank peels his eyes away from a really - fuck - nice shot of her ass, and studies Dean long enough that Dean peels his own eyes away to glare back. "This isn't...?"
"Christ, no, okay? You've been inside East Main for as long as I have. This is your chance to get out, get some...fresh air or action or whatever you want, okay?"
"Fine. What're you lookin' for?"
"Five day, maybe on Hannah's area. Warding and any other protections. Show them how, okay, because we won't always be able to run out whenever we get word. Whatever you need to do there, but I don't want one team out there beyond ten days without coming back. We got two other ones scouting empty areas for supplies and land to actually grow shit. We've got a fuckin' shit load of seeds, but nothin to do with 'em, so."
"The farming districts are farther out. I could - "
"No," Dean interrupts. "Maybe later; we ain't bad. We're doin' better with rations than anyone thought, but we gotta keep an eye out, anyway. 'Sides, I don't know about going so far out. Least not right now."
"Right," Frank says, and the dark haired woman's waving. Victoria, Dean thinks. Victoria Palmer. Frank looks at him, steady, and Dean doesn't miss the question in it, he just doesn't answer it. "Be back in ten days at worst."
**
It's quiet, with Frank gone. Or at least quieter, anyway. There's still the noise of too many people in not enough space, and the crackle-pop of static that's been in the air ever since the horde showed up. But the hectic banter's gone. There's Ellen and Bobby and Sam, countless others, but everyone's kinda low-key, weighed down with everything that doesn't really seem to affect Frank - grief, fear, anger. Frustration.
Mostly there are Sam's nightmares. Too many to count, and his voice is helpless, thick with sleep and something else until Dean can wake him up.
There's sweaty hair under Dean's hand, tangling in his fingers. The sensation is familiar for the all the times he's already done this. "Hey," and his voice is clogged, rusty like he hasn't used it for awhile. "Wake up."
He waits there until Sam stirs, bats his hands away. "I'm fine," he says, and Dean snorts but gets back into his own bed. Dreams, Dean tells himself. Everyone has nightmares. But Dean knows that if he closes his own eyes, he'll see Sam and a Jess he remembers from meeting her once in Sam's sophomore year in college. Blonde hair and long legs. Easy, comfortable beauty.
He thinks about how happy Jess sounded, telling Dean about her job, the little apartment she and Sam found outside of campus. It's an odd memory, now, and his mind stutters to halt when he thinks about it, about laughing without the desperation, without the exhaustion, clinging to everything.
Sam would have married his girl. Dean doesn't sleep the rest of the night.
**
Things swing closer to normal, after that. The teams come back in. Quiet, they say, and Dean waits for Frank's nod. Everything's quiet.
The words itch along Dean's nerves like bad luck. It doesn't mean anything, he tells himself, and goes back to inventory sheets and their dwindling supplies. Goes back to blank, pale faces staring at him like he's some kind of saviour or some shit. Goes back to Frank's innuendo, split between Dean and that dark-haired looker that went out on patrol with Frank. Goes back to Sam, too close and too hurt.
He's almost thankful for it - the wall that Sam builds around himself, all prickly grief and anger, because Dean's grown up with him, watched out for him, slid into something more than affection when Sam was sixteen and skinny and bored. Grief makes it easier to turn away, drop his hands. Stay away from everything he wants.
The rest of the month speeds by. Bobby drops by their unit the night before they're supposed to head over to Riverside to catch the last ferry run. He has clothes. Thin, fine things Dean's never seen before, all bagged up and carefully hung.
"Try to be careful with these," Bobby says, hanging them on the back of the door. "Damn things are expensive, and I don't have a lot of 'em." Dean wants to ask how many City outfits one Downtowner needs, but he catches Bobby's glare and shuts up.
Bobby spends an hour with them, teaching them the cadence of City speech, subtly different and fuckin' annoying, the ways to move, how to answer inane questions and how not to answer important ones.
"I thought," Dean says, after getting whacked for slouching, "you had a contact over there."
"I do. We do," and that gets Dean's attention. "But, boy, they ain't nice, and I'd prefer if the lies can go longer than relying on anyone." He straightens invisible wrinkles from the folds of Dean's clothes, then says, "One thing you gotta understand? People who actually know what's going on, at least some, well. It don't make 'em good, understand? No hunter really is. And this guy...he might not be obvious about it, but he's a hunter in his own right. He's just got a whole City's backing to help him out. 'S one reason the City's doin' so good. Or so I hear."
"Bobby - "
"It's fine, Dean. Just get over yourself and listen to what I'm tellin' you."
"Yeah, Dean," and there's a bit of the snarky little boy in Sam's voice. "Listen."
Dean almost smiles, tries not to think of why they're doing this. For a moment, listening to Bobby drone on, hearing Sam's soft questions and the waspish answers, he doesn't fail.
**
They get to Riverside in the dark, headlights cutting uneasy swathes through the gloom. Close to Riverside's harbor, they cut even that, and navigate by the moon and stars instead, unwilling to give roamers even that much headway.
Bobby's driving them, taking every last minute to fill them in on City etiquette. Dean tries to think like that, like there's anything more different between the two places than who's on what side of the New River. It's hard.
But they're out, standing along the stretch of dock, where they can see a large shadow out on the water, and then it's a blur, a series of hushed walks and pale, blank men leading them them from checkpoint to checkpoint. Papers are taken, stamped, processed, and then they're standing on the ferry, creaking floating dock fading, water being pushed around them.
It's colder here. Maybe it's the finer clothes, thin and expensive - or would be had they paid for them - or maybe it's the wind blowing over water, but it leaves him shivering and with a throbbing ache in his hands.
There are lights on the ferry, lights on either end of the river, too, though the City's side is noticeably brighter, steadier. The glow is something to focus on, and Dean must zone out for a minute because he almost doesn't hear Sam. Almost, but Dean's been tuned into him since he could remember, so he catches it, the whisper that he thinks maybe he's not supposed to hear.
"She's dead." The light on the ferry is amber, a dim light that hides as much as it shows, but Dean can see the smooth lines of his brother. He looks unreal. "I killed her."
He says, "shut up, Sam." He thinks, what are we doing? But this is something Sam wanted so fiercely that by the time Frank had come back from patrolling Sam was wired and shaking with the need to get into the City. And they're here, whether or not Sam's ready or Dean's ready.
The water gushes by, currents eddying and pulling around the mass of the ferry until they're reaching the other side. A series of blasts break the quiet, bring the shuffle of feet closer to them. They're forced to stay on the ferry when they pull into the City's harbor. More officers board, and they're subjected to scans and searches before all but one of the officers head below deck.
"Moores?" The officer apparently attached to them looks at their papers and at them, eyebrow cocked, before she hands everything back. "Little late to the party, I'd say."
Dean can feel Sam stiffen beside him and he wants the woman to shut the fuck up, but she seems happy prattling on about the upper-class families. "Don't even know why anyone would come back here, right now." She looks them over as she leads them off the ferry. The dock is steady, a long line of wood and cement stretching into dry land. "Any value is going to be tied up in estate proceedings. And believe me, nothing is getting done." She looks over her shoulder, street lamps on and burning bright, yellow light that hides in her cheekbones. "You won't be getting anything any time soon."
Sam falls into it, though, and steps easily along with her. Given his height it makes her look twice, but she relaxes as they near the warehouses set up along the end of the pier. "So there are no other contestants to the Moore estates?"
She huffs, suddenly wary in the way she sets her shoulders. "I thought you'd know? I'm sure notices have already been sent - "
"My brother and I," it's rushed, but Sam covers it with a smile that Dean mimicks, tries to make look easy and not fuckin' confused as all hell. "We've been touring the Desert Cities, and before that. Well." He shrugs, hands up and sheepish. Dean judges by the officer's reaction that it's better to be money thirsty distant family than born on the wrong side of the New River.
And since both of them were born City-side of the Masters Bridge, Dean thinks it's a little ironic that they're using another City name as a cover. Although, if Dean's honest, the fact that John Winchester ever had a wife named Mary and two little boys is an almost-forgotten fact. The fact that within a year of her dying the boys disappeared is even less important, Dean guesses, in the face of John's second marriage.
"Where are we going?" The lengthened vowels feel weird in Dean's mouth, but he gets them out. Maybe if he sticks to short sentences he'll be fine. Maybe sound like a fuckin' retard, but he'll scoot by. Blame it on inbreeding or something.
"Protocol," the officer says, waving at a building they're quickly approaching. "We'll get you checked in and assigned a guide. You'll be given a twenty-four hour pass - that's standard unless you can provide sufficient proof of ties to the community. If you can, you're upgraded to a seventy-two hour pass." She looks at them and shrugs. "We'll get you a night's accomodation at the nearest hotel. You'll have a mandatory rest period of four hours. During that time you will not leave your assigned room." She pulls on the metal bars attached to the warehouse's doors. They open with a heavy jerk, and she throws them wide, ushers them inside. "It's strict, but we can't afford anyone wandering around the City. Even long-term residents have curfews."
"It's dangerous?"
She laughs, a sharp bark of a sound. "We're cautious." She walks up to the waist high counter spanning the entire warehouse. There are computers arrayed behind it, endless tangles of cords and color-coded ties. Beyond that are doors, tall metal structures that have keypads on either side, sitting flush with the floor and walls above.
"Moores," she says, leaning on the counter. She doesn't lift the flap door on it, stays on their side, waits 'til a slow moving geek makes his way to them. "Twenty-four hour pass." Then, like she's giving him a boon or something special, she says, "got more incoming. Working passes, though."
The man behind the counter pulls out a shelf holding a keyboard and the monitor on the counter flares to life. He rolls his eyes and starts typing shit in. His fingers fly over the keys. "Okay," the man says. There's no name tag on the brown uniform. Just empty space on the shirt pocket and crisp collars. "Papers." They hand them over, hearing doors bang open and the faint sound of voices echoing through the warehouse. It's the crest and wave of Downtown speakers interspersed with some City-folk.
"Lucky you," the guy says, and he's looking at Dean. It's almost a shock to have the guy's eyes on him and not drifting away. A green light buzzes over one of the doors on the back wall, and a minute later it swings open, unmistakeable guard stepping through right before the door makes its closing arc. "You get James. Those ones," the guy tips his head back, apparently toward where the voices are being held. "Will be here awhile."
They're given their papers back, and James-the-guard is handed a freshly printed paper of his own. "Ah," he says as he looks it over. Dean's getting really tired of that kind of response. "Moores."
"Yeah," Dean grits out, and Sam fuckin' tries glaring the side of his head off. "Yes. Moores."
James walks them out, stops long enough to unclip a black comm unit and holds it out. Dean takes it, clipping the power unit to his waist and settling the earpiece as comfortably as he can. "Keep it on you at all times. You will have four hours of rest time, starting at the time we get you assigned a room at The Bower. You will not leave the assigned room until I have checked you out, understand?" They nod. "Good. Track cars are out, and no private automobiles are allowed, so we'll be on foot. Hopefully, your business won't take you all over the City." The man's voice tells them what he thinks of that bit.
Sam shifts on the smooth footbridge they're directed to. It's raised higher than the road, so once they get beyond the covered expanse leading from the warehouse, they can look down, see the high sides of the track, the lines of cable woven into the car-track itself. It's strange, along with the pale, blank spires that Dean can see jutting up in the distance. Everything looks whole, safe, undisturbed. Better than Downtown, even if it's just as eerily quiet.
They don't talk as they make their way into the City, handwaved through the tollbridge once James flashes his badge. The footbridge opens up into wide, cobblestone paths, leaving feet between pedestrians and the sharp dip of the tracks. Everything's easy, laid out neat and precise. Faceless buildings with only small gold lettering on the front, mature trees in their boxes of dirt, ornate gates locked closed between buildings, where there's actual space - enough for greenery and flowers, stone benches and fountains.
"The Market," James says, though this doesn't look like any open air market Dean's ever seen. James points to the shops lined on either side of the street. "Permanent vendors, of course. If they want to operate week-long they have to maintain a residence here. Usually, traders come in every three days with goods. That, of course, has been shut down for the foreseeable future."
"Of course," Dean manages. The City's not so different from Downtown, really, except for how alien it is, cold and wealthy. Dean hopes this is his only trip. It's nowhere he's dying to see twice.
They walk until the shops thin out. Still there, but the buildings get taller, more expansive. Small gardens turn into guarded gates that gleam in the street light, turn into rolling estates that they can just see in the dark. After they pass quite a few, they cross over another arched bridge, this one wide and stone carved. James walks quickly up to the guardhouse, Sam and Dean trailing behind. They can't make out what he says, but they get through after James scribbles on the bottom of the paper he's holding, tears it off and gives it to the woman in the booth.
They walk along what Dean would consider a driveway, had he not known no cars ever made it onto the pristine pavement. The lighting here is dimmer, spread thin and blue where the rest of the street lamps dotting the main roads are yellow. Up front, though, there's a series of lights planted in front of The Bower, and Dean can see the building clearly. It's huge, tall columns and shuttered windows. It's a mansion, fuck, a palace compared to anything he's seen.
James seems to take in their reactions, "I thought - "
"We've spent more time abroad," Sam breaks in, pasting another smile onto his face as he tells his lies again. "Than anywhere else. Nothing is quite like this." Sam's voice is empty beyond mindless pleasantries, and so is what Dean can see of his face. He knows that kind of blankness in Sam isn't good, but James takes the answer at face value, because he nods and bows a little, arm outstretched to get them in front of him.
The inside is just as ornate. Furniture deep, dark colors, twisting fashionably and looking rather uncomfortable. The walls are painted in light colors; the attendants rather snotnosed if Dean had any opinion. But they act like Sam and Dean - and probably more importantly James - are expected. The paperwork for Sam and Dean's room is already ready, and it's handed over to their guard with an obsequious smile offered their way.
When James's done writing out whatever it is he's writing, the receptionist murmurs at him and slides a card over to him. James turns back to them, says, "follow me," and doesn't wait to see if anyone actually is.
He leads them to an alcove, and Dean can see accordion doors, stretched closed. Floor numbers are arrayed in an arc, old fashioned clock arm resting at L. James pulls a lever and the doors fold in, letting them into a small, plush elevator. Even this space is done up in golds and reds, the overlay on the doors some swirling design that hurts Dean's eyes.
After James presses the fourth floor button, and the elevator hitches to life, he says, "The Bower is where all prominent citizens are housed for their stay in the City. It should be able to accomodate all of your needs."
Dean hadn't seen anyone but employees in the lobby. "Are there many staying here now?"
He doesn't get the look James gives him, or the heavy pause before he speaks. "No. Not many. As far as I'm aware members of the Vaughn family and their entourage are the only other guests at this time."
The elevator clanks to a stop, and James pulls another lever to get the doors opening again. They don't have to walk far to get to their room, which is a blessing, considering walking on the thick, soft carpet is like walking in wet sand. James types in a passcode on the keypad beside the door, technology odd and boxy next to winding, brass handles. He slips the card through the slot next and the door opens with a click.
"Your room, sirs." Dean slips in, feeling Sam close behind him. The room's just a smaller version of what they've seen on their way here. Useless opulance and unwelcoming furniture. Once Dean turns, James says, "Four hours, unless you would like longer?" Dean looks at Sam, shakes his head. "If you don't mind, what is your business in the City?"
Sam and Dean trade another look. Something about it makes Dean's heart race in his chest, but Sam answers. "We're...we're here for family." Seems a vague enough answer and Dean nods at it.
James cocks an eyebrow, hand on the knob to pull it shut. "Hm. We'll start at the morgue then." His voice is indifferent, and Dean half-expects him to start scribbling on his piece of paper again, but he doesn't, just pulls the door shut until the locks grind into place.
Dean kind of hopes James'll die between their room and the elevator.
**
They don't sleep, not with only four hours and that nice little parting shot of James's. They just sit on their own beds, stiff with the clothes on their backs and the unfamiliar setting. Their four hours, though, are more like three when James comes announcing his presence and that of room service.
"Breakfast," he says as more attendants are ushered in, food cart in tow, "is included in the rest period."
Well, duh.
It gives them an hour to sit around and not eat and not talk and avoid eye contact. Sam leaves to take a shower, and when it's Dean's turn he almost declines. He doesn't, though, and the hot water coursing over him feels good. He just tries not to think about having to put on the same too-starched clothes.
The curtains had been drawn in the room, and when they finally step outside, it's a shock to realize that, though James's treating it as morning, it's not even close to actual dawn. Dean curses his fucked up time sense.
"It's two in the morning," James informs him when he asks. "And although it is earlier than normal, I've set up an appointment with the morgue and other police officials, so that we can help you with the situation." Which Dean takes to mean "to get you the fuck out of our City quicker." By the tense set of James's shoulders, Dean knows he's not far off.
It takes longer to get to the morgue. By the time they get into another close-packed part of City, Dean's feet are aching from the too-tight shoes. The buildings here are more functional than designed to impress. They're more like Downtown's districts than not, although these buildings are still newer and cleaner than anything Downtown can claim. But they're old, in comparision to the startling buildings Dean first saw.
Even in the street light, Dean can tell the look of an old town building. Cracked pillars left for authenticity's sake, aged brick and whitewashed wood. This'll be the City's district office, and the lower floors -
Morgue and coroner's office, if he's not wrong.
**
The body bag is unzipped a little past her throat, and Dean can see the beginning lines of a sewn up Y, black stitches glaringly thick. She's been cleaned up, but there are thick bruises on her face, blood in the sticky clumps of her blonde hair.
"Jessica." It's Sam's voice, but barely, something choked off and angry. The coroner looks at her clipboard, marks something down. "I don't know anyone else." Because there are cold store units marked with the Moore name on either side of Jessica's.
"That's fine." The coroner's surprisingly gentle, hand resting briefly on Sam's arm. "We usually just need an initial identification of one family member. City verification purposes," she dips her head, and Dean can almost pretend she's upset. "Blood work and dental records do the rest. Sign here." She holds the clipboard out to Sam who scrawls something out. Dean doesn't think his brother's paying much attention. He hasn't taken his eyes off the storage unit holding his girl's body.
When Sam's done writing, she holds it out to Dean. "We don't..." he falters, doesn't know what to say or how to say anything. Under Sam's illegible signature he adds his own, the Moore part coming out thick and awkward.
"Internment is already set up. We follow individual family policy for those who can afford City plots. After this, you're finished here, unless you're contesting estate policies, which another official will help you with."
"No," Sam says, voice unsteady, "we're not." She nods, and an assistant comes to claim the clipboard. "How did they die?"
"Oh, of course. I've been informed you were out of the City's territories for some time. An illness passed through the City. Its most prominent symptoms were akin to, well, to mad rabies. It affected the upperclasses the most. Some attacked others; some committed suicide, managing to take out quite a few others along the way. It was," she pauses, and maybe the upset is closer to real this time. "One of the most horrendous sights I've seen, and I've been doing this for a long time." She motions them away, and as they walk the bank of units, Dean sees other names - Milligan, Campbell, Winchester. He stops short at that, breath caught in his chest. It's not grief or fear, because he'd been expecting it since the coroner opened her mouth, but it's still something to think of Adam, young and maybe even loved by John and Kate. A waste, Dean thinks, metal unit glinting dully and warping his reflection.
"Please, Mr. Moore, come this way unless you can claim another body."
He lingers on Milligan, A. for a moment more before he falls in behind her and Sam, his brother's tall, broad shoulders blocking out the small woman. When they go up a floor, James's waiting at the stairwell entrance, and with a nod the coroner leads them into her office. She raises a hand at James, says, "family matters." Dean's surprised when James stays on the other side of the door, left shoulder barely brushing into the tinted glass on the door when she shuts it. "Gentlemen, have seat." She slides into her own chair behind the large desk dominating room, and they copy her, taking a seat in cheaper versions of her own chair.
"You were saying?" Sam's leaning in, thin face fox-like. Both Dean and the coroner lean away from it.
"Yes, well." She shuffles papers on her desk, files flipping open and then closed until she finds the one she's looking for. "Homicide is the official cause of death for Jessica Moore. Two stab wounds, one directly into the heart. It would have been fairly quick. This is one case among many, though, that happened within days of each other. Investigation has been slow, if not halted altogether. Remember, we've had five major families all but wiped out by their own hands, as far as we can tell. It is a lot of work to go through, especially now, with even more incidences occuring all over the City."
"When did this start?"
The question throws her, and she slants her head, eyes drawn to her desk, mouth slack. "I." She shuffles more papers, gets them into a sloppy stack on the corner of her desk. "Why don't I talk with your guide, and perhaps we can set up something with a City official? They would be able to help more with this line of questioning."
She walks to the door, lets James inside, and Dean can tell from the hushed conversation that she would know plenty, being in the City during all of it. James eyes them for a minute and then motion them to leave. With a final nod to the coroner, they do.
**
James herds them up the stairs of the same building. They start down tiled, painting lined halls, and Dean has a sinking feeling they're going to get the face-saving version of events here. Dean glances at Sam, but he's blank, jaw tight and eyes straight ahead.
James stops at a door. "Mr. Harold Porter's office," and does the hand wavey thing that sends them on ahead. Once they get past the confused receptionist and guard, they're pointed to an office. An older man sits behind a desk, eyes already trained on them as they walk in.
"Harold Porter," the man says, standing and holding out his hand. Dean leans over, shakes it, and waits as Sam does the same.
"I'm Dean Moore; this is my brother, Sam. We're - "
"Here about your family. Understandably." Porter waves to the seats behind Sam and Dean. "Please, sit. Can I get you anything?" They shake their heads, and when they're seated, Porter continues. "You have questions."
"A simple one," Sam says, and it's angry. Dean knows that tone from a thousand fights with his brother. "What happened?"
"You came across on the City ferry?" Dean's amazed at how quickly information travels, especially about two lowly distant "cousins," but he answers in the affirmative. "Odd, to come through the lesser City districts, especially from a family as notable as yours." Ah, yeah - Downtown's not Downtown here, just shameful City territory, and Porter knows that, knows more than Dean's comfortable with if his knowing look is anything to go by. "We could see heavy smoke engulf those districts, even from across the New River. During the worst of it, it was all we could see." The horde, as Dean's group named it, after hearing Rose's story, but he doesn't say that, just lets Porter go. "It was only when that heavy smoke cleared that the City was exposed to this...sickness."
Porter steeples his fingers, rests his chin on the points. "This isn't the official version, if you're worried. How are you related to the City Moores again?"
Dean schools his face, says, "distant cousins."
"So, I'm sure that if I looked, your names would be on the Registry?"
Sam shifts, turning away, mouth a grim line. "Excuse him," Dean says. "He was closer to the family than I was. But, yes." He grits it out, teeth grinding at the ends. "At the bottom, possibly, but we'd be there."
Porter chuckles, shakes his head. "Well, then I won't look. I'll take your word for it. Cousins." Porter leans back, studies Sam before turning back to Dean. "Now, as I was saying, you came across the ferry, which means you spent some amount of time in the lesser districts. I take it you will again do so?"
"Our time abroad," and he fights not to look at Sam. "Makes those accommodations more...familiar than what the City has to offer." It's not a real answer, but Porter seems to like it.
"Interesting accommodations, no doubt. So you've seen the damage done to that portion of the City?" Dean nods again. "We know we have a duty to those districts, but complications here are requiring all of our resources as it is."
It's a nice apology, Dean thinks, and yet it still manages to avoid shouldering responsibility. He opens his mouth to reply, but it's Sam that says, "from what we've seen, the lesser districts are rather independent from the City proper. I highly doubt that anyone across the river is waiting for your help."
"True. Perhaps that is for the best, then," but Porter doesn't look pleased. "After the worst, and by worst I mean the massacre of most of the powerful families, that smoke from across the New River spread here. It was eerily similar to the year before, if you received word of that, when the fires broke out in our judicial districts. There was a smoke quite like that this time, as well. The only difference is there were no fires associated with these most recent events. Just an outbreak of...something that our scientists have yet to find an answer for. This time there are reports of deaths, violent deaths in the back districts of the City proper that are quite...lurid, even in the face of what we've experienced here."
"It is..." Dean gropes for words, manages to find them. "As bad as they say. As far as we've seen."
"And you, being distant cousins of the Moores, would have seen." Even Sam looks up sharply when he hears that, but Porter stops there, just bares his teeth. "Damage is in spots, but overall, nothing is too visible, and yet the people here are in upheaval. Afraid of what they've seen. Our whole City is traumatized." Then the City and Downtown have that in common, acting like scared mice peeking out of buildings. Waiting. "It's been quiet for some time, and yet no one is relenting."
"And we should know this." It's not a question. Dean's dealt with people like this, maybe not so obviously powerful, but similar. Questions are no good here.
"You should. I have friends, Dean." The lack of a last name, even a fake one, is grating. Is supposed to be grating. "Very knowledgeable friends who think you and your brother would do well with this information. After all, the lesser districts are still considered part of the City, and we look after our own."
"Right," Dean says, and his ass is starting to go numb from sitting around. "I take it our stay in your City is over."
"Yes," Porter says, and slides a business card toward them. Dean snatches it and sees Porter's public information, and on the backside slanting numbers in pencil. "It is."
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