Fic: Piece of Cake | Sam and Dean | PG13 | 4200 wds
Fic Title: Piece of Cake
Author: girlguidejones
Fandom/Genre: SPN
Pairing(s): Sam and Dean
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4200
Notes: Written for crimsontoad's fantastic art prompt for 2013 spn-reversebang.
Summary: On a long hunt in rural Ohio, Sam and Dean find a local place to get their caffeine fix. But this brew is addictive in the very worst of ways.
Art Link(s): Evil Coffee
"Here?" Dean sighs in resignation, staring at the Putnam street storefront. It's got a chalkboard out front with today's special blend- "Blue Highlander", written in some kinda Celtic script.
"Yeah, Dean, here," Sam replies firmly. "McDonalds has had enough of our coffee budget over the years. Let's get something that isn't identical to what's been consumed by a million other people today, okay?"
Dean mumbles under his breath but doesn't truly fight it. Just seeing Sam ready to do battle about something is encouraging. Ever since Madison he's pretty much caved to anything Dean's said, enough that he's worried about what would happen if this lead actually turns out to be a hunt. He's not sure Sam has enough fight in him to win if he actually came up against something.
Sam proceeds to ask a million questions about their coffee, using a lot of words like "organic" and "fair trade" and "community-farmed" that signal his approach to Defcon One levels of geekdom. Dean eyes the sandwich list, but it's going to take a minute to figure it out all the cutesy names. The Charlie's Folly looks like a ham and swiss, basically; if Dean picks off the crunchy bean sprouts and gets extra mayo it'll be okay.
Sam finally orders his meal, which takes twice as long as it should because he has to customize his coffee. It seems like overkill to Dean because the thing he orders already has a seventeen-word description.
"Hey there," he says with a tight smile when he steps up. The girl behind the counter eyes him skeptically, as if she has a sixth sense for people like him. She's pale, with light freckles and dark, curly hair. Her nametag says Sheila. She's Sam's type, not his. He squares his shoulders. "Gimme a ham and cheese and a big black coffee."
"One Charlie's Folly," she calls deliberately over her shoulder, pecking at the keys on the register in a way that clearly says that Dean's kind isn't welcome here. "What kind of coffee, sir?" she asks, then immediately launches into a description of the special, Blue Highlander. "It has notes of blueberries, chocolate, and ozone, with a hint-"
"Whoa, whoa…hold on there," Dean interrupts. "Don't take it personally, because your command of adjectives is truly impressive. I just want a big black coffee. That's it. No fruits or meteorological background necessary." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, where Sam is rolling his eyes behind Dean's back. "This guy is your people. I'm just a regular cup o' joe dude."
"I'm sorry, ma'am. My brother gets cranky when he hasn't had his daily caffeine quota," Sam says from over Dean's shoulder, giving him an unsubtle shove.
"A ham and swiss and a jackass joe comin' up," she says, and Dean's gotta hand it to her, she's good, the most brilliant smile in the world on her face even though her gaze is as bitter as the brew he's probably going to get.
"You got any pie?" Dean asks as an afterthought.
"No," she says, sweet as poison. She's obviously glad to be disappointing him. "But we do have several cakes, all sold by the piece."
"Uh, no, thanks anyway."
He pays and shifts to the end of the counter to wait while Sam gets a table. When the barista slides his tray over he starts to complain, but one look at her face and he decides against it. Who knows how long this case will drag on? Marietta isn't a big place, and he doesn't need the queen of coffee telling all the locals that the newly arrived reporter duo are assholes. They're gonna need whatever help they can get.
Sam barks a laugh when he sees Dean's coffee. Instead of big and black, he's got a modest cup with foam on top, cocoa-dusted with a skull and crossbones.
"You think it's safe?" Dean asks, staring at it. Sam's own cup is fragrant with vanilla, a fleur-de-lis in blue gracing his coffee's surface.
"Relax, Dean. It's a theme," he says, gesturing to Dean's plate. His sandwich is indeed pirate-themed, the pickle acting as a mast for the upturned sandwich-ship and blue corn chips arranged around it like waves. The cheese slice has been shaped into a whale, with the mustard dotted on the bread like gold coins.
"Huh," Dean says, and shrugs. He cautiously sips the coffee under Sam's curious gaze.
"Well?" Sam prods. "Is it poisoned? Arsenic tastes like almonds." He stares at Dean, who has stopped after a single sip. "Oh god. Does it taste like almonds?" he asks, a little panicky.
"Actually, no," Dean is forced to admit. "It's pretty damned good."
"What?"
"I know, right?" He takes another slow sip. Yep. Still delicious.
_______
It turns out Dean was right about not burning any bridges (something which Marietta has in abundance, sitting at the fork of the Ohio and Muskingum rivers). Two weeks later they were still there, stuck in the Starlight Motor Lodge with very little in the way of leads. And two more people were dead; healthy people who briefly mentioned insomnia to their co-workers and later dropped dead of heart attacks.
"Sounds like hellhounds," Sam muses. They're back at the same coffee shop. Sam had been surprised that Dean was willing to go back, but it made Sam happy and Dean couldn't deny that it was good grub and better-than-good coffee. "I mean, the healthy-people-dropping-dead thing?"
"Yeah," Dean replies, "but no animal reports, no claw marks at the scene? It doesn't fit," he says, as he heads back to the counter where his nemesis awaits. They've come to an understanding, he and Sheila. He orders the same thing-big black coffee-she keeps smiling aggressively and giving him the pirate grogg, which is still delicious. He keeps asking for pie, she points out their many varieties of cake.
"It'd be helpful if any of the victims had friends, or family," Sam complains, flipping through the reports. "Someone else we could talk to, who might know where they'd been or what they liked to do."
"Complete loners with no ties," Dean nods. "We can't even find a single person who had a good word to say about any of them. Only complaints about what assholes they were." When he looks up Sam is staring at him meaningfully. "Don't start with me, Sammy. I didn't get enough sleep to put up with your crap."
"That's because you aren't smart enough to order decaf," Sam snaps, pointing to his watch and gesturing to Dean's coffee. "It's after seven and you're still front-loading caffeine like an undergrad prepping for an all-nighter."
Sam looks like he's gearing up for a righteous rant, but a commotion at the counter grabs their attention. Dean's walking coffee nuisance is arguing with a customer who, from what they can hear, is competing for the asshole-of-the-year award. She finally shoves his coffee at him and they watch while he stomps past. The foam sloshing off the surface of his cup doesn't completely obscure the design dusted over it.
"Huh," Dean says, trying to sound casual. Sam smirks.
"What? Thought your Jolly Roger made you special? Obviously it's her way of venting when douchebags walk up to her counter."
"Hey now…" Dean protests, but trails off. He's too tired to argue.
_______
They get carryout coffee a few days later, and Dean barely looks at Sheila, mumbling their order while Sam takes a call from Bobby. She apparently takes offense at that too, from the way their cups are slammed down onto the laminate counter-top. Dean doesn't have enough energy to care; it's early and he's still sleepy, climbing out from a night dark with disjointed dreams. He tips the cup at her in sarcastic thanks, and pointedly doesn't lift the lid. If there's a skull and crossbones under it he doesn't want to know.
"Hey man, you ready?" Sam asks, clapping him on the back and nodding at Sheila, who is smiling sweetly back at him.
"Yeah, whatever, let's go."
The Impala rumbles down tree-lined Third Street, her tires rattling across the brick-paved street. The city library's a bust, nothing in the microfiched newspaper archives. In frustration Dean picks up the copy of today's newspaper, intending to do the crossword while Sam annoys the man at the reference desk with more questions.
"Holy shit!" He's immediately shushed by an angry librarian, several patrons, and an embarrassed brother. "Sammy!" he whisper-hisses, unfazed. "Check this out!"
AREA MAN FOUND DEAD IN HOME the headline blared. Fourth unexplained death in as many weeks read the sub-heading.
"Yeah," Sam whispers back, "but it's not exactly shocking enough to have you shouting in the library," he snaps.
"Sam, look at the picture," Dean says grimly. It's the guy from the coffee shop.
"Uh, wow." Sam says, unhelpfully.
"Yeah, wow," Dean snipes. "You think maybe we need to find out if there's evil coffee-mojo going on now?"
"We might find something in the museums," Sam shrugs. Dean stares at him blearily. "No, really. This town was a hub for shipping and trade. Could be something came up the Mississippi that shouldn't have."
"Good, you do that," he says, plotting a spin back to their motel for a nap. He'd feel guilty, except for how much Sam loves this shit.
"Dude, no way. There's five major museums in town; we're gonna have to split up." Dean ends up with the Underground Railroad Museum and the Riverboat Museum, and Sam takes the other three.
Dean joins a group tour at the first museum. Its three stories provide an intimidating amount of square footage to cover, but he figures if he asks a couple of ghost-themed questions it couldn't be the first time the guide has heard them. He soon regrets it; the rest of the group is obviously looking forward to the answers to Dean's questions, but the guide doesn't appreciate the deviation from his script. His relentless monotone practically puts Dean to sleep standing up.
In the end he learns nothing (ghostly, that is; he learns a lot about the Underground Railroad) and his EMF reader never chirps.
The Riverboat Museum is actually on a boat, an old sternwheeler permanently moored at the riverbank. Crossing the gangway to board, Dean's already decided to do his own exploring this time. Two hours later he's minus the utter boredom at critical mass that he had in the first place, but the results are the same. He's still as clueless as he was this morning.
"Hey there, son, give an old man a hand?" Dean stops, about to exit to shore. The self-titled old man is trying to move a pile of rope that weighs more than he does. Dean shoos him away and tugs the coils where he's directed, stowing them neatly away in an iron trunk.
" 'preciate it," the old man says, holding out a hand, cracked and rough with the calluses of life-long manual labor. Dean shakes it, wondering if he'll make long enough to have hands like that.
Or call somebody his age son.
"No problem. Say, you look like you might know some things about this town," Dean says, leaning against the rail and stifling a yawn as the old man laughs.
"Only 'bout eighty-seven years' worth. What are you looking to find out?" Dean smiles.
"You know any good ghost stories hereabouts?"
_____
"So, this old guy, he says half the town is haunted," Dean mumbles through a mouthful of pasta. "Soldiers, slaves, Indians-"
"They're called Native Americans, Dean," Sam scolds, but Dean handwaves him away.
"This place in particular."
"I've always wondered what would it would take to get you into somewhere with a wine list," Sam grins. "I shoulda known it was ghosts. We had to change into ties for this place." Dean kicks him under the table. The food is good at the Levee House Café, just as the old man said, although they've yet to spot the axe-wielding ghost who murdered his father and the prostitute with whom he'd ruined the family name.
Sam pushes his plate away with a pleased sigh. He stretches his legs while trying to keep them out of the aisle. Dean wants desperately to sleep, fantasizing about feather beds and blackout curtains right up until someone clears their throat, the rolling coffee service cart materializing at their table.
"Well, well," says a familiar voice. Dean's head snaps up. The smile isn't aggressively polite now, but slow and mocking.
"Coffee, gentlemen?" asks Sheila. Sam stutters nonsensically beside him, but Dean's silent with terror.
"Don't worry," she says, syrupy-sweet, eyes boring into Dean's. "I know how you like it."
_______
She doesn't seem surprised to find them waiting for her when the restaurant closes, and steps calmly out of the salt circle they've put in her path. The devil's trap doesn't phase her, and she yawns at the silver blade Sam puts at her throat. Dean hangs back, out of the way, nights of sleeplessness making him doubt his reaction time.
"What's the matter, sugar?" she taunts, winking at Dean. "I figured you for the aggressive type, the kind that can't wait to get violent if you have the excuse."
"Shut up," Sam growls, but she merely examines her nails.
"Maybe you're not up for it? Tired, Dean? Not sleeping well?" she lilts, her tone poisoned with faux concern.
"What did you do to him?" Sam demands, looming over her, before whirling toward Dean. "What is she talking about? Dean? Have you been sleeping?" Dean stares at him, feels more vulnerable every minute.
"N-not so much, Sammy," he smiles painfully.
"How long?" Sam demands. His head turns, whipping from Dean to-whatever Sheila is-waiting for an answer.
"Tell him, Dean."
"Eight days," Dean grits out. "Eight, of no sleep at all. Before that it was crappy sleep, a couple hours a night, broken up," he answers, as Sam stares at him in horror. "Ever since that first day at her place."
"Dean, how-how are you even upright? A human body actually starts dying-physically shutting itself down-after-after-" Sam trails off.
"That would be me," Sheila says smugly. "My little brew does wonders, boys. Come see me tomorrow morning, and take a real, good look around."
_______
Sam tries to talk him out of it, but Dean orders his usual the next morning, feeling like a heroin addict as he comes back to life at the first sip. Meanwhile Sam stares at their fellow patrons. Several come and go cheerfully, Sheila calling friendly greetings after them. Some they recognize, some they don’t. But the ones that sit, that have their computers unpacked or read their books by the fireplace, they're the same ones they've seen day after day, and all of them have been rude or cranky at some point.
Dean watches as Sam walks by their tables, worried that something will happen, but too exhausted to get up himself unless it's absolutely necessary. None of them even react to Sam, lost in their own worlds, drinking their skull-and-crossbones coffees. The circles under their eyes match the ones Dean sees in the mirror each day, but theirs are far more pronounced, eyes sinking into their skulls as they slowly morph into the death's heads on the foam of their mugs.
Sam freezes by the chair of a woman Dean remembers mumbling "bitch" as she turned away from the counter a couple weeks ago. His head snaps up and he stares at Dean for a split second before striding back to their table. He grabs Dean's arm and yanks him out of his chair.
"Get up. Get up. We're going, we're going. We're fucking leaving right now!"
Dean grabs desperately at his cup, stealing the china right in front of the shop owner, but Sheila doesn't seem to care; her laughter chases them out.
_______
"She was stuck to the chair, Dean. Like, growing into it." Dean knows Sam expects more of a reaction, but being shocked and frightened take energy, and Dean just doesn't have that much right now. He's lying on his bed, reclined against the pillows, nursing the last swallow of his coffee. "It's like some sort of coffee-house Hotel California."
"What do you think she is? Witch? Djinn?" he asks. He's almost whispering, not out of secrecy, but projecting his voice is wearying. Sam looks up and seems to get it, his eyes going soft, and he stands, dragging his laptop over and climbing onto the bed beside Dean so they can talk more easily.
"I don't know Dean," Sam admits. "Silver, devil's trap, salt, goofer dust, nothing worked on her. I don't know if it matters what she is."
"She told us to 'look'," Dean says, his head drifting to the side to rest on Sam's shoulder. He can have this, right? If he's gonna die soon, shouldn't he get to have a little bit of time with his brother?
"It's like she wants us to figure it out," Dean murmurs again. It's funny, but he can feel Sam thinking beside him, without even turning his head to look. That would take effort.
"So, it's about the puzzle, the spell, not about her?" Sam muses.
"Yeah, Sammy, I think maybe that's it."
"Okay," Sam says. "Okay. I can do this, I just need to think-" Dean presses a little closer, exhausted but thrumming with it, unable to slip away into unconsciousness. He contemplates asking Sam to hit him over the head, to knock him out, but he's scared he won't come back.
Eventually Sam falls asleep himself, subconsciously squirming into Dean's space on the bed, the same way he always did as a kid. Dean gives in, wrapping his arms around Sam's stupid giant shoulders, so fucking envious of Sam's snores that he starts to quietly cry. It feels like hours later when Sam jerks awake suddenly.
"It's a sleep curse!" he exclaims out of nowhere, which isn't exactly a revelation to Dean.
"Um…yeah? It is…?" Dean wants to be more snarky about it, but it takes too much effort to roll his eyes or shrug. "So?"
"I mean-" Sam is stuttering, pausing like he only does when he's really on the trail of something and his giant brain is working too fast for him to explain it to other mere mortals like his older brother. "C'mon!"
He urges Dean up, practically carrying him to the car, gently fastening the seatbelt around him. He ruffles Dean's hair, and Dean nuzzles into it.
Just a little.
"Are we getting more curse-coffee?" Dean asks pitifully as the Impala rumbles to life. He takes momentary strength from the growl of her, the vibration a little like her own kind of magic fingers, but it's not enough to really bring him back.
"We're getting answers," Sam replies grimly.
When they walk in Sheila has his coffee waiting, hot and with the grim pattern still pristine and unmelted on the top, like she knew the exact moment of their arrival.
Dean shuffles forward, jonesing too much to be ashamed of it. Later he will, he knows. She'll smirk and he'll feel the hot shame in his belly, shame for his addiction to the bitter brew, for not being brave enough to stop clinging to Sam and just go.
He thinks about putting it down, but he drinks it anyway, because he knows it will give him more time. Time to be with Sam.
"It's a Sleeping Beauty curse, isn't it? Just in reverse. I'm right, I know I am," Sam challenges, full of grim genius.
Dean expects what they usually get when they figure out the evil secret-attack or cursing, derision or theatrical posturing about their inevitable death-but Sheila just laughs, clapping her hands in apparent delight.
"I knew you'd get it!" she crows, like it's a personal triumph of her very own that Sam discovered the truth. "You're a bright boy, Sam." Dark hair bouncing, she strolls over to the entry and flips the sign to "CLOSED", but makes no move to encourage the regulars to finish up. Instead, she sets about refreshing everyone's drinks while Sam stares daggers at her.
Dean gestures for another coffee himself; if there's going to be a fight, he's desperate to feel enough energy to help Sam. Surely this is their last chance; it has the ring of climactic build-up to it. Sheila's happy enough to comply, even bringing it over to him solicitously when he has no more strength to stand.
"How do we win? How do we break it?" Sam looks terrifying, even to Dean, but his menacing approach to her is toothless; they already know they can't kill her. Dean looks away because staring at Sam hurts too much. The patrons are all the same ones they've seen before. Dean's gaze lands on the one Sam noticed the last time, the one whose flesh was joining to the chair, and he gags.
"Oh, darling," Sheila croons, "you can't, don't you know? Surely you're smart enough to know? You've figured out everything else so easily."
Dean can't figure it out, because he's only got a few brain cells still firing and they're all focused on Sam. His Sam. But he's got just enough to maybe help.
"Connect them," he rasps, and Sam turns away from the counter to crouch in front of Dean. "Connect the cases, Sam. What do they have in common?"
Sam holds onto him, his hands warm on Dean's face, and it's nice. It's something he gets to have here at the end and he's grateful.
"Th-they-they all drink coffee here," Sam stutters.
"Good, good job Sammy, keep going," Dean murmurs, resting his forehead against Sam's.
"They're all assholes, apparently." Dean laughs, even though it takes energy he doesn't have to spare. His body feels weird, a tiny frission of something skittering through him. He breaks out in a sweat, hot and prickling, and he knows this for what it is. He's seen it often enough in the victims they've been there for, but not been there quite soon enough.
It's the body's last gasp, a last desperate push to keep its organs and systems functioning.
"Yeah, I fit in both those categories," Dean whispers, trembling. Sam pulls him closer, as if his own body heat could still stop these kinds of shivers, but he knows. Dean knows he knows; his Sammy is too smart not to.
"They…" Sam looks around. "They're all alone," he says softly. "They're always by themselves, lived alone, died alone, no one cared after they were gone. But that's not you. That's not you, Dean," he insists, standing to face Sheila. Dean whines at the loss of him.
"He's not alone!" Sam says fiercely. "He has people who love him. Me. Our uncle Bobby-"
Dean feels warm again, momentarily.
"Uh-uh, Sam," Shelia chides. "You're forgetting the story. Simple love is not enough. A sleep curse can only be broken by one person. The kind of person none of these people could ever have."
Dean looks up, his neck straining with the tiny bit of effort it requires. He can feel the burn of it, muscles cannibalizing themselves for a last few moments of life. Sam is staring down at him, his hand strong and heavy on Dean's shoulder.
"True love's kiss," Sam whispers, and he hears Sheila laugh triumphantly.
"Now you've got it!" she says, clapping again with morbid glee at approach of Dean's inevitable death.
Sam kneels again in front his chair, wrapping his arms around Dean. Dean wants to keep looking at him, wants gazing at his baby brother to be the last thing he does with his life, but his eyelids slip down, closing.
He breathes in.
He exhales.
Breathes in and tries to hold it, because he knows it's the last one ever.
Dean doesn't see Sam, but he hears him. Feels the warm puff of his breath on his mouth. Smells salt that must be tears.
"Well then," Sam says, shaky and hoarse, his mouth pressing against Dean's.
Sam's lips are chapped and bitten, swollen against Dean's own. He first thinks it's Sam's last, desperate reach for him, a doomed gesture he feels obligated to try. But instantly Dean feels the flood of life returning, cherry pop rocks of it sparking and fizzy. He sees fireworks and Lucky Charms, pen knives and bb guns, army men and Ouija boards. Dean's synapses are firing all at once, like his nerves are jumper cables, but nothing's working yet exactly like it's supposed to. It's clumsy, but Sam's there, one last little peck to Dean's forehead, the whole thing too shaky to be anything but genuine.
There's more than one kind of true love, after all.
Sam finally leans away, not far, just enough to get Dean in focus and grin. He smiles, eyes bright as he whispers, his words soft but louder than the white noise of Sheila's defeated screams in the background.
"Piece of cake."
Author: girlguidejones
Fandom/Genre: SPN
Pairing(s): Sam and Dean
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 4200
Notes: Written for crimsontoad's fantastic art prompt for 2013 spn-reversebang.
Summary: On a long hunt in rural Ohio, Sam and Dean find a local place to get their caffeine fix. But this brew is addictive in the very worst of ways.
Art Link(s): Evil Coffee
"Here?" Dean sighs in resignation, staring at the Putnam street storefront. It's got a chalkboard out front with today's special blend- "Blue Highlander", written in some kinda Celtic script.
"Yeah, Dean, here," Sam replies firmly. "McDonalds has had enough of our coffee budget over the years. Let's get something that isn't identical to what's been consumed by a million other people today, okay?"
Dean mumbles under his breath but doesn't truly fight it. Just seeing Sam ready to do battle about something is encouraging. Ever since Madison he's pretty much caved to anything Dean's said, enough that he's worried about what would happen if this lead actually turns out to be a hunt. He's not sure Sam has enough fight in him to win if he actually came up against something.
Sam proceeds to ask a million questions about their coffee, using a lot of words like "organic" and "fair trade" and "community-farmed" that signal his approach to Defcon One levels of geekdom. Dean eyes the sandwich list, but it's going to take a minute to figure it out all the cutesy names. The Charlie's Folly looks like a ham and swiss, basically; if Dean picks off the crunchy bean sprouts and gets extra mayo it'll be okay.
Sam finally orders his meal, which takes twice as long as it should because he has to customize his coffee. It seems like overkill to Dean because the thing he orders already has a seventeen-word description.
"Hey there," he says with a tight smile when he steps up. The girl behind the counter eyes him skeptically, as if she has a sixth sense for people like him. She's pale, with light freckles and dark, curly hair. Her nametag says Sheila. She's Sam's type, not his. He squares his shoulders. "Gimme a ham and cheese and a big black coffee."
"One Charlie's Folly," she calls deliberately over her shoulder, pecking at the keys on the register in a way that clearly says that Dean's kind isn't welcome here. "What kind of coffee, sir?" she asks, then immediately launches into a description of the special, Blue Highlander. "It has notes of blueberries, chocolate, and ozone, with a hint-"
"Whoa, whoa…hold on there," Dean interrupts. "Don't take it personally, because your command of adjectives is truly impressive. I just want a big black coffee. That's it. No fruits or meteorological background necessary." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, where Sam is rolling his eyes behind Dean's back. "This guy is your people. I'm just a regular cup o' joe dude."
"I'm sorry, ma'am. My brother gets cranky when he hasn't had his daily caffeine quota," Sam says from over Dean's shoulder, giving him an unsubtle shove.
"A ham and swiss and a jackass joe comin' up," she says, and Dean's gotta hand it to her, she's good, the most brilliant smile in the world on her face even though her gaze is as bitter as the brew he's probably going to get.
"You got any pie?" Dean asks as an afterthought.
"No," she says, sweet as poison. She's obviously glad to be disappointing him. "But we do have several cakes, all sold by the piece."
"Uh, no, thanks anyway."
He pays and shifts to the end of the counter to wait while Sam gets a table. When the barista slides his tray over he starts to complain, but one look at her face and he decides against it. Who knows how long this case will drag on? Marietta isn't a big place, and he doesn't need the queen of coffee telling all the locals that the newly arrived reporter duo are assholes. They're gonna need whatever help they can get.
Sam barks a laugh when he sees Dean's coffee. Instead of big and black, he's got a modest cup with foam on top, cocoa-dusted with a skull and crossbones.
"You think it's safe?" Dean asks, staring at it. Sam's own cup is fragrant with vanilla, a fleur-de-lis in blue gracing his coffee's surface.
"Relax, Dean. It's a theme," he says, gesturing to Dean's plate. His sandwich is indeed pirate-themed, the pickle acting as a mast for the upturned sandwich-ship and blue corn chips arranged around it like waves. The cheese slice has been shaped into a whale, with the mustard dotted on the bread like gold coins.
"Huh," Dean says, and shrugs. He cautiously sips the coffee under Sam's curious gaze.
"Well?" Sam prods. "Is it poisoned? Arsenic tastes like almonds." He stares at Dean, who has stopped after a single sip. "Oh god. Does it taste like almonds?" he asks, a little panicky.
"Actually, no," Dean is forced to admit. "It's pretty damned good."
"What?"
"I know, right?" He takes another slow sip. Yep. Still delicious.
_______
It turns out Dean was right about not burning any bridges (something which Marietta has in abundance, sitting at the fork of the Ohio and Muskingum rivers). Two weeks later they were still there, stuck in the Starlight Motor Lodge with very little in the way of leads. And two more people were dead; healthy people who briefly mentioned insomnia to their co-workers and later dropped dead of heart attacks.
"Sounds like hellhounds," Sam muses. They're back at the same coffee shop. Sam had been surprised that Dean was willing to go back, but it made Sam happy and Dean couldn't deny that it was good grub and better-than-good coffee. "I mean, the healthy-people-dropping-dead thing?"
"Yeah," Dean replies, "but no animal reports, no claw marks at the scene? It doesn't fit," he says, as he heads back to the counter where his nemesis awaits. They've come to an understanding, he and Sheila. He orders the same thing-big black coffee-she keeps smiling aggressively and giving him the pirate grogg, which is still delicious. He keeps asking for pie, she points out their many varieties of cake.
"It'd be helpful if any of the victims had friends, or family," Sam complains, flipping through the reports. "Someone else we could talk to, who might know where they'd been or what they liked to do."
"Complete loners with no ties," Dean nods. "We can't even find a single person who had a good word to say about any of them. Only complaints about what assholes they were." When he looks up Sam is staring at him meaningfully. "Don't start with me, Sammy. I didn't get enough sleep to put up with your crap."
"That's because you aren't smart enough to order decaf," Sam snaps, pointing to his watch and gesturing to Dean's coffee. "It's after seven and you're still front-loading caffeine like an undergrad prepping for an all-nighter."
Sam looks like he's gearing up for a righteous rant, but a commotion at the counter grabs their attention. Dean's walking coffee nuisance is arguing with a customer who, from what they can hear, is competing for the asshole-of-the-year award. She finally shoves his coffee at him and they watch while he stomps past. The foam sloshing off the surface of his cup doesn't completely obscure the design dusted over it.
"Huh," Dean says, trying to sound casual. Sam smirks.
"What? Thought your Jolly Roger made you special? Obviously it's her way of venting when douchebags walk up to her counter."
"Hey now…" Dean protests, but trails off. He's too tired to argue.
_______
They get carryout coffee a few days later, and Dean barely looks at Sheila, mumbling their order while Sam takes a call from Bobby. She apparently takes offense at that too, from the way their cups are slammed down onto the laminate counter-top. Dean doesn't have enough energy to care; it's early and he's still sleepy, climbing out from a night dark with disjointed dreams. He tips the cup at her in sarcastic thanks, and pointedly doesn't lift the lid. If there's a skull and crossbones under it he doesn't want to know.
"Hey man, you ready?" Sam asks, clapping him on the back and nodding at Sheila, who is smiling sweetly back at him.
"Yeah, whatever, let's go."
The Impala rumbles down tree-lined Third Street, her tires rattling across the brick-paved street. The city library's a bust, nothing in the microfiched newspaper archives. In frustration Dean picks up the copy of today's newspaper, intending to do the crossword while Sam annoys the man at the reference desk with more questions.
"Holy shit!" He's immediately shushed by an angry librarian, several patrons, and an embarrassed brother. "Sammy!" he whisper-hisses, unfazed. "Check this out!"
AREA MAN FOUND DEAD IN HOME the headline blared. Fourth unexplained death in as many weeks read the sub-heading.
"Yeah," Sam whispers back, "but it's not exactly shocking enough to have you shouting in the library," he snaps.
"Sam, look at the picture," Dean says grimly. It's the guy from the coffee shop.
"Uh, wow." Sam says, unhelpfully.
"Yeah, wow," Dean snipes. "You think maybe we need to find out if there's evil coffee-mojo going on now?"
"We might find something in the museums," Sam shrugs. Dean stares at him blearily. "No, really. This town was a hub for shipping and trade. Could be something came up the Mississippi that shouldn't have."
"Good, you do that," he says, plotting a spin back to their motel for a nap. He'd feel guilty, except for how much Sam loves this shit.
"Dude, no way. There's five major museums in town; we're gonna have to split up." Dean ends up with the Underground Railroad Museum and the Riverboat Museum, and Sam takes the other three.
Dean joins a group tour at the first museum. Its three stories provide an intimidating amount of square footage to cover, but he figures if he asks a couple of ghost-themed questions it couldn't be the first time the guide has heard them. He soon regrets it; the rest of the group is obviously looking forward to the answers to Dean's questions, but the guide doesn't appreciate the deviation from his script. His relentless monotone practically puts Dean to sleep standing up.
In the end he learns nothing (ghostly, that is; he learns a lot about the Underground Railroad) and his EMF reader never chirps.
The Riverboat Museum is actually on a boat, an old sternwheeler permanently moored at the riverbank. Crossing the gangway to board, Dean's already decided to do his own exploring this time. Two hours later he's minus the utter boredom at critical mass that he had in the first place, but the results are the same. He's still as clueless as he was this morning.
"Hey there, son, give an old man a hand?" Dean stops, about to exit to shore. The self-titled old man is trying to move a pile of rope that weighs more than he does. Dean shoos him away and tugs the coils where he's directed, stowing them neatly away in an iron trunk.
" 'preciate it," the old man says, holding out a hand, cracked and rough with the calluses of life-long manual labor. Dean shakes it, wondering if he'll make long enough to have hands like that.
Or call somebody his age son.
"No problem. Say, you look like you might know some things about this town," Dean says, leaning against the rail and stifling a yawn as the old man laughs.
"Only 'bout eighty-seven years' worth. What are you looking to find out?" Dean smiles.
"You know any good ghost stories hereabouts?"
_____
"So, this old guy, he says half the town is haunted," Dean mumbles through a mouthful of pasta. "Soldiers, slaves, Indians-"
"They're called Native Americans, Dean," Sam scolds, but Dean handwaves him away.
"This place in particular."
"I've always wondered what would it would take to get you into somewhere with a wine list," Sam grins. "I shoulda known it was ghosts. We had to change into ties for this place." Dean kicks him under the table. The food is good at the Levee House Café, just as the old man said, although they've yet to spot the axe-wielding ghost who murdered his father and the prostitute with whom he'd ruined the family name.
Sam pushes his plate away with a pleased sigh. He stretches his legs while trying to keep them out of the aisle. Dean wants desperately to sleep, fantasizing about feather beds and blackout curtains right up until someone clears their throat, the rolling coffee service cart materializing at their table.
"Well, well," says a familiar voice. Dean's head snaps up. The smile isn't aggressively polite now, but slow and mocking.
"Coffee, gentlemen?" asks Sheila. Sam stutters nonsensically beside him, but Dean's silent with terror.
"Don't worry," she says, syrupy-sweet, eyes boring into Dean's. "I know how you like it."
_______
She doesn't seem surprised to find them waiting for her when the restaurant closes, and steps calmly out of the salt circle they've put in her path. The devil's trap doesn't phase her, and she yawns at the silver blade Sam puts at her throat. Dean hangs back, out of the way, nights of sleeplessness making him doubt his reaction time.
"What's the matter, sugar?" she taunts, winking at Dean. "I figured you for the aggressive type, the kind that can't wait to get violent if you have the excuse."
"Shut up," Sam growls, but she merely examines her nails.
"Maybe you're not up for it? Tired, Dean? Not sleeping well?" she lilts, her tone poisoned with faux concern.
"What did you do to him?" Sam demands, looming over her, before whirling toward Dean. "What is she talking about? Dean? Have you been sleeping?" Dean stares at him, feels more vulnerable every minute.
"N-not so much, Sammy," he smiles painfully.
"How long?" Sam demands. His head turns, whipping from Dean to-whatever Sheila is-waiting for an answer.
"Tell him, Dean."
"Eight days," Dean grits out. "Eight, of no sleep at all. Before that it was crappy sleep, a couple hours a night, broken up," he answers, as Sam stares at him in horror. "Ever since that first day at her place."
"Dean, how-how are you even upright? A human body actually starts dying-physically shutting itself down-after-after-" Sam trails off.
"That would be me," Sheila says smugly. "My little brew does wonders, boys. Come see me tomorrow morning, and take a real, good look around."
_______
Sam tries to talk him out of it, but Dean orders his usual the next morning, feeling like a heroin addict as he comes back to life at the first sip. Meanwhile Sam stares at their fellow patrons. Several come and go cheerfully, Sheila calling friendly greetings after them. Some they recognize, some they don’t. But the ones that sit, that have their computers unpacked or read their books by the fireplace, they're the same ones they've seen day after day, and all of them have been rude or cranky at some point.
Dean watches as Sam walks by their tables, worried that something will happen, but too exhausted to get up himself unless it's absolutely necessary. None of them even react to Sam, lost in their own worlds, drinking their skull-and-crossbones coffees. The circles under their eyes match the ones Dean sees in the mirror each day, but theirs are far more pronounced, eyes sinking into their skulls as they slowly morph into the death's heads on the foam of their mugs.
Sam freezes by the chair of a woman Dean remembers mumbling "bitch" as she turned away from the counter a couple weeks ago. His head snaps up and he stares at Dean for a split second before striding back to their table. He grabs Dean's arm and yanks him out of his chair.
"Get up. Get up. We're going, we're going. We're fucking leaving right now!"
Dean grabs desperately at his cup, stealing the china right in front of the shop owner, but Sheila doesn't seem to care; her laughter chases them out.
_______
"She was stuck to the chair, Dean. Like, growing into it." Dean knows Sam expects more of a reaction, but being shocked and frightened take energy, and Dean just doesn't have that much right now. He's lying on his bed, reclined against the pillows, nursing the last swallow of his coffee. "It's like some sort of coffee-house Hotel California."
"What do you think she is? Witch? Djinn?" he asks. He's almost whispering, not out of secrecy, but projecting his voice is wearying. Sam looks up and seems to get it, his eyes going soft, and he stands, dragging his laptop over and climbing onto the bed beside Dean so they can talk more easily.
"I don't know Dean," Sam admits. "Silver, devil's trap, salt, goofer dust, nothing worked on her. I don't know if it matters what she is."
"She told us to 'look'," Dean says, his head drifting to the side to rest on Sam's shoulder. He can have this, right? If he's gonna die soon, shouldn't he get to have a little bit of time with his brother?
"It's like she wants us to figure it out," Dean murmurs again. It's funny, but he can feel Sam thinking beside him, without even turning his head to look. That would take effort.
"So, it's about the puzzle, the spell, not about her?" Sam muses.
"Yeah, Sammy, I think maybe that's it."
"Okay," Sam says. "Okay. I can do this, I just need to think-" Dean presses a little closer, exhausted but thrumming with it, unable to slip away into unconsciousness. He contemplates asking Sam to hit him over the head, to knock him out, but he's scared he won't come back.
Eventually Sam falls asleep himself, subconsciously squirming into Dean's space on the bed, the same way he always did as a kid. Dean gives in, wrapping his arms around Sam's stupid giant shoulders, so fucking envious of Sam's snores that he starts to quietly cry. It feels like hours later when Sam jerks awake suddenly.
"It's a sleep curse!" he exclaims out of nowhere, which isn't exactly a revelation to Dean.
"Um…yeah? It is…?" Dean wants to be more snarky about it, but it takes too much effort to roll his eyes or shrug. "So?"
"I mean-" Sam is stuttering, pausing like he only does when he's really on the trail of something and his giant brain is working too fast for him to explain it to other mere mortals like his older brother. "C'mon!"
He urges Dean up, practically carrying him to the car, gently fastening the seatbelt around him. He ruffles Dean's hair, and Dean nuzzles into it.
Just a little.
"Are we getting more curse-coffee?" Dean asks pitifully as the Impala rumbles to life. He takes momentary strength from the growl of her, the vibration a little like her own kind of magic fingers, but it's not enough to really bring him back.
"We're getting answers," Sam replies grimly.
When they walk in Sheila has his coffee waiting, hot and with the grim pattern still pristine and unmelted on the top, like she knew the exact moment of their arrival.
Dean shuffles forward, jonesing too much to be ashamed of it. Later he will, he knows. She'll smirk and he'll feel the hot shame in his belly, shame for his addiction to the bitter brew, for not being brave enough to stop clinging to Sam and just go.
He thinks about putting it down, but he drinks it anyway, because he knows it will give him more time. Time to be with Sam.
"It's a Sleeping Beauty curse, isn't it? Just in reverse. I'm right, I know I am," Sam challenges, full of grim genius.
Dean expects what they usually get when they figure out the evil secret-attack or cursing, derision or theatrical posturing about their inevitable death-but Sheila just laughs, clapping her hands in apparent delight.
"I knew you'd get it!" she crows, like it's a personal triumph of her very own that Sam discovered the truth. "You're a bright boy, Sam." Dark hair bouncing, she strolls over to the entry and flips the sign to "CLOSED", but makes no move to encourage the regulars to finish up. Instead, she sets about refreshing everyone's drinks while Sam stares daggers at her.
Dean gestures for another coffee himself; if there's going to be a fight, he's desperate to feel enough energy to help Sam. Surely this is their last chance; it has the ring of climactic build-up to it. Sheila's happy enough to comply, even bringing it over to him solicitously when he has no more strength to stand.
"How do we win? How do we break it?" Sam looks terrifying, even to Dean, but his menacing approach to her is toothless; they already know they can't kill her. Dean looks away because staring at Sam hurts too much. The patrons are all the same ones they've seen before. Dean's gaze lands on the one Sam noticed the last time, the one whose flesh was joining to the chair, and he gags.
"Oh, darling," Sheila croons, "you can't, don't you know? Surely you're smart enough to know? You've figured out everything else so easily."
Dean can't figure it out, because he's only got a few brain cells still firing and they're all focused on Sam. His Sam. But he's got just enough to maybe help.
"Connect them," he rasps, and Sam turns away from the counter to crouch in front of Dean. "Connect the cases, Sam. What do they have in common?"
Sam holds onto him, his hands warm on Dean's face, and it's nice. It's something he gets to have here at the end and he's grateful.
"Th-they-they all drink coffee here," Sam stutters.
"Good, good job Sammy, keep going," Dean murmurs, resting his forehead against Sam's.
"They're all assholes, apparently." Dean laughs, even though it takes energy he doesn't have to spare. His body feels weird, a tiny frission of something skittering through him. He breaks out in a sweat, hot and prickling, and he knows this for what it is. He's seen it often enough in the victims they've been there for, but not been there quite soon enough.
It's the body's last gasp, a last desperate push to keep its organs and systems functioning.
"Yeah, I fit in both those categories," Dean whispers, trembling. Sam pulls him closer, as if his own body heat could still stop these kinds of shivers, but he knows. Dean knows he knows; his Sammy is too smart not to.
"They…" Sam looks around. "They're all alone," he says softly. "They're always by themselves, lived alone, died alone, no one cared after they were gone. But that's not you. That's not you, Dean," he insists, standing to face Sheila. Dean whines at the loss of him.
"He's not alone!" Sam says fiercely. "He has people who love him. Me. Our uncle Bobby-"
Dean feels warm again, momentarily.
"Uh-uh, Sam," Shelia chides. "You're forgetting the story. Simple love is not enough. A sleep curse can only be broken by one person. The kind of person none of these people could ever have."
Dean looks up, his neck straining with the tiny bit of effort it requires. He can feel the burn of it, muscles cannibalizing themselves for a last few moments of life. Sam is staring down at him, his hand strong and heavy on Dean's shoulder.
"True love's kiss," Sam whispers, and he hears Sheila laugh triumphantly.
"Now you've got it!" she says, clapping again with morbid glee at approach of Dean's inevitable death.
Sam kneels again in front his chair, wrapping his arms around Dean. Dean wants to keep looking at him, wants gazing at his baby brother to be the last thing he does with his life, but his eyelids slip down, closing.
He breathes in.
He exhales.
Breathes in and tries to hold it, because he knows it's the last one ever.
Dean doesn't see Sam, but he hears him. Feels the warm puff of his breath on his mouth. Smells salt that must be tears.
"Well then," Sam says, shaky and hoarse, his mouth pressing against Dean's.
Sam's lips are chapped and bitten, swollen against Dean's own. He first thinks it's Sam's last, desperate reach for him, a doomed gesture he feels obligated to try. But instantly Dean feels the flood of life returning, cherry pop rocks of it sparking and fizzy. He sees fireworks and Lucky Charms, pen knives and bb guns, army men and Ouija boards. Dean's synapses are firing all at once, like his nerves are jumper cables, but nothing's working yet exactly like it's supposed to. It's clumsy, but Sam's there, one last little peck to Dean's forehead, the whole thing too shaky to be anything but genuine.
There's more than one kind of true love, after all.
Sam finally leans away, not far, just enough to get Dean in focus and grin. He smiles, eyes bright as he whispers, his words soft but louder than the white noise of Sheila's defeated screams in the background.
"Piece of cake."