Crave the Dark Illusions 1/3 (Supernatural)
Title: Crave the Dark Illusions
Author: 0perseda
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/character: Dean/OMC, Dean/Sam
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 13,000
Kink/Warnigngs: Slash, prostitution (adult and references to underage), incest themes, dub-con, drug use, angst, UST, language, violence
Notes: Many thanks due to my last-minute beta, eboniorchid. Remaining mistakes are all mine.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural nor its characters. This is entirely for fun, not profit.
Summary: Set mid season four: Sam and Dean are investigating a series of rent-boy murders when Dean discovers something new, and personal boundaries get crossed.
Artist: Art by the talented lightthesparks. Thanks so much! Check out other pieces from a variety of fandoms and leave feedback on this art here.
Sam watched as Dean fled to the bathroom at the back of the convenience store. He’d been pale and shaky for a few minutes, and the whole morning he’d been totally useless while Sam tried to squeeze information from the store clerk. He was pretty sure Dean was hungover, but Sam didn’t remember him drinking much last night. A beer or two with dinner, and that was it. They went to bed, and Sam even stayed the whole night this time rather than meeting Ruby as he occasionally did. He slept heavy, though, and maybe Dean had a secret stash of Jack Daniels hidden under his pillow.
Sam tapped his pencil against a memo pad, trying to focus on the case. He tore his eyes away from the invisible trail Dean left when he split.
The clerk shrugged. “Got any more questions? I wanna help, I do. Some sick fuck comes into my neighborhood and chops up them boys? It ain’t right. I just wish I knew something that could help.”
Sam suspected a connection between this store and the case because every one of the dead boys had been found within a half-mile radius of this store.
“Okay...” Sam had another idea. “You said no-one was living in the apartment above the store, but you’re sure kids can’t sneak in or anything?” Sam glanced pointedly at yet another teenage boy who’d come in for a candy bar or something. The whole lot had to be delinquents and were in danger if the murders continued.
“Nah. I been up there just last week on my break. Clean. Only way up is back that way,” the clerk pointed to the door in the back of the store, by the restroom, “and I got the only key. Switch it off to the guy on the next shift and so on. No way kids get by.”
“Maybe you don’t let anyone by, but-“
“Nah, none of us would. The owner’s a hardass, and if he found out we let anybody up there, he’d have a fuckin’ fit. I’m not even supposed to go up, myself.”
“Why not?”
“Fuck if I know. Place is just a big empty loft. No furniture, a few boxes of shit. I like it cause its quiet, but I still got a view of the street so I can see if anyone’s coming.” The clerk twirled an un-lit cigarette. “But really, these kids ain’t no trouble, got nothin’ to do with it. It’s not like they’re killing each other. It’s some crazy fuck, and you better figure out who’s doing it. But I still think you’re wasting your time askin’ round here.”
“It’s important we canvas the area thoroughly.”
“The beat cops came by, and then the two detectives were here yesterday. If you guys get any more thorough, I’ll be walkin’ funny for a week.”
Sam studied the guy. He was nervous, scared even, but not guilty. While he couldn’t be positive, Sam decided this guy was a dead end. “We’re all different departments, all got paperwork to fill out. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I guess. So… Your partner okay?”
Sam glanced to the back of the store again. “I… uh… I think he might have partied a little hard last night, is all.”
Dean had locked the flimsy door behind him and now leaned against it, trying to relax in the illusion of privacy. It was a convenience store bathroom, not… well, not the familiar comfort of a motel bathroom. That made a big difference, even if Sam was the only other person in the world who understood.
He didn’t have to piss, so he didn’t. He just stood still, staring at the cracked porcelain sink, having fled to the grungy little cubicle because he couldn’t breathe. When Sam started talking to the clerk, asking questions about missing people from the neighborhood, Dean kept his eye on the customers. Every single one of them was a prostitute. Every one.
And Sam didn’t catch it, Dean could tell. For all the shit they’d seen growing up on the road, and especially the over the last couple of years, Sam still clung to innocence. His mind didn’t automatically go to the same places Dean’s did. When the first boy walked into the convenience store, Sam didn’t look twice, just stood aside while the boy bought a Red Bull. Sam probably thought he was skipping school, if he thought anything about it at all.
Sam didn’t even see them, not really. The boy - and then another and another and another-came in to get sodas or candy or even a pack of condoms. But Sam’s mind just didn’t go there.
Dean’s did. When he looked at them, he recognized what they were, who they did, and he remembered being desperate enough to do anything to put food on the table when Dad stayed on the Hunt weeks at a time. Dad never knew. But Sam? Sometimes Dean suspected Sam figured it out, but now watching him completely dismiss those boys, no clue…
So Dean needed to get away to breathe, cause sometimes his lungs wouldn’t work right, not like they used to before. So here he was locked in the convenience store’s dirty little bathroom, staring at himself in the hazy mirror. Was it the cheap light bulb or was his skin sorta green?
When he’d told Sam he didn’t remember Hell, he’d lied. He had clear memories of everything done to him - of everything he’d done - since the Hounds clawed him up until Castiel stuffed him back into his rotting corpse. All the memories were there, overshadowing everything else. He walked around, breathed, ate, shit, and fought… but the memories of Hell were stronger, blanketing all he did, burying pleasures, smothering sensations.
Except the bad things. Shame and fear and pain pierced straight through the haze.
To keep Sam from feeling guilty - well, more guilty - and to avoid the questions and the pity and shit, Dean had to keep up appearances. He pretended to be normal. He acted like the cheeseburger tasted as good as he knew it should. He leered at the hot chick jogging down the road even though he could care less, and he played the role of a pre-Hell Dean as well as possible, basing his performance on faint memories from decades ago.
He seemed to be doing okay, except for the fucking breathing.
It happened once before. The first time was soon after he’d been… After he came back. It finally sank in that Castiel was the real fuckin’ deal and Dean was completely out of his depth. Cas had threatened toss him back into the Pit if he screwed up, he had been alone in an alley waiting for Sam. The entire situation had weighed down on him like heavy hands pressing on his shoulders. He’d fallen to his knees, leaning against the wall, hyperventilating. No way out, no freedom anymore because he couldn’t go back there. He’d do anything not to go back… and that’s exactly what he’d have to do. Anything. Whatever they wanted.
On top of agreeing to be their little bitch, he couldn’t screw it up or he’d be sent back. No credit just for trying. Do whatever they want and do it right or deal’s up. And Dean knew himself. Sooner or later he’d screw up. It was inevitable. So he hadn’t been able to breathe.
Then he had punched the cinder block wall, nearly breaking his hand, and the pain jerked his breath right back into his lungs.
Would that work again?
Three walls of the cramped bathroom were flimsy enough Dean could punch a hole all the way through and not feel it. The wall behind the mirror, though, that looked solid. Not much of it was exposed, but he had to try something before he passed out like a little bitch.
He aimed right at the image of his own face, right between the eyes.
“You sure you’re partner is okay?” The clerk asked Sam. They’d heard a strange noise from that direction and still saw no sign of Dean. “Cause… I hope he’s not freaked out by the boys. I mean, they’re most of my business. Do you think he’d take them in? You guys aren’t vice, but…”
“What? Why would-“
“Excuse me,” a young voice said. Sam moved aside as another boy approached the register to buy something. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen, but he smirked maturity at Sam as he slid his purchase across the counter.
Sam’s confusion drained away when he noticed what the boy was buying. Condoms. “Oh. Oh.”
The kid rushed back out, and the clerk chuckled. “Thought it was obvious. Hope your partner’s okay.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. He’s not the type to get offended. I’m sure that’s not what… I mean-“
Dean came up from behind Sam and slapped him on the back. “Just some’n I ate. Teach me to steer clear of those gas station burritos, eh?”
Sam almost argued with him. Dean had the guts of a goat. He could eat anything. As a hormonal teenaged asshole, Sam once tricked Dean into eating rotten hamburger meat. No reaction. Sam knew he had to be lying, but now wasn’t the time to get into it.
“So we got everything we need, right?” Dean asked, but without waiting for an answer he headed out the door.
Sam clenched his teeth. “Thank you for your time,” he told the clerk, and then he followed his brother. Dean was right, though. They’d gotten all they could from the clerk, and they needed to tap other sources of information. Sam wanted to hack into the police reports and autopsy records to look for patterns in the deaths, see if there were occult ritual markers or “animalistic” injuries.
Sam took a deep breath of thick humid outside and felt sweat condense and trickled down his back. The heat was ridiculous after leaving the cooler air inside the store. It was only ten o’clock in the morning, and he was melting, drained of energy. At least their motel had air conditioning and wireless, and he wanted to get back there, get comfortable, and get to work. The very first thing he’d check would be the weather patterns for the area. He’d though the summers here were usually short and mild… what if the unusual weather was a demonic omen?
“Dude, stop standing there like a zombie. Let’s talk to those kids, see what they know about this,” Dean said. He looked better, more animated. Sam wasn’t sure what to think.
“You want to tell me what was wrong back there?” Sam asked.
“Like I said, my stomach’s all fucked up. You really want gory details?”
“No, but-“
“Why would I lie ‘bout that?”
“I’m not saying you’re lying.” Sam studied Dean’s face, searching for something. “How much did you have to drink last night?”
“You think I’ve got a hangover? I had two beers, same as you, and I’m not hiding bottles under the bed.” Dean grinned the Big Grin that reached his eyes. “I do my drinking right out in front of you, in your face like always, little bro. And if I was hungover, I’d fucking admit it, and I don’t know what’s up your ass, but the emo brooding’s giving me a headache.”
“Fine. It’s too hot out here. Let’s to go back to the motel. I have some ideas to research, and I need to get my computer.”
“Suck it up, dude. Hacking can wait. If we’re gonna get anything out of them, we gotta talk to these kids before prime time starts.” Dean smirked, looking way too similar to the boy who bought condoms a few minutes before. “If we wait too long we’ll have to compete with paying customers. I don’t think we have enough money to talk to all of them that way. And they’ll be confused by your questions, thinking you’re just shy, like it’s your first time you blushing virgin, you.”
“God, Dean! So not funny.”
“Well, you are blushing. And you do realize what they are…”
Sam rolled his eyes and snorted. “It’s pretty obvious.”
“Sure, sure.” Dean nodded, but from the tone of his voice, he knew Sam was lying. He’d probably overheard the clerk and the rent boy enlightening Sam a few moments ago.
Sam clenched his jaw and stood tall, determined more than ever to get his way, tired of the heat and the teasing and Dean’s lies. “If you want to waste your time chatting up the local talent, be my guest. I’m going to do real research. I’ve got experience doing this on my own, so you can go off and play or do whatever the fuck you want, cause it’s not like you’ll be much use to me.”
He regretted it as soon as the words escaped. Dean’s face fell blank like a mask, and he nodded agreement. “Right,” he said, softly. “You go on and get your shit done without me in the way. See you later.” And he stalked off.
Sam closed his eyes and sighed. He felt guilty for what he’d said, but… it was the truth.
Dean’s shoulders kept curling up, his entire back hunching to protect his vulnerable belly. He tried to walk tall, unaffected, but Sam’s words hurt, and Dean’s instincts were taking over. Muscles contracted and tensed and prepared for a beating. He almost heard the screams, smelled blood… and that Other part of him surfaced and twisted the feelings into anticipation.
He ached to satisfy the holes in him, and one way he’d learned to fill the bleakness was fighting. He’d learned that even before he went to Hell, but Alistair taught him ways to sweeten the pain. Only here there was nothing to fight, no-one to hurt cause Sam was right. Sam would get shitloads more done without Dean hounding his every step like a whiny little puppy. In the four months Sam was on his own, he’d learned to be independent. Nah, fuck that, who was Dean kidding? Sam was independent for all the years he went to Stanford. And, in a way, for a few years before he left. Maybe even since he was born.
Anyway, by sending Sam to research on his own, Dean got to avoid being trapped in front of a computer, and he still knew the job would get done right. Then Dean would get good info by talking to the kids, and Sam would find good shit in the classified reports, and together they’d finish this case in no time.
So Dean bit his lip, hard. He sighed under the flash of pain that cleared his mind of whizzing emo-angsting thoughts. Stupid shit. He didn’t want to take his crap out on these kids. They had enough shit to put up with already, he knew. But it was hard because blank eyes in these boys’ faces reminded him of being a kid, trying to be independent and make extra cash to buy food and pay rent when Dad didn’t come home on time.
Always the martyr, eh, Dean? Hard to be a martyr, though, if you’re not really sacrificing anything… if this is all you’re good for in the first place.
Dean shook his head, clearing the demon’s voice out. He savored the taste of his own blood and worried at the tiny wound as he strutted up to the three boys standing on the street corner. He hadn’t seen these particular boys in the shop. They ranged between thirteen and eighteen, he guessed. Two were skinny and creamy pale, one was malnourished and deep-rich-dark. They studied him, three sets of eyes roving up and down as he approached, and the oldest one seemed to accept that Dean wasn’t a cop. The way he carried himself set them at ease, and Dean felt tainted accomplishment. It was a good thing he hadn’t lost it, but… it was a weird feeling how easily he pulled this mask back on.
Maybe you were born with it, Deano. Maybe this mask isn’t a mask at all. You’ve always whored yourself out in some way or other. Alistair’s voice was clear in his head. It wasn’t a memory, not exactly. Dean ignored it.
“You a little too old to work this corner, man,” the oldest one said to Dean. “I bet there’s nowhere you gonna get much work looking like that. This town’s full of pedophiles, I swear.”
“Nah, you’re just getting old and bitter. This guy’s pretty! Old, but pretty. Go check the cow-people bars. The cowboys at Boots and Spurs, they’d like you.” The middle one with the dark skin shifted his eyes to his buddies. “It’s not a gay bar, though, so ya gotta-“
“I know the drill,” Dean said. And he did. Most of his business had been done in straight bars with clean-cut cowboys and white bread Americans out for secret thrills. At the time, they never seemed to mind how old he was… or wasn’t. “That’s not why I’m here… but if you could give me that address, that’d be cool.” He wasn’t sure why he asked. To make the mask more believable, that’s it. To make them trust him.
“Sure, sure.” The kid wrote directions on the back of Dean’s hand. Smiled wide and fake. “So what you want from us, then?”
“I’m new to town. I start to get settled and hear about people getting killed around here. Mostly our people, and it makes me nervous, you know? Like maybe I should move on, try somewhere else instead.”
In its entirety the setting felt muted, like a fog had descended to blur vision and weigh down movements. “Yeah. We’ve lost a few this past month and a half.”
“Should we be careful, somehow? Precautions we can take that you know of? Or were those ones… I don’t want to say they deserved it or anything, but maybe they got tangled up wrong, you know?”
The older boys shook their heads no, looking away and down, away and out. Away. Then the little one spoke, and from up close Dean put his age at closer to a tall - stomach churning - eleven or twelve. “Last week I saw Ray talking to a guy in a black minivan. And Curtain said she saw a black minivan around the week before, with that other kid who… you know. But they were good, normal, all of them. Like any of us.”
“We see tons a minivans. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“But-“
“Just go to the bar. You’ll be fine there. All the dead ones were taken off the street.”
“Pretty ugly motherfuckers in the bar, though!” They all nodded, haunted and happy to change the subject. “I got something to take the edge off, if you want.”
“How do you know he ain’t a cop! Don’t go offering to just anybody. You ever gonna learn? And anyway, it’s not yours to offer. It’s mine.”
Dean jumped in, knowing the perfect way to kill the sales pitch. “No thanks, I got my own stash, but thanks for the heads up.”
“Nah, man, you gotta try this stuff. It’s new. It’s not… there’s nothing like it, and I’ve done it all.” The oldest boy got so excited, he couldn’t be stopped. “Everything else is… other stuff feels like drugs, you know? But this just feels like you’re more you. More you but hot like a motherfucker. I mean you feel like a piece of prime rib surrounded by drooling starving men… and you’ll like it. It won’t matter who you’re fucking. He could be the ugliest deformed freak in the world, and the sex’ll be mind blowing. Great. Hot. Wonderful. But you’re totally in control.”
“Right,” Dean said, humoring him. It sounded too good to be true. There was always a catch.
“No, really. It’s perfect. Great effect, no hangover. No addiction, I swear. I bet you’d love it. I bet everyone will love it, and it’ll be the next new thing, and I’m gonna be fucking rich. Till it gets legalized, cause it’s that perfect.”
“Uh… sure, whatever you say.” Dean wanted to steer the conversation back to the murders, but this kid wouldn’t let it go.
“Look, just take a sample. Try it. You’ll be back. Or give it to a friend and tell him where to find me when it’s time if you’re too scared.”
The kid handed Dean a small vial of a bright green fluid, thin like water when tilted. “Thanks. This only one dose?”
“Don’t get greedy when it’s free.”
“I just don’t want to take too much at once.”
“’Kay. I’m paranoid, always have been. No problem. Drink the whole thing an hour before you start work. It’ll last the whole night.” He smiled, for real this time. “Then I’ll see you back.”
Dean pocketed the vial, considering what the kid’d said. “How new is new?”
“A couple of months. We’re on the edge of a new era, man.” A car came around the corner. “Now shove off, we gotta work.”
Dean left, connection clear in his head. About two months ago this drug shows up out of nowhere? Then almost two months ago people start dying?
Sam stared at his cell phone, ran a finger along the side, over the raised buttons. He almost dialed Ruby, swallowed, and flicked through contacts to Dean’s name instead. But he didn’t call. A text was enough to let Dean know Sam got a lead and that he wanted to catch up over dinner.
Ten minutes later, still no reply, but Sam wasn’t surprised. Of course Dean was acting like a bitch since Sam disagreed with him that afternoon. It would pass, probably by dinnertime. Definitely by midnight, and Dean would send a text or call within an hour. While he wanted Sam to know he was upset, neither of them failed to return calls, not with their jobs. At least, usually.
Sam sighed and wondered if he’d crossed the line. It seemed like Dean was… on edge since he came back. Which made sense. In fact, Sam expected more. He expected nightmares and breakdowns and fistfights or even occasional fits of crying. Dean did none of these things, at least not that Sam saw.
It was almost like he never left. Died. Not like he’d been on vacation. But after everything, as far as Sam could tell, it seemed like he’d changed more than Dean. He found it hard to work with his brother again, hard to share space and be so intimate… the entire four months he’d spent trying to get Dean back, he expected they’d fall back into their old patterns, and everything would be like it was. Better because the whole demon deal would be over with.
Instead, Sam learned to cope without his brother. He depended on Ruby, and now that Dean was back, Ruby had to be a secret, and he missed her. It wasn’t just the blood and sex, though he missed that, too, but he wanted Ruby. He missed her stupid comments when they watched late-night TV. Sometimes she sang along to the radio while he drove, and it reminded him of Dean, but she was actually good at it. She had a way of-
Damn it. He was not in love with a demon. And he refused to be irritated with Dean just because Dean being around meant Ruby had to hide. Maybe, later, Sam would test Dean’s limits about her. If Sam showed how much Ruby had helped…
Dean would think Ruby replaced him and that Sam wanted her back because he liked her more. Fuck, it would never work.
Sam put his phone back in his pocket and jumped in the Impala to drive after his lead. The engine rumbling to life, roaring, purring, calmed him down. The car was his home and helped him cope. And now she had good songs instead of that ear-raping rock music.
He spun up his iPod and drove the surface streets to the address he’d gotten off the police reports. The same witness had been interviewed in all the murders, overlooked because he’d used a different name each time but almost the same address, some apartment on the same block in an industrial part of town.
Sam figured reconnaissance was necessary. If this witness was really the murderer, gloating and enjoying the frenzy at the crime scenes, then the case probably wasn’t paranormal, but he could find out and tip off the police to finish the job.
He pulled up near the building, a block away since the Impala had a huge look-at-me vibe about her, and checked his phone one more time before getting out and investigating.
One text from Dean. Got info, too. Getting money. Dinner at 8.
Relieved, Sam put the phone on silent and strolled down the street, newspaper under his arm. His eyes roved and caught movement of a group of pigeons resting on a power line, saw a car crossing perpendicular a few blocks away, and nothing else. Had he stumbled into the Twilight Zone or something? Everywhere else the city bustled with normal mid Saturday activity, but now Sam was in his own special episode: “Apocalyptic Zombies versus Sam Winchester”.
Of course, being abandoned for the most part made the area perfect cover for homicidal human freaks. Sam wasn’t convinced the murderer was paranormal, not yet.
Unfortunately, this place being empty like it was, Sam made a huge target of himself just walking down the street. Every step he took echoed through the urban canyon. He decided to open the newspaper enough to slip his gun between the folds, in hand, ready to fire.
The witness’ address was a huge building to match its neighbors, seven stories high, but looked more like a decrepit factory than apartments. No-one was around, no cars parked in the street, and Sam went right in the front door like he owned the place.
Inside he saw it really was a set of apartments. Staring him right in the face when he entered was a block of mailboxes, numbered, individually locked. There was a vacant reception desk to his right and stairs leading up and down on his left. It was dusty but otherwise clean and untouched. All the glass was intact. No graffiti. Apparently no squatters.
Also unlikely to have paying residents, but Sam double checked the address and headed up the stairs. When he found the right door, he put his ear against it for a moment and listened but heard nothing. He knocked. Nothing. He tried turning the knob only to find it was locked, but it was a simple mechanism, and he picked it in seconds.
Sam hadn’t expected to find anything.
Part 2 | Part 3
Art Post
Author: 0perseda
Fandom: Supernatural
Pairing/character: Dean/OMC, Dean/Sam
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 13,000
Kink/Warnigngs: Slash, prostitution (adult and references to underage), incest themes, dub-con, drug use, angst, UST, language, violence
Notes: Many thanks due to my last-minute beta, eboniorchid. Remaining mistakes are all mine.
Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural nor its characters. This is entirely for fun, not profit.
Summary: Set mid season four: Sam and Dean are investigating a series of rent-boy murders when Dean discovers something new, and personal boundaries get crossed.
Artist: Art by the talented lightthesparks. Thanks so much! Check out other pieces from a variety of fandoms and leave feedback on this art here.
Sam watched as Dean fled to the bathroom at the back of the convenience store. He’d been pale and shaky for a few minutes, and the whole morning he’d been totally useless while Sam tried to squeeze information from the store clerk. He was pretty sure Dean was hungover, but Sam didn’t remember him drinking much last night. A beer or two with dinner, and that was it. They went to bed, and Sam even stayed the whole night this time rather than meeting Ruby as he occasionally did. He slept heavy, though, and maybe Dean had a secret stash of Jack Daniels hidden under his pillow.
Sam tapped his pencil against a memo pad, trying to focus on the case. He tore his eyes away from the invisible trail Dean left when he split.
The clerk shrugged. “Got any more questions? I wanna help, I do. Some sick fuck comes into my neighborhood and chops up them boys? It ain’t right. I just wish I knew something that could help.”
Sam suspected a connection between this store and the case because every one of the dead boys had been found within a half-mile radius of this store.
“Okay...” Sam had another idea. “You said no-one was living in the apartment above the store, but you’re sure kids can’t sneak in or anything?” Sam glanced pointedly at yet another teenage boy who’d come in for a candy bar or something. The whole lot had to be delinquents and were in danger if the murders continued.
“Nah. I been up there just last week on my break. Clean. Only way up is back that way,” the clerk pointed to the door in the back of the store, by the restroom, “and I got the only key. Switch it off to the guy on the next shift and so on. No way kids get by.”
“Maybe you don’t let anyone by, but-“
“Nah, none of us would. The owner’s a hardass, and if he found out we let anybody up there, he’d have a fuckin’ fit. I’m not even supposed to go up, myself.”
“Why not?”
“Fuck if I know. Place is just a big empty loft. No furniture, a few boxes of shit. I like it cause its quiet, but I still got a view of the street so I can see if anyone’s coming.” The clerk twirled an un-lit cigarette. “But really, these kids ain’t no trouble, got nothin’ to do with it. It’s not like they’re killing each other. It’s some crazy fuck, and you better figure out who’s doing it. But I still think you’re wasting your time askin’ round here.”
“It’s important we canvas the area thoroughly.”
“The beat cops came by, and then the two detectives were here yesterday. If you guys get any more thorough, I’ll be walkin’ funny for a week.”
Sam studied the guy. He was nervous, scared even, but not guilty. While he couldn’t be positive, Sam decided this guy was a dead end. “We’re all different departments, all got paperwork to fill out. You know how it is.”
“Yeah, I guess. So… Your partner okay?”
Sam glanced to the back of the store again. “I… uh… I think he might have partied a little hard last night, is all.”
Dean had locked the flimsy door behind him and now leaned against it, trying to relax in the illusion of privacy. It was a convenience store bathroom, not… well, not the familiar comfort of a motel bathroom. That made a big difference, even if Sam was the only other person in the world who understood.
He didn’t have to piss, so he didn’t. He just stood still, staring at the cracked porcelain sink, having fled to the grungy little cubicle because he couldn’t breathe. When Sam started talking to the clerk, asking questions about missing people from the neighborhood, Dean kept his eye on the customers. Every single one of them was a prostitute. Every one.
And Sam didn’t catch it, Dean could tell. For all the shit they’d seen growing up on the road, and especially the over the last couple of years, Sam still clung to innocence. His mind didn’t automatically go to the same places Dean’s did. When the first boy walked into the convenience store, Sam didn’t look twice, just stood aside while the boy bought a Red Bull. Sam probably thought he was skipping school, if he thought anything about it at all.
Sam didn’t even see them, not really. The boy - and then another and another and another-came in to get sodas or candy or even a pack of condoms. But Sam’s mind just didn’t go there.
Dean’s did. When he looked at them, he recognized what they were, who they did, and he remembered being desperate enough to do anything to put food on the table when Dad stayed on the Hunt weeks at a time. Dad never knew. But Sam? Sometimes Dean suspected Sam figured it out, but now watching him completely dismiss those boys, no clue…
So Dean needed to get away to breathe, cause sometimes his lungs wouldn’t work right, not like they used to before. So here he was locked in the convenience store’s dirty little bathroom, staring at himself in the hazy mirror. Was it the cheap light bulb or was his skin sorta green?
When he’d told Sam he didn’t remember Hell, he’d lied. He had clear memories of everything done to him - of everything he’d done - since the Hounds clawed him up until Castiel stuffed him back into his rotting corpse. All the memories were there, overshadowing everything else. He walked around, breathed, ate, shit, and fought… but the memories of Hell were stronger, blanketing all he did, burying pleasures, smothering sensations.
Except the bad things. Shame and fear and pain pierced straight through the haze.
To keep Sam from feeling guilty - well, more guilty - and to avoid the questions and the pity and shit, Dean had to keep up appearances. He pretended to be normal. He acted like the cheeseburger tasted as good as he knew it should. He leered at the hot chick jogging down the road even though he could care less, and he played the role of a pre-Hell Dean as well as possible, basing his performance on faint memories from decades ago.
He seemed to be doing okay, except for the fucking breathing.
It happened once before. The first time was soon after he’d been… After he came back. It finally sank in that Castiel was the real fuckin’ deal and Dean was completely out of his depth. Cas had threatened toss him back into the Pit if he screwed up, he had been alone in an alley waiting for Sam. The entire situation had weighed down on him like heavy hands pressing on his shoulders. He’d fallen to his knees, leaning against the wall, hyperventilating. No way out, no freedom anymore because he couldn’t go back there. He’d do anything not to go back… and that’s exactly what he’d have to do. Anything. Whatever they wanted.
On top of agreeing to be their little bitch, he couldn’t screw it up or he’d be sent back. No credit just for trying. Do whatever they want and do it right or deal’s up. And Dean knew himself. Sooner or later he’d screw up. It was inevitable. So he hadn’t been able to breathe.
Then he had punched the cinder block wall, nearly breaking his hand, and the pain jerked his breath right back into his lungs.
Would that work again?
Three walls of the cramped bathroom were flimsy enough Dean could punch a hole all the way through and not feel it. The wall behind the mirror, though, that looked solid. Not much of it was exposed, but he had to try something before he passed out like a little bitch.
He aimed right at the image of his own face, right between the eyes.
“You sure you’re partner is okay?” The clerk asked Sam. They’d heard a strange noise from that direction and still saw no sign of Dean. “Cause… I hope he’s not freaked out by the boys. I mean, they’re most of my business. Do you think he’d take them in? You guys aren’t vice, but…”
“What? Why would-“
“Excuse me,” a young voice said. Sam moved aside as another boy approached the register to buy something. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen, but he smirked maturity at Sam as he slid his purchase across the counter.
Sam’s confusion drained away when he noticed what the boy was buying. Condoms. “Oh. Oh.”
The kid rushed back out, and the clerk chuckled. “Thought it was obvious. Hope your partner’s okay.”
“I’m sure he’s fine. He’s not the type to get offended. I’m sure that’s not what… I mean-“
Dean came up from behind Sam and slapped him on the back. “Just some’n I ate. Teach me to steer clear of those gas station burritos, eh?”
Sam almost argued with him. Dean had the guts of a goat. He could eat anything. As a hormonal teenaged asshole, Sam once tricked Dean into eating rotten hamburger meat. No reaction. Sam knew he had to be lying, but now wasn’t the time to get into it.
“So we got everything we need, right?” Dean asked, but without waiting for an answer he headed out the door.
Sam clenched his teeth. “Thank you for your time,” he told the clerk, and then he followed his brother. Dean was right, though. They’d gotten all they could from the clerk, and they needed to tap other sources of information. Sam wanted to hack into the police reports and autopsy records to look for patterns in the deaths, see if there were occult ritual markers or “animalistic” injuries.
Sam took a deep breath of thick humid outside and felt sweat condense and trickled down his back. The heat was ridiculous after leaving the cooler air inside the store. It was only ten o’clock in the morning, and he was melting, drained of energy. At least their motel had air conditioning and wireless, and he wanted to get back there, get comfortable, and get to work. The very first thing he’d check would be the weather patterns for the area. He’d though the summers here were usually short and mild… what if the unusual weather was a demonic omen?
“Dude, stop standing there like a zombie. Let’s talk to those kids, see what they know about this,” Dean said. He looked better, more animated. Sam wasn’t sure what to think.
“You want to tell me what was wrong back there?” Sam asked.
“Like I said, my stomach’s all fucked up. You really want gory details?”
“No, but-“
“Why would I lie ‘bout that?”
“I’m not saying you’re lying.” Sam studied Dean’s face, searching for something. “How much did you have to drink last night?”
“You think I’ve got a hangover? I had two beers, same as you, and I’m not hiding bottles under the bed.” Dean grinned the Big Grin that reached his eyes. “I do my drinking right out in front of you, in your face like always, little bro. And if I was hungover, I’d fucking admit it, and I don’t know what’s up your ass, but the emo brooding’s giving me a headache.”
“Fine. It’s too hot out here. Let’s to go back to the motel. I have some ideas to research, and I need to get my computer.”
“Suck it up, dude. Hacking can wait. If we’re gonna get anything out of them, we gotta talk to these kids before prime time starts.” Dean smirked, looking way too similar to the boy who bought condoms a few minutes before. “If we wait too long we’ll have to compete with paying customers. I don’t think we have enough money to talk to all of them that way. And they’ll be confused by your questions, thinking you’re just shy, like it’s your first time you blushing virgin, you.”
“God, Dean! So not funny.”
“Well, you are blushing. And you do realize what they are…”
Sam rolled his eyes and snorted. “It’s pretty obvious.”
“Sure, sure.” Dean nodded, but from the tone of his voice, he knew Sam was lying. He’d probably overheard the clerk and the rent boy enlightening Sam a few moments ago.
Sam clenched his jaw and stood tall, determined more than ever to get his way, tired of the heat and the teasing and Dean’s lies. “If you want to waste your time chatting up the local talent, be my guest. I’m going to do real research. I’ve got experience doing this on my own, so you can go off and play or do whatever the fuck you want, cause it’s not like you’ll be much use to me.”
He regretted it as soon as the words escaped. Dean’s face fell blank like a mask, and he nodded agreement. “Right,” he said, softly. “You go on and get your shit done without me in the way. See you later.” And he stalked off.
Sam closed his eyes and sighed. He felt guilty for what he’d said, but… it was the truth.
Dean’s shoulders kept curling up, his entire back hunching to protect his vulnerable belly. He tried to walk tall, unaffected, but Sam’s words hurt, and Dean’s instincts were taking over. Muscles contracted and tensed and prepared for a beating. He almost heard the screams, smelled blood… and that Other part of him surfaced and twisted the feelings into anticipation.
He ached to satisfy the holes in him, and one way he’d learned to fill the bleakness was fighting. He’d learned that even before he went to Hell, but Alistair taught him ways to sweeten the pain. Only here there was nothing to fight, no-one to hurt cause Sam was right. Sam would get shitloads more done without Dean hounding his every step like a whiny little puppy. In the four months Sam was on his own, he’d learned to be independent. Nah, fuck that, who was Dean kidding? Sam was independent for all the years he went to Stanford. And, in a way, for a few years before he left. Maybe even since he was born.
Anyway, by sending Sam to research on his own, Dean got to avoid being trapped in front of a computer, and he still knew the job would get done right. Then Dean would get good info by talking to the kids, and Sam would find good shit in the classified reports, and together they’d finish this case in no time.
So Dean bit his lip, hard. He sighed under the flash of pain that cleared his mind of whizzing emo-angsting thoughts. Stupid shit. He didn’t want to take his crap out on these kids. They had enough shit to put up with already, he knew. But it was hard because blank eyes in these boys’ faces reminded him of being a kid, trying to be independent and make extra cash to buy food and pay rent when Dad didn’t come home on time.
Always the martyr, eh, Dean? Hard to be a martyr, though, if you’re not really sacrificing anything… if this is all you’re good for in the first place.
Dean shook his head, clearing the demon’s voice out. He savored the taste of his own blood and worried at the tiny wound as he strutted up to the three boys standing on the street corner. He hadn’t seen these particular boys in the shop. They ranged between thirteen and eighteen, he guessed. Two were skinny and creamy pale, one was malnourished and deep-rich-dark. They studied him, three sets of eyes roving up and down as he approached, and the oldest one seemed to accept that Dean wasn’t a cop. The way he carried himself set them at ease, and Dean felt tainted accomplishment. It was a good thing he hadn’t lost it, but… it was a weird feeling how easily he pulled this mask back on.
Maybe you were born with it, Deano. Maybe this mask isn’t a mask at all. You’ve always whored yourself out in some way or other. Alistair’s voice was clear in his head. It wasn’t a memory, not exactly. Dean ignored it.
“You a little too old to work this corner, man,” the oldest one said to Dean. “I bet there’s nowhere you gonna get much work looking like that. This town’s full of pedophiles, I swear.”
“Nah, you’re just getting old and bitter. This guy’s pretty! Old, but pretty. Go check the cow-people bars. The cowboys at Boots and Spurs, they’d like you.” The middle one with the dark skin shifted his eyes to his buddies. “It’s not a gay bar, though, so ya gotta-“
“I know the drill,” Dean said. And he did. Most of his business had been done in straight bars with clean-cut cowboys and white bread Americans out for secret thrills. At the time, they never seemed to mind how old he was… or wasn’t. “That’s not why I’m here… but if you could give me that address, that’d be cool.” He wasn’t sure why he asked. To make the mask more believable, that’s it. To make them trust him.
“Sure, sure.” The kid wrote directions on the back of Dean’s hand. Smiled wide and fake. “So what you want from us, then?”
“I’m new to town. I start to get settled and hear about people getting killed around here. Mostly our people, and it makes me nervous, you know? Like maybe I should move on, try somewhere else instead.”
In its entirety the setting felt muted, like a fog had descended to blur vision and weigh down movements. “Yeah. We’ve lost a few this past month and a half.”
“Should we be careful, somehow? Precautions we can take that you know of? Or were those ones… I don’t want to say they deserved it or anything, but maybe they got tangled up wrong, you know?”
The older boys shook their heads no, looking away and down, away and out. Away. Then the little one spoke, and from up close Dean put his age at closer to a tall - stomach churning - eleven or twelve. “Last week I saw Ray talking to a guy in a black minivan. And Curtain said she saw a black minivan around the week before, with that other kid who… you know. But they were good, normal, all of them. Like any of us.”
“We see tons a minivans. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“But-“
“Just go to the bar. You’ll be fine there. All the dead ones were taken off the street.”
“Pretty ugly motherfuckers in the bar, though!” They all nodded, haunted and happy to change the subject. “I got something to take the edge off, if you want.”
“How do you know he ain’t a cop! Don’t go offering to just anybody. You ever gonna learn? And anyway, it’s not yours to offer. It’s mine.”
Dean jumped in, knowing the perfect way to kill the sales pitch. “No thanks, I got my own stash, but thanks for the heads up.”
“Nah, man, you gotta try this stuff. It’s new. It’s not… there’s nothing like it, and I’ve done it all.” The oldest boy got so excited, he couldn’t be stopped. “Everything else is… other stuff feels like drugs, you know? But this just feels like you’re more you. More you but hot like a motherfucker. I mean you feel like a piece of prime rib surrounded by drooling starving men… and you’ll like it. It won’t matter who you’re fucking. He could be the ugliest deformed freak in the world, and the sex’ll be mind blowing. Great. Hot. Wonderful. But you’re totally in control.”
“Right,” Dean said, humoring him. It sounded too good to be true. There was always a catch.
“No, really. It’s perfect. Great effect, no hangover. No addiction, I swear. I bet you’d love it. I bet everyone will love it, and it’ll be the next new thing, and I’m gonna be fucking rich. Till it gets legalized, cause it’s that perfect.”
“Uh… sure, whatever you say.” Dean wanted to steer the conversation back to the murders, but this kid wouldn’t let it go.
“Look, just take a sample. Try it. You’ll be back. Or give it to a friend and tell him where to find me when it’s time if you’re too scared.”
The kid handed Dean a small vial of a bright green fluid, thin like water when tilted. “Thanks. This only one dose?”
“Don’t get greedy when it’s free.”
“I just don’t want to take too much at once.”
“’Kay. I’m paranoid, always have been. No problem. Drink the whole thing an hour before you start work. It’ll last the whole night.” He smiled, for real this time. “Then I’ll see you back.”
Dean pocketed the vial, considering what the kid’d said. “How new is new?”
“A couple of months. We’re on the edge of a new era, man.” A car came around the corner. “Now shove off, we gotta work.”
Dean left, connection clear in his head. About two months ago this drug shows up out of nowhere? Then almost two months ago people start dying?
Sam stared at his cell phone, ran a finger along the side, over the raised buttons. He almost dialed Ruby, swallowed, and flicked through contacts to Dean’s name instead. But he didn’t call. A text was enough to let Dean know Sam got a lead and that he wanted to catch up over dinner.
Ten minutes later, still no reply, but Sam wasn’t surprised. Of course Dean was acting like a bitch since Sam disagreed with him that afternoon. It would pass, probably by dinnertime. Definitely by midnight, and Dean would send a text or call within an hour. While he wanted Sam to know he was upset, neither of them failed to return calls, not with their jobs. At least, usually.
Sam sighed and wondered if he’d crossed the line. It seemed like Dean was… on edge since he came back. Which made sense. In fact, Sam expected more. He expected nightmares and breakdowns and fistfights or even occasional fits of crying. Dean did none of these things, at least not that Sam saw.
It was almost like he never left. Died. Not like he’d been on vacation. But after everything, as far as Sam could tell, it seemed like he’d changed more than Dean. He found it hard to work with his brother again, hard to share space and be so intimate… the entire four months he’d spent trying to get Dean back, he expected they’d fall back into their old patterns, and everything would be like it was. Better because the whole demon deal would be over with.
Instead, Sam learned to cope without his brother. He depended on Ruby, and now that Dean was back, Ruby had to be a secret, and he missed her. It wasn’t just the blood and sex, though he missed that, too, but he wanted Ruby. He missed her stupid comments when they watched late-night TV. Sometimes she sang along to the radio while he drove, and it reminded him of Dean, but she was actually good at it. She had a way of-
Damn it. He was not in love with a demon. And he refused to be irritated with Dean just because Dean being around meant Ruby had to hide. Maybe, later, Sam would test Dean’s limits about her. If Sam showed how much Ruby had helped…
Dean would think Ruby replaced him and that Sam wanted her back because he liked her more. Fuck, it would never work.
Sam put his phone back in his pocket and jumped in the Impala to drive after his lead. The engine rumbling to life, roaring, purring, calmed him down. The car was his home and helped him cope. And now she had good songs instead of that ear-raping rock music.
He spun up his iPod and drove the surface streets to the address he’d gotten off the police reports. The same witness had been interviewed in all the murders, overlooked because he’d used a different name each time but almost the same address, some apartment on the same block in an industrial part of town.
Sam figured reconnaissance was necessary. If this witness was really the murderer, gloating and enjoying the frenzy at the crime scenes, then the case probably wasn’t paranormal, but he could find out and tip off the police to finish the job.
He pulled up near the building, a block away since the Impala had a huge look-at-me vibe about her, and checked his phone one more time before getting out and investigating.
One text from Dean. Got info, too. Getting money. Dinner at 8.
Relieved, Sam put the phone on silent and strolled down the street, newspaper under his arm. His eyes roved and caught movement of a group of pigeons resting on a power line, saw a car crossing perpendicular a few blocks away, and nothing else. Had he stumbled into the Twilight Zone or something? Everywhere else the city bustled with normal mid Saturday activity, but now Sam was in his own special episode: “Apocalyptic Zombies versus Sam Winchester”.
Of course, being abandoned for the most part made the area perfect cover for homicidal human freaks. Sam wasn’t convinced the murderer was paranormal, not yet.
Unfortunately, this place being empty like it was, Sam made a huge target of himself just walking down the street. Every step he took echoed through the urban canyon. He decided to open the newspaper enough to slip his gun between the folds, in hand, ready to fire.
The witness’ address was a huge building to match its neighbors, seven stories high, but looked more like a decrepit factory than apartments. No-one was around, no cars parked in the street, and Sam went right in the front door like he owned the place.
Inside he saw it really was a set of apartments. Staring him right in the face when he entered was a block of mailboxes, numbered, individually locked. There was a vacant reception desk to his right and stairs leading up and down on his left. It was dusty but otherwise clean and untouched. All the glass was intact. No graffiti. Apparently no squatters.
Also unlikely to have paying residents, but Sam double checked the address and headed up the stairs. When he found the right door, he put his ear against it for a moment and listened but heard nothing. He knocked. Nothing. He tried turning the knob only to find it was locked, but it was a simple mechanism, and he picked it in seconds.
Sam hadn’t expected to find anything.
Part 2 | Part 3
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