The Ghosts that sell Memories von abgemeldet (Supernatural / Queer as Folk (US) crossover) ================================================================================ Part 16: ...He pulls off the same scam as before. ------------------------------------------------- Armed with a fake badge and a picture of Emily McNamara, the first store had turned out to be a letdown. The owner had been nice enough, calling in all of his three employees to let them take a look at the picture of “that beautiful young lady,” he’d said. But none of them ever had seen Emily before. “It’s an older picture,” he’d said, explaining that it was taken about three years ago. And maybe she would look a bit older, a bit different. Yet they didn’t seem to remember someone that even resembled her to a degree. Accepting that he had been defeated this time, he’d thanked them for their goodwill and cooperation and walked back to where Brian had parked the ‘vette one street over. He’d left the man in the car, busy tampering with the radio, whereas he was now outside, leaning up against the car’s side, cigarette firmly between his lips, as people strolled by him. But not all, as apparently two guys were chatting with Brian. Or Brian was chatting them up. As soon as they saw him approach, glare in place, he almost ruined his act by laughing out loud as they took a hasty retreat. But come on, if Brian could fuck with him, so could Dean. A little confused at first, looking around to--probably--see what the hell this is all about, Brian turns serious as soon as Dean walks up to him. “No luck?” “Nope. Guy said he doesn’t remember seeing her before. Neither did his employees.” Brian shrugs. “Maybe your little brother had more luck.” “Maybe,” he says, leaning against the car as well. “But he’s going to call if he does, so you better get back into the car. We have work to do.” Taking the cigarette from Brian’s lips, he throws it onto the pavement, crushing it under his boot. “Come on.” He doesn’t get as far as in front of the car when he’s stopped by a strong hand on his arm, pulling him back and around. “What...?” “Manipulative bastard,” Brian growls, pushing him against the hood, kissing him like the devil. You’re such a fucking asshole, he thinks, but it’s the same thing Brian is telling him with this kiss. Well, two can play this game, and Dean’s no saint. He’s got to live with it. Even if he doesn’t want to listen to it, to the kiss, Dean can feel it right down to his toes. Brian doesn’t say a word when he releases him, not even breathing hard as he opens the door and gets in. Dean smirks through the windshield while Brian’s way too busy starting the car. And this time he really does laugh out loud when he follows the man inside, putting on his seatbelt. “Look who’s talking.” He’s sure Brian got it just right as they pull out of the parking lot. *--*--* Pulling up across the street of the next and last store on their very short list, he gets out of the car as soon as the car comes to a halt. He ignores Brian calling his name, instead throwing the door shut and jogging through the light traffic to the other side. He pulls off the same scam as before: private detective, a worried family looking for a young woman gone missing at a rough spot in her life three years ago, tipped off that she is in the city and she might involved in wicca circles or right out witchcraft. People want to hear about tragic, heartbreaking stories a lot more than stories about murderers and are therefore a lot more cooperative, a lot more talkative if they know something. He isn't disappointed. “My, that poor thing. It is always a shame when a misunderstanding rips a family apart, is it not?” Dean nods like he’s expected to, putting on a sad smile for the man. “I personally never saw her, but my family helps out here sometimes so I just... I’ll show it to my wife and my children. They are upstairs. Please wait here for a second.” “That would be awfully nice of you, Mr. Smith. Thank you.” It’s very clear that the man has Asian forefathers somewhere down the line, maybe Chinese, Dean thinks. Mr. Smith is barely reaching up to his shoulder, but full of odd little smiles and hands that flap and flip in the air when he talks. The little corner shop smells of the fresh tea and a faint scent of flowers and other herbs they sell. “Of course, of course, young man. We want to help where we can. Just thinking my children would disappear like that...,” he trails off, giving his head a shake. “Ah I’m wasting your time, yes, yes. I shall go upstairs now.” “Thank you.” Dean releases a deep breath as soon as the man is out of his sight, picking up one of the multi-colored stones lying around on the counter. It looks like an overgrown pearl, a marble maybe, only that it’s not made of glass. What, he can't tell. “Rainbow colored, huh?” a voice murmur against his ear, and Dean jumps. “Just like I thought.” And fuck him for that stupid grin in there. Oh for fuck’s sake...! Turning around, he glares at the smirking brunette, hissing, “The fuck are you doing in here?” ‘Cause really, who the fuck does the guy think he is?! But, of course, as full of himself as he is, Brian ignores his little outburst, going on like he never said a word. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Brian whispers, casually leaning his hip against the counter while flipping through a thin book, “I almost bought into that fucking sob story you told the fucker. Jesus, you should have become an actor, Dean. With your talent and your looks...” He’s purring, too, like a cat sprawling in the warm afternoon sun, giving him another once over. Barely refraining from rolling his eyes and/or sticking his tongue out or the impulse to strangle the older man, Dean swallows it all. “Fuck off.” “Sorry, can't do.” Turning away, Dean concentrates on the round thing in his hand, ignoring Brian’s soft commentary on whatever it is he’s looking at. That is, until the store owner returns, a pretty young black haired woman following on his toes. Before he turns to him, the man addresses Brian. “Just a moment, sir. We’re done here soon, and I’m with you in a second.” “Sure...” “Thank you.” Coming around the counter, he hands Emily’s picture back to him. “Lady Luck is on your side, Mr. Sokovitz. My wife did not remember seeing her, either, but my daughter did.” The girl next to him smiles shyly at her father and then Dean, nodding. She’s not pretty. She’s actually quite beautiful, all dark, almond-shaped eyes and shiny long, black hair. She’s blessed with those Asian traits herself. “Lien said the woman came in a few times during the last few weeks, did you not, sweetheart?” “Yes father. I remember her because she always looked so sad, you know? Only coming in late in the evening. That’s when my shift is at the store, after school’s out,” she adds for his benefit, Dean thinks. “But she came in this morning as well while father was still busy upstairs, and I was just watching the store for him before he would come down as she walked in.” “By any means, she wouldn’t have bought these things?” he hands her a list Sam had written for him. “Oh, yes. She bought the first two items on the list, Mr. Sokovitz. I asked her if she was trying to perform a cleansing ceremony or the like, and told her she might want to wait for the next week because it works better then, but the miss just smiled and said she knew, yet it was urgent, so she was forced to try regardless.” “Did she say something else that might help me to find her?” “No, I don’t think so. Oh, but she mentioned once she lived in a motel, I think. She never arrived by car, I don’t think, so I suppose it must be close by.” “You are a life saver, Lien,” he tells her, kissing her cheek as she blushes hotly under his lips and attention. The father is grinning, only trying to hide it as his daughter throws him a murderous look, daring him to say something. He doesn’t. “And you, too, Mr. Smith. Thank you so much for your time.” “You are quite welcome. I hope you find her soon and she can return to her poor family to clear the air, so to speak.” “I’m sure she will,” he says, lying though his teeth. Without bothering to acknowledge Brian, he walks out of the store, eyes already busy trying to find a phone booth. Jogging up to the only one empty in sight, his hands automatically go for the yellow pages, flipping through the thick book until he lands on M for Motel. There shouldn’t be too many around to render it impossible to check them out in a radius that would allow her to walk to this shop, and Sam and he had beaten odds way worse than this, and more than once. Looking left and right, he rips the pages from the book at the same time fumbling for his cell phone. “Bingo,” he says as soon as Sam picks up his phone. - “You found the store?” – “Yup Sammy. We’re gonna take a look at some of the motels around here since the owner’s daughter said she never saw her use a car.” - “Good. I wanted to stock up on some things anyway and the first shop is fairly cheap. If you’re not done by them, I’ll come over...” – “All right. See you later, Sammy.” - “It’s Sam.” – “‘Course it is,” he grins, ending the connection. Closing the yellow pages, and stuffing it back in place, a voice calls out to him. “Catch.” There’s barely enough time to slip the phone away as well as turn around to do just that as something comes flying at his head. He manages, of course. Superior reflexes, anyone? When he looks down at his hands, he can't help but laugh as he comes face to face with a small, rainbow-colored, marble thing. “What’s that?” “A good luck charm.” Dean gives him the raised eyebrows. “I asked,” he explains. “The guy said it also helped to keep one’s patience in dealing with things. And people.” “Ah,” he mumbles, rolling the small stone in his hand. “I guess I got to put up with you some more then, huh?” Brian gives him a sly grin, tongue in cheek, and yeah, he gets it. “You are so full of shit, it’s not even funny, Brian. Fine. Get in the car, then. We’re gonna visit some of the motels in the neighborhood.” He’s not for elaborating this time around. Instead he stuffs the napkin into the brunette’s hand. “Let’s go.” *--*--* The first and second and third and even sixth motel they hit are flops. The seventh, however... Jackpot, Dean thinks as he shows the picture to the pretty girl behind the counter, and her eyes widen in recognition. “Yes, she’s has been staying with us since my aunt checked her in a few weeks ago.” She tells him, pushing her long brown her out of her eyes. “Has been?” Dean inquires, mind going into overdrive as a terrible feeling creeps up on him, cold wrapping itself around him. “Yes, it’s so silly, really. You just missed her.” “What do you mean?” The girl smiles ruefully, wiping invisible dust from the gleaming surface of the desk. “She checked out half an hour ago, paid her bill and all. I saw her pack up her things into her car, a black SUV--maybe Ford?--an hour before that when I started my shift here, if that helps you any.” “Did she say something else? Where she wanted to go? If she had friends here? Anything that could be otherwise useful?” “No. I’m sorry,” she apologizes again, starting to shake her head, but then, “or wait, yes. She did say something. I assumed she was leaving town and told her about a road block on the interstate just outside of the city so she wouldn’t get caught up, and she said thanks, but not to worry, that she had something to do first. A visit, I think. I didn’t ask any further questions about it, wished her well, ‘cause it’s not my business and all that...” “No, no, no, this helps me already.” The bad feeling increases tenfold, like icy fingers sliding up his spine. Damn it. “Thank you so much for your time, Tamara,” he tells her, offering a charming smile before almost running out of the small office, barely avoiding running over a mother and her kid coming in and an elderly lady calling after him to good Lord, look where he’s going. He doesn’t answer, footsteps on gray cement and the beat of his heart loud in his ears. Crossing the crowded parking lot in long, quick strides, he swings open the door and slides into the passenger seat, barely getting his feet inside before slamming it shut after him. “Get back to the loft, quickest way you know,” he barks, putting on the seatbelt while simultaneously reaching for his cell phone. Multitasking is a good thing, and it comes in handy not just during hunts. The movement puts a lot of strain on his shoulders, but he ignores it, instead speed dialing Sam. Brian just looks at him. “What? Why? What’s going on?” “Drive now. Explain later. Come on, move.” Dean ignores him after that as he starts the car, listening to the dial tone on the other end. His brother picks up at the third ring: - “Hey. Did you find her?” – “Kinda. Sammy, listen, where are you?” - “Huh?” – “Just answer the question.” - “On the way to help you, I was just about to call you. Why, what’s wrong?” – Shooting Brian a quick look, he says, “I may have figured out who she’s going to go after next.” - “Who?” – “Who?” The question comes in stereo–-first from his phone and second from the driver’s seat. “She checked out of the motel with her things all packed up. She’s going to leave town. She’s not going to do that knowing we’re still after her. Think about it, she’s got to get rid of us somehow. So remember before you came back from your visit with that Deborah chick?” - “Miss Deborah, Dean, but yeah. What about it? – “Doesn’t matter. Justin was... he was hit by one of his classmates with a baseball bat on prom night.” There’s silence on the other end of the line as well as in the car. - “Oh shit.” – “Yeah. I could be totally wrong here, and I hope I am, but we can't take any chances. Emily told Tamara--the chick from the motel--that she wanted to visit someone. I think she’s trying to get us to stop looking for her. Now, college boy, you do the math about how she’s gonna pull that off.” Another silent pause, then... - Traffic is a bitch over here, but I should be at Brian’s in about thirty minutes or so.” – “Good. Emily checked out half an hour ago, I doubt she is that fast, with preparation and all, but you never know. So be careful. Oh and Tamara told me that she drives a black SUV, probably Ford.” - All right. See you both soon. - Clicking his phone shut, he throws Brian a look. Ah, there we go with the jaw clenching again. “Dude. Focus on the driving part. It’s not gonna help anyone if you drive us into a tree or the opposite lane.” “Fuck off.” “Brian...” “Don’t fucking patronize me, Dean. Don’t you dare fucking try!” “Okay, okay. But I could very well be wrong, so don’t...” He trails off as Brian’s eyes meet his in the rearview mirror, daring him to finish that sentence, and Christ no, he’s not going to. It would be well beyond stupid. He damn well knows how it’s like, not knowing, living through situations like this, trying to breathe through the panic, because hey, they are counting on you to get them out of this, not hyperventilate and die. So. Fine. To say ‘don’t panic’ is the stupidest thing ever, he knows, and that doesn’t cut it. Not even close. Keeping silent, however, is the better idea, and he can actually do that. Turning his head to the window, glass cool against the side of his head, he watches the outsides passing as they fly past. They should never have left Justin alone at the loft. And for once he desperately hopes he’s so damn wrong. *--*--* The Impala is nowhere in sight when they pull up in front of Brian’s building. Neither is a black SUV. He leaves Brian at the car as he goes around to explore a little further, walking up the next street and the one after that, eyes scanning for a black car. He finds an SUV, but it’s a light blue, and Dean doubts Tamara would mix up black with light blue. A really dark blue or even green, sure, but this? No. No way. Jogging around the block finds him nothing but cars, a few people looking oddly at him as he hurries by, and a couple in the middle of making out behind a dumpster. Dean refrains from shaking his head, instead running back to where he left Brian. When he returns, he finds not only is Brian still there, but Sam’s there as well, Impala parked across from Brian’s ‘vette, peacefully sitting there, locked. He pats her side once before he hurries over the street, right as the duo notices him. “Hey.” “Hey, I can’t find a black SUV around here, but that doesn’t mean shit. You and I both know that.” Sam nods, looking up and down the street. “Yeah. The car could virtually be anywhere...” “Yeah,” Dean agrees, nodding. Looking up, the windows to Brian’s loft show nothing suspicious, looking innocent in the warm sunlight. His gut clenches uncomfortably. “The shotguns are up there, aren’t they?” “Yeah.” “Damn it.” Patting his backside, he’s a little comforted to find his gun still there, knowing there’s a knife in his boot, too. It gives him a distant feeling of security. “Let’s do this, then. I doubt she’ll do anything to Justin until we’re there,” he starts, ignoring Brian’s gaze. “She wants us. So she needs leverage.” Sam nods, head tilting the fraction of an inch toward Dean. He knows what he means. But. He shrugs. If Sam wants to try, fine by him. Let’s see if he can convince the man to stay here. “Listen,” he begins, turning soft, sincere eyes on Brian. “I think it would be better if you stayed down here. We have no idea what’s waiting for us up there, man, and...” “No.” “Brian...” “No. No way in hell am I going to fucking stay down here until you do your thing! I don’t care if that messes with your mojo of whatever. You’re not going to leave me fucking out of this, I have to--” He cuts himself off, then, but Dean can complete the sentence in his head without problems. If Justin’s okay, and so much more is what he doesn’t say, yet it sounds loud and clear in the sudden silence. He shares a look with his brother, saying ‘told you so’ and seeing the same understanding he feels mirrored there. Yes. They get it. Somehow he’s got the distinct feeling they are playing right into Emily’s hands by bringing Brian with them, but Dean thinks it might be even worse not to. Who knows what the man would try on his own? So he says, “Fine,” for both of them, “but stay the fuck out of this. This is our playground, not yours. You’re going to do what I say, and that means don’t do anything stupid. Clear?” before jogging over the street, not waiting to see if they follow. By the two additional sets of footsteps echoing on the pavement, it’s exactly what they do. They wait for Brian to open the front door, quietly heading inside. Sam stops Brian when he heads to the elevator, gripping his wrist to keep him from pushing the button. “Stairs,” he quietly states, “a lot quieter.” Dean doubts it will give them much of an advantage. She has to know they’d figure it out sooner or later, so she’s really the one having the upper hand. At least right now, Dean’s not so fast on giving up just yet. Oh no, this is not over just yet. Taking the lead, Dean walks up the stairs carefully, footsteps soundless on the hard stone floor. They find nothing on the first few floors, only when they get up to the floor below Brian’s does that change. And boy, does it. There’s a drawing on the floor at the bottom of the next staircase, a semicircle starting at one wall and leading to the other with a symbol in the middle of it. The symbol is connected with the outer circle by fine, red lines, barely visible to the naked eyes. He’d have missed, too, if it hadn’t been for his job. He doesn’t know the meaning of the symbol but habit has it that he’s looking around, finding Sam doing the same. He finds a mirror image of the ceiling, a tiny amulet dangling in the middle. He has no idea what that is. Eyebrow raised, he turns to his brother, giving him a look when he meets his eyes. Any idea what this is?, it says, getting a half hearted shrug and another look in return. Probably not, that one says, and yeah, sure, kid can’t possibly now everything. Regardless of that, Dean has been around long enough to have a suspicion or two, a supernatural motion detector being the first on a short list. Crouching down at the drawing, he wets his fingers and wipes at one of the lines. It reappears almost faster than he can snatch his hand back. Not giving up, he tries again, a different line now, but with the same results. The small amulet dangles over his head innocently, even though Dean knows it’s anything but. Shrugging, Dean pulls his gun from the back of his pants, releasing the safety. Only then does he set a foot on the first stair. When nothing happens, he follows it with the second, carefully stetting one step at the time. When nothing happens, he gestures for Sam and Brian to follow him. They make their way up the stairs, Dean filing away more symbols they pass on the wall and every second step. The eerie quiet that’s suddenly all around him has him gripping the gun tighter, finger twitching on the trigger. The silence is anything but normal, he knows, hell, he can feel it in his bones, and it gives him the creeps, an abnormal cold brushing over him. It’s even worse now that they have to go into this blind, more than usual, but they don’t have much of a choice here, do they? And it’s not the first time. Not that it makes him feel any better. And he doesn’t make promises all that often, but he does today. This will end today, he thinks. And if we’re lucky, it won’t blow up in my face. There are no other traps around, no nothing, and Dean’s not sure if he should be relieved or alarmed by that. One thing it does, however, is make him want to kick his ass even more for being so stupid to leave half of their gear upstairs. Stupid, stupid, stupid. The first thing that catches his eyes when he’s up the stairs is the open door. Merely enough for a person to step through, one at a time, but it’s sure obvious now that she’s waiting for them all along. He has been expecting as much. “Please, don’t stand out there in the cold. Do come in, guys,” a by now familiar voice emerges from inside. It’s soft and calm, yet it grates on his nerves like whoa. “You are welcome to join our little private... get together anytime. In fact, I was waiting for you, like you probably already know. But let me tell you, not half as anxious as the little blond here. Isn’t that right, Justin?” There’s no answer, but Dean’s convinced she’s not bluffing. There’s no reason to. “What do you want?” Dean calls out. “Why don’t you come in first, Dean? All three of you. Oh and please, don’t trouble yourself with trying to call for help. That’s pointless. No one will hear you. I’m sure you already noticed the silence, huh. Same goes for your cells, of course.” Of course. Would have been too easy, right? Looking back at the others, he says, “Would you be terribly offended if I told you I don’t believe you?” “Hm. No. Go ahead and try.” Fishing for his cell, he curses as soon as he gets it out of his pocket. No signal. Of course. Hell, it’s not like he expected something else. Groaning to himself, he looks up to see the other two shake their head as well. Great. That’s just great. “Happy?” “Oh yeah, ecstatic.” So. No choice other than walk into the lion’s den. “Fine.” Taking the last three steps, he crosses the threshold carefully, gun finding its target as soon as he’s inside, eyes moving around the room, looking around but finding nothing out of the ordinary. If you leave out the candle on the living room table, burning brightly, and Justin sitting on a stool beside it, facing the door and the other side of the loft. He’s dressed in the same pajama pants he’d been wearing before they left, open button-down shirt on top. Dean quickly looks him over, finds nothing but a small cut on his cheek. Nothing to worry about, really, just glaringly obvious against the kid’s snow white skin. Emily is standing right there at his side, expression friendly and open, holding Dean’s own knife to Justin’s throat. That, on the other hand? Is definitely something to worry about. And worry plenty. Damn it. Not to forget the gun she had the night they met face to face for the first time. Doesn’t matter that she doesn’t like to use it, she’s smart enough not give up the edge it gives her. He tries to catch Justin’s gaze a few times, trying to tell him that everything is fine as he hears Brian and Sam enter behind him. He doesn’t hear a sound from them, though. No gasp. No curse. Not one word--and by ‘them’ he means Brian. He silently congratulates Brian for keeping his cool like that. It’s probably not what Emily expected of the man, but if she’s bothered by the lack of reaction, she doesn’t let it show. Instead her eyes seem to glaze over with a look of pure bliss, maybe even lust as she takes them in. It’s gone in seconds, replaced with a blank look and a calm smile. Dean gets the imagine of her inwardly clapping her hands and bouncing on the balls of her feet, chanting something like ‘yes, yes, yes,’ over and over inside her head. And, wow, how fucked up is that? Nodding to herself, she says, “Good, that’s good. Welcome.” Her eyes flicker down to Justin’s blond hair, then back up to them. “Now, be good boys, and stand over there,” she jerks her chin toward the dining table, “and away from the door. All of you. Please.” She says ‘please’ like he’s asking for a refill of coffee, and when they don’t move, she uses her other hand formerly hid behind Justin’s back-–ah, there’s the gun–-to make shooing motions like you’d do with a dog or a little kid to get them to leave you the hell alone. “But, ah, first. Please hand over your guns.” “Guns?” “Yes, Sam. Guns, as in plural. I’m sure you were quite the smart boy back at school, weren’t you? Winning spelling bee and the like?” She moves the hand with the gun back behind Justin’s back, out of Dean’s sight, a dreamy expression crossing her face. “Thing is, I finished first a lot, too. Well, at least at one point of time.” The laughter coming out of her mouth sounds like she has been eating glass, all broken, cut, and sharp. Nails on a chalk board. “Now, quit playing, and hand them over.” She pauses, eyeing them. “How about today?” “Okay, okay.” Never taking his eyes off her, he walks backwards, following Brian and Sam until there’s nowhere else to go, literally with their back against the table. Stands right in front of them. There’s the rustling of plastic coming from his back and a second later he finds Sammy at their feet, laying a circle of salt around them. Good one, Sammy! The hysterical voice in the back of his head remarks that, hey, the salt may help against ghosts, but not the freaking bullets! He swallows that carefully, trying not to choke on his own spit. It’s a step up, though, going from nothing to something. Emily doesn’t seem particularly surprised. Or impressed. Just looking bored. “The guns, guys, come on,” she persists. -- TBC Hosted by Animexx e.V. (http://www.animexx.de)