Hell Hath No Fury
Dec. 26th, 2007 03:03 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
zannesTitle: Hell Hath No Fury
Author: ZanneS
Genre: Gen/TeenWinchesters
Rating: PG (mild bad language)
Characters: Dean, Sam and John
Summary: John needs to rely on Sam's previous Goth/Punk experience when the Winchesters go undercover to solve a case. (sequel to How Do You Excorise the Goth from a Teenager? -> http://zannes.livejournal.com/17737.html)
Author's Notes: Thanks tonativestar for beta-ing! She helped to add a little more excitement to the ending, though it still needs more blood. This was written primarily to play dress-up with John, so that might explain the results. Kripke owns all and told Santa not to share.
Author: ZanneS
Genre: Gen/TeenWinchesters
Rating: PG (mild bad language)
Characters: Dean, Sam and John
Summary: John needs to rely on Sam's previous Goth/Punk experience when the Winchesters go undercover to solve a case. (sequel to How Do You Excorise the Goth from a Teenager? -> http://zannes.livejournal.com/17737.html)
Author's Notes: Thanks to
nativestar for beta-ing! She helped to add a little more excitement to the ending, though it still needs more blood. This was written primarily to play dress-up with John, so that might explain the results. Kripke owns all and told Santa not to share. Hell Hath No Fury
The loud pounding of the bass-line reverberated down the alley of lichen-covered bricks gleaming with the dampness of early morning. The sound was magnified for a moment before the door swung closed with a soft thunk, cloaking the garbage strewn alley in the unsettling cessation of sound.
All she could hear was the low throb of her pulse pounding in her ears, the utter absence of noise making her briefly wonder if she really had gone deaf. Her skin prickled uneasily as she looked up and down the darkened corridor.
Something moved slightly off to her left, not that she saw or heard anything; it was just the sensation of movement that made her turn, calling out with the overly exaggerated tones of someone who had just listened to too much loud music for far too long, “Not funny, you bastard. Get your ass….”
Her kohl-smudged eyes widened and her mouth fell open, the pink of her tongue making her blood-dark lipstick seem nearly black as she fell back against the bricks, her skin paling to the color she’d always desired and tried so hard to achieve with layers of powder and paint.
The last she thing heard was her own screams.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Impala pulled smoothly into the parking lot of the small motel, the uneven gravel barely stirring the slumbering occupants in the vehicle. John warily surveyed the nearly empty lot, momentarily uncertain if he should awaken his boys before checking in. After glancing across the front seat at Dean’s slack face, his young features already lined with exhaustion and the faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes that indicated too many sleepless nights, John decided to delay waking them for a few more minutes. If the startling appearance of age on Dean’s face perturbed John, it was even more disturbing on the sixteen-year-old asleep in the back.
No one that young should look so…used up.
John shook off the all too familiar feeling of guilt that dared to brush the back of his brain at these unprotected moments when he was unprepared to stand firm in the face of his doubts. He – they - didn’t have time for this.
People were dying.
Some things had to take precedence over a few nights of lost sleep. John had raised his boys well enough to know that much.
With a resigned sigh, John softly closed the car door behind him, roughly sketching a protective rune in the condensation collected along the window’s edge. He quickly made his way inside to check in before the doubt at leaving his boys in a barely protected vehicle where anything could find them kept him from leaving them at all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next morning, after grabbing a quick bite at the diner down the road, John hustled them back to the motel room for a family meeting.
“Sam, you still got any of that Goth crap you wore a couple years ago?” John asked, starting to dig through a duffel. The aimless digging was more of a surprise than the actual question since John knew the precise location of everything in his bag as if a map had been burned into his brain. Then Sam realized the aimlessness was due to the fact that it was Sam’s bag their dad was rooting through, carelessly tossing items across the bed as he searched for whatever it was that eluded him.
Sam yanked the bag out of his father’s hands with a frown, trying to fold his clothes back into some kind of order before replacing them. “It was more Punk than Goth, Dad, and no. If you haven’t noticed, I’ve grown since then.”
Dean disguised a snicker as a cough, the innocent phrase “grown since then” hardly covering Sam’s surprising burst of height that made him, as Dean put it, the obviously unwanted off-spring of a Sasquatch and a Sequoia - with a face like a bulldog’s ass, to boot.
Sam would just tower over Dean, smirking innocently, and reply in that annoying Sammy deadpan that Dean was just jealous because Sam wasn’t the little brother anymore – and with Sam staring down at Dean’s scalp, Dean knew just what kind of little Sam was referring to.
Bitch.
John cursed under his breath, realizing this meant spending some cash to get what they wanted. “We’ll drop by the thrift store and see if there’s a Salvation Army or somethin’ in town,” John ordered gruffly as he slipped his coat back on, “before we register you at the high school.”
“What?” Sam asked in surprise, distracted from playing tug-of-war with Dean over one of his socks at the mention of school. “School’s almost over! We’re not even staying here that long!”
“No, we’re not,” John agreed, straightening his collar and then checking the gun stuck in the back of his belt.
“Then why are we bothering to register when it’ll only be a few days and why do we need those clothes?”
John huffed impatiently, wondering what possessed his youngest son to ask so many questions when he knew there was a job to do. “You remember the murders that brought us here?” The boys nodded automatically, Dean standing straighter at the mention of business. “Last one happened at a local club catering to that type of clientele. A couple of the previous victims were also a part of that group.”
“But the other two were average,” Dean interrupted. “No ties to anything like that.”
“Not as far as we know, but two went to the high school and were…that’s where Sam comes in.” John tuned to face him. “You’re goin’ in undercover, so to speak. Find out what you can.”
“You don’t even know if that’s the common thread!” Sam stated in disbelief.
John shrugged indifferently. “Dean can cover the norms this time. I’m gonna try to get a job at the club since I’m the only one old enough to officially drink. Besides, it seems to be the epicenter of all the murders, so it’s as good a place to start as any.”
“We got fake IDs,” Dean reminded him, looking insulted at the mere year’s difference between being legal and still being considered underage.
“That’ll get you in, but it wouldn’t get you a job.”
Dean glanced over at his brother for back-up – working at a bar sounded much more fun than interviewing anybody – when he saw the wide smile nearly splitting Sam’s face in two. “You’re going to try to get a job at a punk club,” Sam stated incredulously.
John shrugged, nodding with his hand still on the door and ready to go. Sam’s smile got impossibly bigger. “You realize that means you’ll have to go undercover, too.”
Dean finally understood what Sam was getting at and a similar smile broke over his own face as he turned to study John, his gaze sliding critically from his father’s tousled black hair to his scuffed-up workman’s boots. “Hey, Sammy, you still know how to work that Maybelline?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“No,” John stated plainly, his eyes flat.
Sam huffed a breath, having prepared for a little more overt resistance from John rather than this bland refusal. Reasoning didn’t work against a flat out no.
Dean opened his mouth to convince his father it was necessary and John just arched a silent eyebrow in his direction, making Dean’s mouth snap closed with an audible clacking of teeth. That just made Sam’s brow furrow into the all too familiar parental debate mode – which, to be honest, was just a fancy way of saying argumentative – where he and John would be stuck discussing the issue at ever increasing volume for far longer than either of them wished to spend on anything of such little importance.
They had once spent an embarrassing half-hour loudly disagreeing about toothpaste in a nearly abandoned Walgreen’s at 3:00 in the morning.
“I see I need to make myself more clear.” John turned the full weight of his gaze on the offending piece of material and stated emphatically, “Fuck no.”
Dean allowed his grin to crawl across his face, barely able to conceal his amusement. "C'mon Dad, wearing a kilt doesn’t make you a girl."
A flash of discomfort managed to work its way over John’s face before the familiar placid lines fell back into place and he crossed his arms almost stubbornly over his broad chest.
“It’s not a threat to your masculinity, Dad,” Sam teased with a hint of reprobation. “It’s not like guys will come up to you and beg to make out because they can’t resist the mysterious older man in the kilt.”
“I agreed to the eyeliner, OK? But I’m drawin’ the line at a skirt.” John fidgeted uncomfortably, his head ducking down for a moment as he muttered, “Your moth-….” His explanation cut off with a dry swallow and his hands tightened unconsciously under the overhang of his elbows. “It's just...um...I don't like my knees."
Both Sam’s and Dean’s gazes fell to their father’s denim-clad legs, and Dean furrowed his brow in concentration trying to remember any injury that might have made his father unwilling to bare his skin. As if feeling the weight of their eyes on his legs, John plopped down in a chair by the small table in the corner, concealing his limbs underneath the dark overhang away from his sons’ prying stares.
When his eyes met the firm gaze of his father once more, Dean conceded the point, shutting Sam up with a quick swat to the chest. “We’ll keep the kilt in reserve. One of us can use it when we’re backin’ up, Dad.”
Sam shrugged, falling back on the bed and sprawling out with his hands tucked under his head, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Sure thing, Dean. After all, my knees are pretty.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Keep still, Dad,” Dean ordered, planting a hand firmly on John’s head to keep him from twitching. “Either I’m gonna end up slashing your throat with the straight razor or Sam’s gonna poke your eye out.”
Sam gave Dean a dubious glare, stepping back when Dean’s elbow nearly caught him on his cheekbone again. “I’ll wait my turn. I don’t want to clean up the arterial spray that will result if you slit Dad’s carotid.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” John said dryly, wincing a little as Dean approached him once more with the bared blade. “Tell me again why I can’t be doing this myself?”
Dean bit his bottom lip in concentration as he cleared away another patch along his father’s cheek. “‘Cause, Dad…when it comes to shaving, all you know is stubble or more stubble – if you’re feeling inventive, maybe an almost beard. If you’re goin’ undercover you need some actual style to your look.”
“You’re not gonna make me look like that Luke Perry, are ya?” John asked with mild concern.
“Who?” Dean asked in confusion, while Sam snorted in amusement.
With a final sweep of the blade, Dean stepped back with a satisfied expression, smiling with pride at his impatient little brother. Sam’s eyes widened in surprise and a low whistle erupted from him. “God-damn, Dean. You’re a frickin’ artist.”
“Your turn, little bro,” Dean said with a poke of his elbow into Sam’s ribs. “Make Daddy pretty for his job interview.”
John frowned over Sam’s shoulder at the gleeful Dean as Sam hunched over with a cork in one hand and Dean’s lighter in the other. After quickly burning the end of the cork, Sam ordered, “Eyes up, Dad. Don’t blink.”
The non-blinking was easier said than done. “Why didn’t you buy any of this shit at the store?” John grumbled testily.
“Because,” Sam said, holding his breath as he tried to even out the lines, “that store shit, as you so elegantly put it, cost $10 a tube. That means we’re goin’ for cheap.”
John did his best to ignore the large thing nearly poking him in the eye, the faint smell of ash causing a surge of discomfort to suddenly swell inside him. He quelled it with a firm straightening of his shoulders, closing his eyes when Sam indicated he should, the feel of his son’s blunt fingers ghosting over his lids making him feel somehow too vulnerable, unable to keep a watch on his surroundings.
“Keep your eyes closed,” Dean commanded, and the sudden scent of hair gel came to John’s nose as Dean worked his fingers through his hair. “We’re goin’ old-school with you, Dad. You’re obviously…older, so we figure you’d be classic punk rather than any of this new wave shit that’s goin’ around.”
With an inward sigh, John could tell where this was going as Dean tugged on his hair, the definite sensation of up rather than down alerting John that he’d be at least an inch or two taller when he opened his eyes. “Which also means you might get away with wearin’ my jeans rather than what we originally picked out for you.”
John shifted uncomfortably, the snug fit of Dean’s jeans making him almost wish he’d picked the kilt. Besides, the holes in the denim nearly bared his knees anyway – might as well have worn the skirt so he wouldn’t feel so…pinched.
“How in the hell do you fit your ass in these pants anyhow, Dean?” John asked, the cranky tone alerting his sons that he wasn’t up for much more teasing.
“Easy, Dad,” Dean replied, his voice fading a little as he stepped back. “My ass is younger and more appealing.” John opened one eye to give his grinning son a death glare before Dean tried to conceal his glee and said in a more solemn tone. “Done. Turn around.”
Sam didn’t even bother to try to hide his expression and John could see why once he turned to look at the final effect in the mirror.
He looked like an idiot.
Saving the worst for last, John began at his feet. He felt reassured when he saw his familiar black workman’s boots peeking from under the hem of the pale, bleach-stained jeans he was currently wearing. The bleach stains were relatively new, but the holes were not. He had one at each knee and a few rips near places he felt should be left well-covered. When John had complained about feeling overly ventilated, Sam had added several safety pins to the edges of the torn fabric so now John felt both breezy and in danger of accidental spearing all at once.
The worst thing about borrowing a pair of Dean’s jeans had to be the fit. His son was right, John’s ancient ass did not fit comfortably into these pants. John felt practically naked with the way the fabric clung to his thighs, accenting areas better left to the imagination.
John allowed his gaze to slide past the black belt with the skull-shaped silver buckle Sam had dredged up from somewhere – John definitely remembered that from Sam’s freshman experiment – to his tight, black sleeveless T-shirt leaving his muscular arms bared to the world.
John preened inwardly at that, feeling a tiny surge of pride that hunting had kept him in relatively good shape so far, turning slightly to study the cross tattoo darkening his right shoulder and the sun tattoo on his left. Sam had found some kind of cheap henna kit at a store downtown and the results had turned out surprisingly well. Instructions said they’d last about a week, which should be as long as he’d need them, he hoped. The black leather studded bands around his wrists made John feel a bit like he was supposed to be wearing a leash, but they weren’t too bad.
Skimming past the bicycle chain necklace nearly garroting him with its double loop around his throat, John finally took a deep breath to see the end result of the last half hour’s endeavors on his head.
John had to blink twice before realizing that was actually him in the mirror. His usually unruly hair – he didn’t really give a fuck what it looked like on an average day as long as it was out of his way – was standing nearly upright from all the gel Dean had slathered on, so rather than lying flat, it was looking as if he’d just had the shit scared out of him.
Great.
His nearly trademark unkempt stubble, which had been growing in rather nicely to an almost beard-like state recently, had been trimmed like some sort of topiary, leaving a very straight edged goatee around his mouth and large, almost triangular sideburns slashing their way across his cheeks. He just thanked God that the sideburns didn’t meet with his moustache – that he would have had to rectify the moment he saw it.
But those eyes…they didn’t belong to John. Those were Dean’s eyes staring out at him from the mirror. The burnt cork eyeliner had made John’s usual deep hazel eyes take on a lighter tone, as if in defiance of the surrounding blackness of the soot lining his lids, as well as the darkness of his hair and shirt. Sam’s thin fingers had smudged the line enough so that it seemed as if these stranger’s eyes were burning through a faint fog, some kind of incandescent color like the will-o’-the-wisps they had trailed in Louisiana.
It wasn’t John, but it was definitely a guy who might be hired at the Pied Piker.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So while John and Sam were prowling the streets – or the high school, in Sam’s case – fitted out and having fun, Dean was stuck trying to interview bereaved family members and friends.
Which meant suits…and ties…and tight shoes.
He’d give his right arm to be stuck in a kilt busting heads as a bouncer at a bar…or even stuck in the sterile smelling hallways of a high school where there were at least plenty of girls to serve as distractions from the dullness of algebra and world history.
Instead, he was sitting on a plastic covered couch in a beige blazer with a doily slipping off the slick surface to take up residence on his shoulder.
Dean Winchester didn’t do doilies.
But Adam Doce did and complimented them to their fullest.
“Really…lovely, Mrs. Rimke. Now about your daughter Jennifer. I’m really sorry about your loss, but do you have any idea what might have happened?”
The older woman with the touch of gray at her temples sniffled delicately into her lace embroidered handkerchief, her watery eyes focusing on the nice young man sipping tea across from her.
“Not at all, Mr. Doce! My Jennifer was such a good girl! She’d been at the library studying for her Political Science exam…you’ll make sure to mention that she was on the Dean’s list at the university in your magazine, won’t you, Mr. Doce?”
The maid came in with a carefully blank expression, casually refilling Dean’s cup and adding a few more cookies to the tea tray.
“Uh…sure,” Dean said with a stiff smile, momentarily distracted by the arrival of more snacks. “Was she hangin’ out with anybody at the library?”
“No, she was such a dedicated student. Couldn’t work with any distractions…. Juanita! Be more careful! You nearly tipped Mr. Doce’s plate! There are probably crumbs everywhere. You’ll need to vacuum again this afternoon.”
Mrs. Rimke leaned forward and hissed loudly, “Clumsy girl. Don’t know why we keep her around.” Dean gave Juanita an apologetic smile, carefully sweeping any of his stray crumbs onto his empty plate and wishing he’d taken a little more care when eating. The woman, hardly a girl - she had to be near his dad’s age - just tightened her jaw at Mrs. Rimke’s endless laments about her skills and swept up the used glasses, walking stiffly out of the room.
Dean fidgeted with his tie, carefully edging his teacup onto the table, too afraid of spilling to handle it comfortably anymore. “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Rimke. I really appreciate you talking to me about your daughter.”
“No, thank you,” she demurred, grasping his hand pleadingly. “You’ll let everyone know what a good girl my Jennifer was. She didn’t deserve this.” Dean smiled awkwardly, trying to pluck his hand from her tightening grip. “Here! Mr. Doce! Take this with you…for the article. It’s her latest picture.” She shoved a frame into his hands, the picture showing a nineteen-year-old brunette girl smiling widely, her hair neatly clipped back in a barrette and falling in loose curls over her pale blue sweater with a tiny, silver cross glittering teasingly from the hollow of her throat.
Dean extricated himself as best he could, assuring Mrs. Rimke that her daughter’s story would be told – and sometimes that particular lie made him feel like shit – as he made his way hurriedly out the front door, hearing the faint sound of weeping resuming in the living room.
The rumble of trashcans being rolled to the curb drew his attention to Juanita, who trudged her way back towards the kitchen door. She paused, hands on her hips, frowning at him thoughtfully. “You’re not a reporter.”
Dean paused, eyes widening slightly before he smiled easily at her, any hint of concern swept clear as he brashly asked, “Why would you say that, pretty lady? Want to see my ID?”
She arched an eyebrow at him, shaking her head dismissively. “You ask stupid questions…and you don’t write anything down.” Dean winced, remembering the small notepad he’d stuck in his pocket earlier that morning and had forgotten completely about. Sam would be laughing his ass off if he were here right now.
His father wouldn’t.
Dean opened his mouth to reply, having absolutely no idea what he might say when she cut him off, starting towards the kitchen once more. “The old bat doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Jenny wasn’t some Limoge she kept on a shelf. She wasn’t a saint; she was a teenage girl.”
“And she wasn’t at the library,” Dean urged softly, the pieces falling into place.
Juanita shrugged. “You never knew, but probably not. She went to that club several nights a week. Hid a change of clothes and became someone else, at least for a little while.” At Dean’s questioning glance, she smiled sadly. “Who do you think did the laundry around here? I saw.”
She absently wiped at a tear that had crept down her cheek, straightening her shoulders as she turned to go inside. “But she was a good girl.” She hesitated on the doorstep, her hand tightening on the doorframe as she told him briskly over her shoulder, unable to meet his eyes, “You find who did this to her.”
Dean was left standing in the driveway as the door slammed closed behind her, turning to wend his way thoughtfully towards the Impala.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Yeah, all the kids I asked said they were regulars. It’s apparently the only cool place to hang out – not a teen club, but the management doesn’t seem to be picky as long as you’ve got a half-way good ID and cash on hand.” Sam gazed at Dean from his upside down position on the bed, sprawling inelegantly across the rumpled spread as his head dangled precariously over the edge.
Dean kept up with his pacing, carelessly swatting at his brother’s chin when he passed. “You’re gonna get a headache, genius.”
Sam shrugged, not moving from his prone position. “It makes Baywatch more of a mental challenge to watch it this way. Looks like they’re runnin’ on their heads.”
Dean gave his brother a quizzical glance before plopping on the other bed and taking up a similar position. A slow smile crept over Dean’s face as he watched the lifeguards run toward the water. “You’re right, Sammy. I feel…challenged already.”
Sam snorted, throwing an empty CrackerJack box at Dean’s head. “When’s Dad getting home again?”
“Not ‘til after 3:00,” Dean replied, his eyes glued to the TV.
“Wanna go visit him?” Sam asked, his tone lightening with amusement.
“Dad’d be pissed,” Dean replied off-handedly, wetting his lower lip with a quick sweep of his tongue. God, he loved this show.
“But I really miss my Daddy.”
Dean tore his gaze from the TV long enough to arch an eyebrow in his brother’s direction, only to be met with this angelic expression that nearly glowed with innocence.
“He’s not gonna buy that and you know it, Sam.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Like I give a shit. Let’s go. We’ll give him the intel.”
Dean waved his hand in his impatient brother’s direction. “Ten more minutes. Baywatch is almost over.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The second they stepped through the door, a rather scary looking girl with a bright purple fringe draped over one eye stalked up to them, grabbing Sam’s hand with a straightforward, “You finally came. This your brother? Cool,” before dragging Sam off to the dance floor.
Dean didn’t know whether to laugh or to be insulted that he hadn’t been manhandled, yet. He pushed his way through the crowd in an attempt to get to the bar, wondering how this place was so packed in the middle of the week.
Had to be the band. It kicked ass.
Dean made his way to the counter, bobbing his head in time to the music, turning to watch the guitar player break out into an awesome solo when a hand clamped around the back of his neck.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Dean,” John growled loudly in his ear. “You’re supposed to be watching Sam.”
Dean hunched at the harsh tone in his father’s voice, as well as from the embarrassing fact he’d just been caught unawares. “Not a problem, Sir. Sam’s out losin’ his virginity on the dance floor.” Dean stood at attention when he remembered why they had come, snapping out briskly, “Came to tell you that all the victims hung out here – seems to be the only connection. You find out anything?”
“EMF showed nothing, so far….but I did find out I like this band,” John replied with a small smile. “Shocked the shit out of me.” A quick smirk flashed over Dean’s face and studied the toes of his boots for a second to hide it. John arched an eyebrow in Dean’s direction as he poured a beer for a customer, his black painted nails still startling Dean when he saw them shadowed against the amber liquid filling the glass. “Glad to see we got some use outta that skirt,” John said with a barely hidden grin.
Dean shuffled in his biker’s boots a little self-consciously, rubbing his damp palms over the blue plaid kilt that bared his muscular calves to the world.
Dean Winchester didn’t do shorts, but he rocked the hell out of a kilt.
With that reassuring thought, Dean straightened his shoulders, giving his father a cocky grin. Dean reached a hand up to rub it the length of his fauxhawk, his short hair forced into a semi-straight line and standing at attention. “Like my new look?” Dean held out a leather-cuffed wrist, the silver studs gleaming in the strobing lights of the bar, his kohl-smudged eyes twinkling with mischief. “We’re like twins!”
John rolled his eyes and replied dryly, “Just what I always wanted.” A flash of concern swept over his features as he took in Dean’s tight blank tank top. “You cold? I got a jacket in the back.”
Dean gave his father a what-the-fuck expression. “How about a beer instead?”
“How about a water?” John replied. “You’re working.” He passed Dean a bottle of water, which Dean took with a muffled sigh of resignation.
“What’re you doin’ behind the bar? Thought you were the bouncer?” Dean asked curiously, playing with the plastic cap on his drink.
“I am – I fill in here during my break.” John flashed him a grin. “This is where I get all the good tips.”
Dean nodded in understanding. “So that’s where all the ones come from. I didn’t know how to tell Sammy that our father was a stripper.”
“There was that one time in….” John blinked, suddenly recalling who he was talking to and he cuffed a cackling Dean on the back of the head. “I was hunting an in-….” Noting the red flush stealing over Dean’s cheeks as he manfully tried to not outright laugh in his father’s face, John realized this was not something that needed explaining to his eldest son. Instead, John jerked his chin in the direction of the dance floor. “Keep an eye on your brother.”
Dean saluted smartly and made his way into the press of bodies writhing rhythmically around the floor.
Sam wasn’t that hard to find; the lanky kid was practically the tallest one in there, and Dean could see his spiked head bobbing up and down as he and his girlfriend bounced like kangaroos around the dance floor. Despite having added both muscle and height since that experiment at the end of freshman year, this look still suited Sam. He may not be Jack Skellington reincarnated anymore – more like a Billy Idol – but it still looked natural on him. His little brother had a God-damned chameleon-like gift for blending…if he chose to.
It was getting the stubborn pain-in-the-ass to agree to it that was more often the problem. Sam was downright contentious these days, refusing to listen to John…and more and more often lately, even Dean.
Dean reached through the throng, grabbing hold of the flapping suspenders hanging around Sam’s waist, nearly blinded by the tight red plaid pants his brother had decided to wear tonight. In half a breath, Sam’s elbow was against his Adam’s apple, his foot tangled behind Dean’s, ready to throw down.
“Dean!” Sam exclaimed excitedly, removing his elbow and foot and bouncing once more. “Gonna dance?” Dean just tugged harder on the suspenders, letting go so the elastic snapped back to slap Sam’s ass sharply. Sam nearly tripped over the loose laces in his over-sized black Converse sneakers, rubbing at his sore hip as Dean grabbed Sam’s loose, wide-striped tie, pulling it like a leash to lead Sam off the dance floor and leaving a very pissed-off purple-haired girl behind.
“Dean,” Sam growled, yanking his tie out of his brother’s hand. Sam paused long enough to straighten his sleeveless black shirt before wiping at the sweat working its way down his throat and pooling at the edge of the spiked collar he was sporting, the black smudged around his eyes smearing slightly from the sweat. Dean was distracted momentarily by the jelly bracelets sliding up and down his brother’s arms, wondering where in the hell Sam had managed to gather so many of those in such a short amount of time. Dean could have sworn he only came in with five.
“What the fuck was that for?” Sam demanded, his brows furrowed in anger.
“Cool it, Sammy. I talked to Dad, told him our news. Now let’s check the place out – maybe he missed somethin’.”
Sam grabbed Dean’s water out of his hand, chugging half of it before shoving it back at Dean. “Keep it,” Dean suggested, holding his hands up in protest. “You just got Sam spit all over it.”
“I already found out that the reason people keep comin’ back is the band. Not bad, are they?” Sam shook his head, a reflex to get his shaggy hair out of his eyes, before he realized it was all spiked up and pointing towards the heavens. “Lorri said they used to suck hard, but then they got really good. Got some music producers comin’ to look at them next week.”
Dean arched an eyebrow with interest, more about the girl than the band. “Lorri, is it? Need me to be absent from the room anytime this week, Sam?”
Sam flushed, slapping Dean on the chest with the back of his hand. “Shut up, Dean.”
Dean chuckled, winking slyly at his little bother. “Just let me know. Sock on the door or somethin’.” Noting Sam’s increasingly pissed expression, Dean detoured into work discussion. “Let’s go check out the band, Sammy.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When they got closer to the stage, Dean was more interested in checking out the gorgeous green woman swaying sinuously to the beat right in front of the stage – and by green, he meant her bright spring green eyes which had to be contacts (after all, he’d seen purple, cat’s eyes and what looked like smiley faces just on his way over here) and her equally green hair. Sliding up behind her, Dean tugged on a curling lock that draped over her shoulder and murmured loudly in her ear, “You a swimmer?”
Dean laughed at his own joke and she ignored him, her attention focused on the lead singer as he shouted about women, beer, and bangin’ all night long. Dean was mesmerized by the graceful way she moved, all heat and energy, practically making his skin buzz with the sensation. He watched as she tilted her head back, her hair trailing tantalizingly down her spine as she drank her bottled water hungrily, the slim column of her throat an almost irresistible temptation that made Dean lick his lips. Sam just grinned, not bothering to hide his amusement.
“Dude,” came a laughing voice from behind him as the band suddenly cut off, the green woman leaping onto the stage to wrap herself around the lead singer like a vine. “Give it up. She’s so his!” Dean had to agree as he watched her open her mouth to him, drinking him in as she had just finished off her water only moments before.
“I can see that,” Dean grumbled, turning to the man behind him with Sam’s laughter ringing nearby.
Dean blindly swatted at Sam somewhere to his left, gloating quietly when he heard the slight, “Ow, you stupid jerk!” and the retaliatory punch on his shoulder blade.
“Don’t feel bad,” the man said, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Many a man has thrown himself at her feet, but she’s not into anyone but him. Tank’s muse is off-limits.”
Sam cast another sideways glance at the couple still making out behind the stage curtains. “She got a name?”
The guy shrugged carelessly, watching as the band singer grabbed her by the hand and pulled her towards the stairs, making sure to shove another bottle of water into her hand. “Muse…that’s what he calls her. Not even sure Tank gives a shit what her real name is.” He threw Dean a lop-sided grin. “But it’s Mandy, if you’re really interested.”
“The band guy…Tank…has that and he doesn’t care?” Dean asked incredulously.
“Tank’s an asshole. Got women crawling all over him now that he’s gonna hit it big.” The guy nodded his head in the bar’s direction, asking conversationally, “Wanna get a beer? I’ll introduce you two to the man himself.”
Dean nodded in agreement, deciding they might get more information out of this guy as well as a free drink. What could be better?
The young man led them through the press of bodies that had somehow materialized around the band members, taking them right up to the burly platinum blonde man named holding court by the bar. “Hey, Tank!” he called out jovially. “Already sent Mandy into seclusion?”
Tank smirked around the cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. “You know it, Pete. The ladies can’t show their appreciation properly with her doom and gloomin’ the mood.” He ran a hand over a girl’s back as she leaned in, pressing a small slip of paper into the pocket of his jeans, her hand lingering a touch longer than appropriate before melting back into the crowd.
“Want you to meet some friends of mine,” Pete began. “They like what you do.”
“Likes my muse, you mean,” Tank rumbled, blowing a puff of smoke over Dean’s head as he reluctantly pulled his gaze away from where the girl had disappeared, completely ignoring Sam. “Saw you slobberin’ over her at the end of the set. Totally understandable, mate. But hands off; she’s mine. Need her for inspiration – couldn’t write a decent song without her.” Tank flashed Dean a predatory grin. “Let me get you a beer; keep you warm when you’re alone tonight.”
Tank gestured broadly at the nearest bartender, and Sam tried to subtly duck behind Tank’s broad back when he saw it was John. “Four on the house for my mates here, Bartie.”
Despite Sam’s earnest efforts to blend, John’s eyes immediately flicked to his son trying to look nonchalant as Tank put in his order. John stared steadily at Sam as he passed him his beer, a slight shake of his head indicating his displeasure at his 16-year-old drinking on a school night. John passed the other glasses across the bar, his gaze meeting Dean’s for a moment before John blinked slowly, Dean nodding in understanding as John turned to his next customer.
“Your band rocks, man,” Dean said with a broad smile. “I hear you’re pretty regular here.”
Sam frowned petulantly at John’s back before taking a lengthy swig of his drink. Dean narrowed his eyes in Sam’s direction, his brother pointedly ignoring the rebuke before Dean covertly stomped on his foot, making Sam spill his drink across the scarred wood floor of the bar. “My little brother can’t handle his beer. One drink and he’s….” Dean waved his hand absently.
Tank puffed another smoke ring in Dean’s direction. “I live upstairs, man. This place owns me until I hit it big.”
Dean arched an eyebrow curiously. “You live here? Ever see anything…strange? These places always seem to have weird stories attached to ‘em.”
Sam’s hand snaked under Dean’s outstretched elbow, grabbing the bottle out of Dean’s grasp and disappearing again before Dean even knew his brother had slipped up behind him.
Dean briefly debated killing his brother on the spot or saving retaliation until Sam was sleeping. Covert retribution won out; they were on a job, after all.
Tank paused, giving him a funny look. “No walkin’ bed sheets on my watch…unless it’s a lady friend actin’ all coy.” Tank guffawed loosely in amusement, another young woman worming her way through the press around them to run a hand over Tank’s chest, leaning in to whisper something in his ear that seemed to arouse his interest.
“Later, babe,” Tank replied. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning, OK?” The woman planted a heated kiss on his mouth, practically eating his face as Dean signaled for another beer.
He got a water instead. Fuck, when was his dad’s break over?
“I take it you and Mandy aren’t exclusive?” Dean asked with carefully pointed interest.
Tank snorted, giving Dean a warning glare before replying, “What she doesn’t know doesn’t hurt me, got it? And hands off my muse; thought I made that clear.” Tank’s face suddenly smoothed over, and he purred softly, “Hey, babe, thought you were gonna wait upstairs for me.”
Tank leaned forward and, momentarily startled, Dean thought he might be the recipient of Tank’s sudden affection when the green-haired woman pushed her way past him and melted into Tank’s embrace. “I needed to see you. I was feeling so…tired.”
Dean noted her strange listlessness as she draped herself against Tank’s chest, the insatiable energy he’d felt when around her before seemingly gone.
“I’ll make you feel better, babe,” Tank murmured soothingly as he rubbed his hand along her bare back. “Tank’ll take care of ya.”
She leaned more heavily against him as if she were trying to merge her flesh with his. As Tank’s lips brushed over her skin, her cheeks flushed with a rosy tint and the sparkle leeched back into her eyes.
Her gaze swept to Dean, who was watching her with avid interest. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip as she focused more fully on him.
“Do you sing?” she asked with mild interest.
“Only in the shower. You’re welcome to….”
“No, babe,” Tank growled. “He’s just a fan-boy.”
Her eyes flitted back up to meet Tank’s displeased expression and she murmured almost apologetically, “But he feels….”
Tank interrupted her brusquely. “He’s a nobody. Let’s go.” At that, he pulled at her arm and disappeared into the crowd.
(Part 2 - http://zannes.livejournal.com/25807.html)
The loud pounding of the bass-line reverberated down the alley of lichen-covered bricks gleaming with the dampness of early morning. The sound was magnified for a moment before the door swung closed with a soft thunk, cloaking the garbage strewn alley in the unsettling cessation of sound.
All she could hear was the low throb of her pulse pounding in her ears, the utter absence of noise making her briefly wonder if she really had gone deaf. Her skin prickled uneasily as she looked up and down the darkened corridor.
Something moved slightly off to her left, not that she saw or heard anything; it was just the sensation of movement that made her turn, calling out with the overly exaggerated tones of someone who had just listened to too much loud music for far too long, “Not funny, you bastard. Get your ass….”
Her kohl-smudged eyes widened and her mouth fell open, the pink of her tongue making her blood-dark lipstick seem nearly black as she fell back against the bricks, her skin paling to the color she’d always desired and tried so hard to achieve with layers of powder and paint.
The last she thing heard was her own screams.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Impala pulled smoothly into the parking lot of the small motel, the uneven gravel barely stirring the slumbering occupants in the vehicle. John warily surveyed the nearly empty lot, momentarily uncertain if he should awaken his boys before checking in. After glancing across the front seat at Dean’s slack face, his young features already lined with exhaustion and the faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes that indicated too many sleepless nights, John decided to delay waking them for a few more minutes. If the startling appearance of age on Dean’s face perturbed John, it was even more disturbing on the sixteen-year-old asleep in the back.
No one that young should look so…used up.
John shook off the all too familiar feeling of guilt that dared to brush the back of his brain at these unprotected moments when he was unprepared to stand firm in the face of his doubts. He – they - didn’t have time for this.
People were dying.
Some things had to take precedence over a few nights of lost sleep. John had raised his boys well enough to know that much.
With a resigned sigh, John softly closed the car door behind him, roughly sketching a protective rune in the condensation collected along the window’s edge. He quickly made his way inside to check in before the doubt at leaving his boys in a barely protected vehicle where anything could find them kept him from leaving them at all.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The next morning, after grabbing a quick bite at the diner down the road, John hustled them back to the motel room for a family meeting.
“Sam, you still got any of that Goth crap you wore a couple years ago?” John asked, starting to dig through a duffel. The aimless digging was more of a surprise than the actual question since John knew the precise location of everything in his bag as if a map had been burned into his brain. Then Sam realized the aimlessness was due to the fact that it was Sam’s bag their dad was rooting through, carelessly tossing items across the bed as he searched for whatever it was that eluded him.
Sam yanked the bag out of his father’s hands with a frown, trying to fold his clothes back into some kind of order before replacing them. “It was more Punk than Goth, Dad, and no. If you haven’t noticed, I’ve grown since then.”
Dean disguised a snicker as a cough, the innocent phrase “grown since then” hardly covering Sam’s surprising burst of height that made him, as Dean put it, the obviously unwanted off-spring of a Sasquatch and a Sequoia - with a face like a bulldog’s ass, to boot.
Sam would just tower over Dean, smirking innocently, and reply in that annoying Sammy deadpan that Dean was just jealous because Sam wasn’t the little brother anymore – and with Sam staring down at Dean’s scalp, Dean knew just what kind of little Sam was referring to.
Bitch.
John cursed under his breath, realizing this meant spending some cash to get what they wanted. “We’ll drop by the thrift store and see if there’s a Salvation Army or somethin’ in town,” John ordered gruffly as he slipped his coat back on, “before we register you at the high school.”
“What?” Sam asked in surprise, distracted from playing tug-of-war with Dean over one of his socks at the mention of school. “School’s almost over! We’re not even staying here that long!”
“No, we’re not,” John agreed, straightening his collar and then checking the gun stuck in the back of his belt.
“Then why are we bothering to register when it’ll only be a few days and why do we need those clothes?”
John huffed impatiently, wondering what possessed his youngest son to ask so many questions when he knew there was a job to do. “You remember the murders that brought us here?” The boys nodded automatically, Dean standing straighter at the mention of business. “Last one happened at a local club catering to that type of clientele. A couple of the previous victims were also a part of that group.”
“But the other two were average,” Dean interrupted. “No ties to anything like that.”
“Not as far as we know, but two went to the high school and were…that’s where Sam comes in.” John tuned to face him. “You’re goin’ in undercover, so to speak. Find out what you can.”
“You don’t even know if that’s the common thread!” Sam stated in disbelief.
John shrugged indifferently. “Dean can cover the norms this time. I’m gonna try to get a job at the club since I’m the only one old enough to officially drink. Besides, it seems to be the epicenter of all the murders, so it’s as good a place to start as any.”
“We got fake IDs,” Dean reminded him, looking insulted at the mere year’s difference between being legal and still being considered underage.
“That’ll get you in, but it wouldn’t get you a job.”
Dean glanced over at his brother for back-up – working at a bar sounded much more fun than interviewing anybody – when he saw the wide smile nearly splitting Sam’s face in two. “You’re going to try to get a job at a punk club,” Sam stated incredulously.
John shrugged, nodding with his hand still on the door and ready to go. Sam’s smile got impossibly bigger. “You realize that means you’ll have to go undercover, too.”
Dean finally understood what Sam was getting at and a similar smile broke over his own face as he turned to study John, his gaze sliding critically from his father’s tousled black hair to his scuffed-up workman’s boots. “Hey, Sammy, you still know how to work that Maybelline?”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“No,” John stated plainly, his eyes flat.
Sam huffed a breath, having prepared for a little more overt resistance from John rather than this bland refusal. Reasoning didn’t work against a flat out no.
Dean opened his mouth to convince his father it was necessary and John just arched a silent eyebrow in his direction, making Dean’s mouth snap closed with an audible clacking of teeth. That just made Sam’s brow furrow into the all too familiar parental debate mode – which, to be honest, was just a fancy way of saying argumentative – where he and John would be stuck discussing the issue at ever increasing volume for far longer than either of them wished to spend on anything of such little importance.
They had once spent an embarrassing half-hour loudly disagreeing about toothpaste in a nearly abandoned Walgreen’s at 3:00 in the morning.
“I see I need to make myself more clear.” John turned the full weight of his gaze on the offending piece of material and stated emphatically, “Fuck no.”
Dean allowed his grin to crawl across his face, barely able to conceal his amusement. "C'mon Dad, wearing a kilt doesn’t make you a girl."
A flash of discomfort managed to work its way over John’s face before the familiar placid lines fell back into place and he crossed his arms almost stubbornly over his broad chest.
“It’s not a threat to your masculinity, Dad,” Sam teased with a hint of reprobation. “It’s not like guys will come up to you and beg to make out because they can’t resist the mysterious older man in the kilt.”
“I agreed to the eyeliner, OK? But I’m drawin’ the line at a skirt.” John fidgeted uncomfortably, his head ducking down for a moment as he muttered, “Your moth-….” His explanation cut off with a dry swallow and his hands tightened unconsciously under the overhang of his elbows. “It's just...um...I don't like my knees."
Both Sam’s and Dean’s gazes fell to their father’s denim-clad legs, and Dean furrowed his brow in concentration trying to remember any injury that might have made his father unwilling to bare his skin. As if feeling the weight of their eyes on his legs, John plopped down in a chair by the small table in the corner, concealing his limbs underneath the dark overhang away from his sons’ prying stares.
When his eyes met the firm gaze of his father once more, Dean conceded the point, shutting Sam up with a quick swat to the chest. “We’ll keep the kilt in reserve. One of us can use it when we’re backin’ up, Dad.”
Sam shrugged, falling back on the bed and sprawling out with his hands tucked under his head, a smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “Sure thing, Dean. After all, my knees are pretty.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Keep still, Dad,” Dean ordered, planting a hand firmly on John’s head to keep him from twitching. “Either I’m gonna end up slashing your throat with the straight razor or Sam’s gonna poke your eye out.”
Sam gave Dean a dubious glare, stepping back when Dean’s elbow nearly caught him on his cheekbone again. “I’ll wait my turn. I don’t want to clean up the arterial spray that will result if you slit Dad’s carotid.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” John said dryly, wincing a little as Dean approached him once more with the bared blade. “Tell me again why I can’t be doing this myself?”
Dean bit his bottom lip in concentration as he cleared away another patch along his father’s cheek. “‘Cause, Dad…when it comes to shaving, all you know is stubble or more stubble – if you’re feeling inventive, maybe an almost beard. If you’re goin’ undercover you need some actual style to your look.”
“You’re not gonna make me look like that Luke Perry, are ya?” John asked with mild concern.
“Who?” Dean asked in confusion, while Sam snorted in amusement.
With a final sweep of the blade, Dean stepped back with a satisfied expression, smiling with pride at his impatient little brother. Sam’s eyes widened in surprise and a low whistle erupted from him. “God-damn, Dean. You’re a frickin’ artist.”
“Your turn, little bro,” Dean said with a poke of his elbow into Sam’s ribs. “Make Daddy pretty for his job interview.”
John frowned over Sam’s shoulder at the gleeful Dean as Sam hunched over with a cork in one hand and Dean’s lighter in the other. After quickly burning the end of the cork, Sam ordered, “Eyes up, Dad. Don’t blink.”
The non-blinking was easier said than done. “Why didn’t you buy any of this shit at the store?” John grumbled testily.
“Because,” Sam said, holding his breath as he tried to even out the lines, “that store shit, as you so elegantly put it, cost $10 a tube. That means we’re goin’ for cheap.”
John did his best to ignore the large thing nearly poking him in the eye, the faint smell of ash causing a surge of discomfort to suddenly swell inside him. He quelled it with a firm straightening of his shoulders, closing his eyes when Sam indicated he should, the feel of his son’s blunt fingers ghosting over his lids making him feel somehow too vulnerable, unable to keep a watch on his surroundings.
“Keep your eyes closed,” Dean commanded, and the sudden scent of hair gel came to John’s nose as Dean worked his fingers through his hair. “We’re goin’ old-school with you, Dad. You’re obviously…older, so we figure you’d be classic punk rather than any of this new wave shit that’s goin’ around.”
With an inward sigh, John could tell where this was going as Dean tugged on his hair, the definite sensation of up rather than down alerting John that he’d be at least an inch or two taller when he opened his eyes. “Which also means you might get away with wearin’ my jeans rather than what we originally picked out for you.”
John shifted uncomfortably, the snug fit of Dean’s jeans making him almost wish he’d picked the kilt. Besides, the holes in the denim nearly bared his knees anyway – might as well have worn the skirt so he wouldn’t feel so…pinched.
“How in the hell do you fit your ass in these pants anyhow, Dean?” John asked, the cranky tone alerting his sons that he wasn’t up for much more teasing.
“Easy, Dad,” Dean replied, his voice fading a little as he stepped back. “My ass is younger and more appealing.” John opened one eye to give his grinning son a death glare before Dean tried to conceal his glee and said in a more solemn tone. “Done. Turn around.”
Sam didn’t even bother to try to hide his expression and John could see why once he turned to look at the final effect in the mirror.
He looked like an idiot.
Saving the worst for last, John began at his feet. He felt reassured when he saw his familiar black workman’s boots peeking from under the hem of the pale, bleach-stained jeans he was currently wearing. The bleach stains were relatively new, but the holes were not. He had one at each knee and a few rips near places he felt should be left well-covered. When John had complained about feeling overly ventilated, Sam had added several safety pins to the edges of the torn fabric so now John felt both breezy and in danger of accidental spearing all at once.
The worst thing about borrowing a pair of Dean’s jeans had to be the fit. His son was right, John’s ancient ass did not fit comfortably into these pants. John felt practically naked with the way the fabric clung to his thighs, accenting areas better left to the imagination.
John allowed his gaze to slide past the black belt with the skull-shaped silver buckle Sam had dredged up from somewhere – John definitely remembered that from Sam’s freshman experiment – to his tight, black sleeveless T-shirt leaving his muscular arms bared to the world.
John preened inwardly at that, feeling a tiny surge of pride that hunting had kept him in relatively good shape so far, turning slightly to study the cross tattoo darkening his right shoulder and the sun tattoo on his left. Sam had found some kind of cheap henna kit at a store downtown and the results had turned out surprisingly well. Instructions said they’d last about a week, which should be as long as he’d need them, he hoped. The black leather studded bands around his wrists made John feel a bit like he was supposed to be wearing a leash, but they weren’t too bad.
Skimming past the bicycle chain necklace nearly garroting him with its double loop around his throat, John finally took a deep breath to see the end result of the last half hour’s endeavors on his head.
John had to blink twice before realizing that was actually him in the mirror. His usually unruly hair – he didn’t really give a fuck what it looked like on an average day as long as it was out of his way – was standing nearly upright from all the gel Dean had slathered on, so rather than lying flat, it was looking as if he’d just had the shit scared out of him.
Great.
His nearly trademark unkempt stubble, which had been growing in rather nicely to an almost beard-like state recently, had been trimmed like some sort of topiary, leaving a very straight edged goatee around his mouth and large, almost triangular sideburns slashing their way across his cheeks. He just thanked God that the sideburns didn’t meet with his moustache – that he would have had to rectify the moment he saw it.
But those eyes…they didn’t belong to John. Those were Dean’s eyes staring out at him from the mirror. The burnt cork eyeliner had made John’s usual deep hazel eyes take on a lighter tone, as if in defiance of the surrounding blackness of the soot lining his lids, as well as the darkness of his hair and shirt. Sam’s thin fingers had smudged the line enough so that it seemed as if these stranger’s eyes were burning through a faint fog, some kind of incandescent color like the will-o’-the-wisps they had trailed in Louisiana.
It wasn’t John, but it was definitely a guy who might be hired at the Pied Piker.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
So while John and Sam were prowling the streets – or the high school, in Sam’s case – fitted out and having fun, Dean was stuck trying to interview bereaved family members and friends.
Which meant suits…and ties…and tight shoes.
He’d give his right arm to be stuck in a kilt busting heads as a bouncer at a bar…or even stuck in the sterile smelling hallways of a high school where there were at least plenty of girls to serve as distractions from the dullness of algebra and world history.
Instead, he was sitting on a plastic covered couch in a beige blazer with a doily slipping off the slick surface to take up residence on his shoulder.
Dean Winchester didn’t do doilies.
But Adam Doce did and complimented them to their fullest.
“Really…lovely, Mrs. Rimke. Now about your daughter Jennifer. I’m really sorry about your loss, but do you have any idea what might have happened?”
The older woman with the touch of gray at her temples sniffled delicately into her lace embroidered handkerchief, her watery eyes focusing on the nice young man sipping tea across from her.
“Not at all, Mr. Doce! My Jennifer was such a good girl! She’d been at the library studying for her Political Science exam…you’ll make sure to mention that she was on the Dean’s list at the university in your magazine, won’t you, Mr. Doce?”
The maid came in with a carefully blank expression, casually refilling Dean’s cup and adding a few more cookies to the tea tray.
“Uh…sure,” Dean said with a stiff smile, momentarily distracted by the arrival of more snacks. “Was she hangin’ out with anybody at the library?”
“No, she was such a dedicated student. Couldn’t work with any distractions…. Juanita! Be more careful! You nearly tipped Mr. Doce’s plate! There are probably crumbs everywhere. You’ll need to vacuum again this afternoon.”
Mrs. Rimke leaned forward and hissed loudly, “Clumsy girl. Don’t know why we keep her around.” Dean gave Juanita an apologetic smile, carefully sweeping any of his stray crumbs onto his empty plate and wishing he’d taken a little more care when eating. The woman, hardly a girl - she had to be near his dad’s age - just tightened her jaw at Mrs. Rimke’s endless laments about her skills and swept up the used glasses, walking stiffly out of the room.
Dean fidgeted with his tie, carefully edging his teacup onto the table, too afraid of spilling to handle it comfortably anymore. “Thanks for your time, Mrs. Rimke. I really appreciate you talking to me about your daughter.”
“No, thank you,” she demurred, grasping his hand pleadingly. “You’ll let everyone know what a good girl my Jennifer was. She didn’t deserve this.” Dean smiled awkwardly, trying to pluck his hand from her tightening grip. “Here! Mr. Doce! Take this with you…for the article. It’s her latest picture.” She shoved a frame into his hands, the picture showing a nineteen-year-old brunette girl smiling widely, her hair neatly clipped back in a barrette and falling in loose curls over her pale blue sweater with a tiny, silver cross glittering teasingly from the hollow of her throat.
Dean extricated himself as best he could, assuring Mrs. Rimke that her daughter’s story would be told – and sometimes that particular lie made him feel like shit – as he made his way hurriedly out the front door, hearing the faint sound of weeping resuming in the living room.
The rumble of trashcans being rolled to the curb drew his attention to Juanita, who trudged her way back towards the kitchen door. She paused, hands on her hips, frowning at him thoughtfully. “You’re not a reporter.”
Dean paused, eyes widening slightly before he smiled easily at her, any hint of concern swept clear as he brashly asked, “Why would you say that, pretty lady? Want to see my ID?”
She arched an eyebrow at him, shaking her head dismissively. “You ask stupid questions…and you don’t write anything down.” Dean winced, remembering the small notepad he’d stuck in his pocket earlier that morning and had forgotten completely about. Sam would be laughing his ass off if he were here right now.
His father wouldn’t.
Dean opened his mouth to reply, having absolutely no idea what he might say when she cut him off, starting towards the kitchen once more. “The old bat doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Jenny wasn’t some Limoge she kept on a shelf. She wasn’t a saint; she was a teenage girl.”
“And she wasn’t at the library,” Dean urged softly, the pieces falling into place.
Juanita shrugged. “You never knew, but probably not. She went to that club several nights a week. Hid a change of clothes and became someone else, at least for a little while.” At Dean’s questioning glance, she smiled sadly. “Who do you think did the laundry around here? I saw.”
She absently wiped at a tear that had crept down her cheek, straightening her shoulders as she turned to go inside. “But she was a good girl.” She hesitated on the doorstep, her hand tightening on the doorframe as she told him briskly over her shoulder, unable to meet his eyes, “You find who did this to her.”
Dean was left standing in the driveway as the door slammed closed behind her, turning to wend his way thoughtfully towards the Impala.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“Yeah, all the kids I asked said they were regulars. It’s apparently the only cool place to hang out – not a teen club, but the management doesn’t seem to be picky as long as you’ve got a half-way good ID and cash on hand.” Sam gazed at Dean from his upside down position on the bed, sprawling inelegantly across the rumpled spread as his head dangled precariously over the edge.
Dean kept up with his pacing, carelessly swatting at his brother’s chin when he passed. “You’re gonna get a headache, genius.”
Sam shrugged, not moving from his prone position. “It makes Baywatch more of a mental challenge to watch it this way. Looks like they’re runnin’ on their heads.”
Dean gave his brother a quizzical glance before plopping on the other bed and taking up a similar position. A slow smile crept over Dean’s face as he watched the lifeguards run toward the water. “You’re right, Sammy. I feel…challenged already.”
Sam snorted, throwing an empty CrackerJack box at Dean’s head. “When’s Dad getting home again?”
“Not ‘til after 3:00,” Dean replied, his eyes glued to the TV.
“Wanna go visit him?” Sam asked, his tone lightening with amusement.
“Dad’d be pissed,” Dean replied off-handedly, wetting his lower lip with a quick sweep of his tongue. God, he loved this show.
“But I really miss my Daddy.”
Dean tore his gaze from the TV long enough to arch an eyebrow in his brother’s direction, only to be met with this angelic expression that nearly glowed with innocence.
“He’s not gonna buy that and you know it, Sam.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Like I give a shit. Let’s go. We’ll give him the intel.”
Dean waved his hand in his impatient brother’s direction. “Ten more minutes. Baywatch is almost over.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The second they stepped through the door, a rather scary looking girl with a bright purple fringe draped over one eye stalked up to them, grabbing Sam’s hand with a straightforward, “You finally came. This your brother? Cool,” before dragging Sam off to the dance floor.
Dean didn’t know whether to laugh or to be insulted that he hadn’t been manhandled, yet. He pushed his way through the crowd in an attempt to get to the bar, wondering how this place was so packed in the middle of the week.
Had to be the band. It kicked ass.
Dean made his way to the counter, bobbing his head in time to the music, turning to watch the guitar player break out into an awesome solo when a hand clamped around the back of his neck.
“What the fuck are you doing here, Dean,” John growled loudly in his ear. “You’re supposed to be watching Sam.”
Dean hunched at the harsh tone in his father’s voice, as well as from the embarrassing fact he’d just been caught unawares. “Not a problem, Sir. Sam’s out losin’ his virginity on the dance floor.” Dean stood at attention when he remembered why they had come, snapping out briskly, “Came to tell you that all the victims hung out here – seems to be the only connection. You find out anything?”
“EMF showed nothing, so far….but I did find out I like this band,” John replied with a small smile. “Shocked the shit out of me.” A quick smirk flashed over Dean’s face and studied the toes of his boots for a second to hide it. John arched an eyebrow in Dean’s direction as he poured a beer for a customer, his black painted nails still startling Dean when he saw them shadowed against the amber liquid filling the glass. “Glad to see we got some use outta that skirt,” John said with a barely hidden grin.
Dean shuffled in his biker’s boots a little self-consciously, rubbing his damp palms over the blue plaid kilt that bared his muscular calves to the world.
Dean Winchester didn’t do shorts, but he rocked the hell out of a kilt.
With that reassuring thought, Dean straightened his shoulders, giving his father a cocky grin. Dean reached a hand up to rub it the length of his fauxhawk, his short hair forced into a semi-straight line and standing at attention. “Like my new look?” Dean held out a leather-cuffed wrist, the silver studs gleaming in the strobing lights of the bar, his kohl-smudged eyes twinkling with mischief. “We’re like twins!”
John rolled his eyes and replied dryly, “Just what I always wanted.” A flash of concern swept over his features as he took in Dean’s tight blank tank top. “You cold? I got a jacket in the back.”
Dean gave his father a what-the-fuck expression. “How about a beer instead?”
“How about a water?” John replied. “You’re working.” He passed Dean a bottle of water, which Dean took with a muffled sigh of resignation.
“What’re you doin’ behind the bar? Thought you were the bouncer?” Dean asked curiously, playing with the plastic cap on his drink.
“I am – I fill in here during my break.” John flashed him a grin. “This is where I get all the good tips.”
Dean nodded in understanding. “So that’s where all the ones come from. I didn’t know how to tell Sammy that our father was a stripper.”
“There was that one time in….” John blinked, suddenly recalling who he was talking to and he cuffed a cackling Dean on the back of the head. “I was hunting an in-….” Noting the red flush stealing over Dean’s cheeks as he manfully tried to not outright laugh in his father’s face, John realized this was not something that needed explaining to his eldest son. Instead, John jerked his chin in the direction of the dance floor. “Keep an eye on your brother.”
Dean saluted smartly and made his way into the press of bodies writhing rhythmically around the floor.
Sam wasn’t that hard to find; the lanky kid was practically the tallest one in there, and Dean could see his spiked head bobbing up and down as he and his girlfriend bounced like kangaroos around the dance floor. Despite having added both muscle and height since that experiment at the end of freshman year, this look still suited Sam. He may not be Jack Skellington reincarnated anymore – more like a Billy Idol – but it still looked natural on him. His little brother had a God-damned chameleon-like gift for blending…if he chose to.
It was getting the stubborn pain-in-the-ass to agree to it that was more often the problem. Sam was downright contentious these days, refusing to listen to John…and more and more often lately, even Dean.
Dean reached through the throng, grabbing hold of the flapping suspenders hanging around Sam’s waist, nearly blinded by the tight red plaid pants his brother had decided to wear tonight. In half a breath, Sam’s elbow was against his Adam’s apple, his foot tangled behind Dean’s, ready to throw down.
“Dean!” Sam exclaimed excitedly, removing his elbow and foot and bouncing once more. “Gonna dance?” Dean just tugged harder on the suspenders, letting go so the elastic snapped back to slap Sam’s ass sharply. Sam nearly tripped over the loose laces in his over-sized black Converse sneakers, rubbing at his sore hip as Dean grabbed Sam’s loose, wide-striped tie, pulling it like a leash to lead Sam off the dance floor and leaving a very pissed-off purple-haired girl behind.
“Dean,” Sam growled, yanking his tie out of his brother’s hand. Sam paused long enough to straighten his sleeveless black shirt before wiping at the sweat working its way down his throat and pooling at the edge of the spiked collar he was sporting, the black smudged around his eyes smearing slightly from the sweat. Dean was distracted momentarily by the jelly bracelets sliding up and down his brother’s arms, wondering where in the hell Sam had managed to gather so many of those in such a short amount of time. Dean could have sworn he only came in with five.
“What the fuck was that for?” Sam demanded, his brows furrowed in anger.
“Cool it, Sammy. I talked to Dad, told him our news. Now let’s check the place out – maybe he missed somethin’.”
Sam grabbed Dean’s water out of his hand, chugging half of it before shoving it back at Dean. “Keep it,” Dean suggested, holding his hands up in protest. “You just got Sam spit all over it.”
“I already found out that the reason people keep comin’ back is the band. Not bad, are they?” Sam shook his head, a reflex to get his shaggy hair out of his eyes, before he realized it was all spiked up and pointing towards the heavens. “Lorri said they used to suck hard, but then they got really good. Got some music producers comin’ to look at them next week.”
Dean arched an eyebrow with interest, more about the girl than the band. “Lorri, is it? Need me to be absent from the room anytime this week, Sam?”
Sam flushed, slapping Dean on the chest with the back of his hand. “Shut up, Dean.”
Dean chuckled, winking slyly at his little bother. “Just let me know. Sock on the door or somethin’.” Noting Sam’s increasingly pissed expression, Dean detoured into work discussion. “Let’s go check out the band, Sammy.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
When they got closer to the stage, Dean was more interested in checking out the gorgeous green woman swaying sinuously to the beat right in front of the stage – and by green, he meant her bright spring green eyes which had to be contacts (after all, he’d seen purple, cat’s eyes and what looked like smiley faces just on his way over here) and her equally green hair. Sliding up behind her, Dean tugged on a curling lock that draped over her shoulder and murmured loudly in her ear, “You a swimmer?”
Dean laughed at his own joke and she ignored him, her attention focused on the lead singer as he shouted about women, beer, and bangin’ all night long. Dean was mesmerized by the graceful way she moved, all heat and energy, practically making his skin buzz with the sensation. He watched as she tilted her head back, her hair trailing tantalizingly down her spine as she drank her bottled water hungrily, the slim column of her throat an almost irresistible temptation that made Dean lick his lips. Sam just grinned, not bothering to hide his amusement.
“Dude,” came a laughing voice from behind him as the band suddenly cut off, the green woman leaping onto the stage to wrap herself around the lead singer like a vine. “Give it up. She’s so his!” Dean had to agree as he watched her open her mouth to him, drinking him in as she had just finished off her water only moments before.
“I can see that,” Dean grumbled, turning to the man behind him with Sam’s laughter ringing nearby.
Dean blindly swatted at Sam somewhere to his left, gloating quietly when he heard the slight, “Ow, you stupid jerk!” and the retaliatory punch on his shoulder blade.
“Don’t feel bad,” the man said, clapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “Many a man has thrown himself at her feet, but she’s not into anyone but him. Tank’s muse is off-limits.”
Sam cast another sideways glance at the couple still making out behind the stage curtains. “She got a name?”
The guy shrugged carelessly, watching as the band singer grabbed her by the hand and pulled her towards the stairs, making sure to shove another bottle of water into her hand. “Muse…that’s what he calls her. Not even sure Tank gives a shit what her real name is.” He threw Dean a lop-sided grin. “But it’s Mandy, if you’re really interested.”
“The band guy…Tank…has that and he doesn’t care?” Dean asked incredulously.
“Tank’s an asshole. Got women crawling all over him now that he’s gonna hit it big.” The guy nodded his head in the bar’s direction, asking conversationally, “Wanna get a beer? I’ll introduce you two to the man himself.”
Dean nodded in agreement, deciding they might get more information out of this guy as well as a free drink. What could be better?
The young man led them through the press of bodies that had somehow materialized around the band members, taking them right up to the burly platinum blonde man named holding court by the bar. “Hey, Tank!” he called out jovially. “Already sent Mandy into seclusion?”
Tank smirked around the cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth. “You know it, Pete. The ladies can’t show their appreciation properly with her doom and gloomin’ the mood.” He ran a hand over a girl’s back as she leaned in, pressing a small slip of paper into the pocket of his jeans, her hand lingering a touch longer than appropriate before melting back into the crowd.
“Want you to meet some friends of mine,” Pete began. “They like what you do.”
“Likes my muse, you mean,” Tank rumbled, blowing a puff of smoke over Dean’s head as he reluctantly pulled his gaze away from where the girl had disappeared, completely ignoring Sam. “Saw you slobberin’ over her at the end of the set. Totally understandable, mate. But hands off; she’s mine. Need her for inspiration – couldn’t write a decent song without her.” Tank flashed Dean a predatory grin. “Let me get you a beer; keep you warm when you’re alone tonight.”
Tank gestured broadly at the nearest bartender, and Sam tried to subtly duck behind Tank’s broad back when he saw it was John. “Four on the house for my mates here, Bartie.”
Despite Sam’s earnest efforts to blend, John’s eyes immediately flicked to his son trying to look nonchalant as Tank put in his order. John stared steadily at Sam as he passed him his beer, a slight shake of his head indicating his displeasure at his 16-year-old drinking on a school night. John passed the other glasses across the bar, his gaze meeting Dean’s for a moment before John blinked slowly, Dean nodding in understanding as John turned to his next customer.
“Your band rocks, man,” Dean said with a broad smile. “I hear you’re pretty regular here.”
Sam frowned petulantly at John’s back before taking a lengthy swig of his drink. Dean narrowed his eyes in Sam’s direction, his brother pointedly ignoring the rebuke before Dean covertly stomped on his foot, making Sam spill his drink across the scarred wood floor of the bar. “My little brother can’t handle his beer. One drink and he’s….” Dean waved his hand absently.
Tank puffed another smoke ring in Dean’s direction. “I live upstairs, man. This place owns me until I hit it big.”
Dean arched an eyebrow curiously. “You live here? Ever see anything…strange? These places always seem to have weird stories attached to ‘em.”
Sam’s hand snaked under Dean’s outstretched elbow, grabbing the bottle out of Dean’s grasp and disappearing again before Dean even knew his brother had slipped up behind him.
Dean briefly debated killing his brother on the spot or saving retaliation until Sam was sleeping. Covert retribution won out; they were on a job, after all.
Tank paused, giving him a funny look. “No walkin’ bed sheets on my watch…unless it’s a lady friend actin’ all coy.” Tank guffawed loosely in amusement, another young woman worming her way through the press around them to run a hand over Tank’s chest, leaning in to whisper something in his ear that seemed to arouse his interest.
“Later, babe,” Tank replied. “I’ll call you tomorrow morning, OK?” The woman planted a heated kiss on his mouth, practically eating his face as Dean signaled for another beer.
He got a water instead. Fuck, when was his dad’s break over?
“I take it you and Mandy aren’t exclusive?” Dean asked with carefully pointed interest.
Tank snorted, giving Dean a warning glare before replying, “What she doesn’t know doesn’t hurt me, got it? And hands off my muse; thought I made that clear.” Tank’s face suddenly smoothed over, and he purred softly, “Hey, babe, thought you were gonna wait upstairs for me.”
Tank leaned forward and, momentarily startled, Dean thought he might be the recipient of Tank’s sudden affection when the green-haired woman pushed her way past him and melted into Tank’s embrace. “I needed to see you. I was feeling so…tired.”
Dean noted her strange listlessness as she draped herself against Tank’s chest, the insatiable energy he’d felt when around her before seemingly gone.
“I’ll make you feel better, babe,” Tank murmured soothingly as he rubbed his hand along her bare back. “Tank’ll take care of ya.”
She leaned more heavily against him as if she were trying to merge her flesh with his. As Tank’s lips brushed over her skin, her cheeks flushed with a rosy tint and the sparkle leeched back into her eyes.
Her gaze swept to Dean, who was watching her with avid interest. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip as she focused more fully on him.
“Do you sing?” she asked with mild interest.
“Only in the shower. You’re welcome to….”
“No, babe,” Tank growled. “He’s just a fan-boy.”
Her eyes flitted back up to meet Tank’s displeased expression and she murmured almost apologetically, “But he feels….”
Tank interrupted her brusquely. “He’s a nobody. Let’s go.” At that, he pulled at her arm and disappeared into the crowd.
(Part 2 - http://zannes.livejournal.com/25807.html)
Tags:
- dean,
- fanfic,
- goth,
- high school,
- john,
- kilt,
- punk,
- sam,
- spn,
- supernatural,
- teenwinchesters
