Episode Six: Company Policy

By BurstynOut & Tracer

Part Two

"That's so typical," Sam huffed, sitting on the edge of his own bed hard enough to shake two of the totally girlie satin-clad throw pillows onto the carpet, "Dad doesn't like the guy, so you don't like the guy. I thought we were getting out of the whole 'Dad's always right' mode, Dean."

"It's not like that, Sam," Dean retorted, his voice calm despite Sam's obvious attempt to draw him into an argument. "Dad never said a word against the dude. He couldn't, because he was the one that convinced everyone that Taliean could be trusted in the first place, and he was the one who almost died because your buddy, Frankie boy, showed up late to the party."

"I don't believe that," Sam scowled. "A guy doesn't get to be a billionaire by shirking his responsibilities."

"That was the issue," Dean clarified, flipping the channels on the television without stopping on any one long enough to actually see what was playing. "He never had a problem keeping his business appointments. It was his obligations to the brotherhood that he let slide."

"How so?"

Dean unwound the towel from around his head and raked his fingers agitatedly through his wet hair, a clear sign that he'd rather be doing anything other than talking about the past. "It started out as just a few little quirky things, a slip-up here and there," he ventured. "The dude would do absent-minded crap like leave his friggin' phone on during a hunt, or show up late because of business meetings. Caleb and Joshua, hell, just about everyone else didn't want Taliean getting involved in hunts anymore. They didn't think they could count on him to have their backs."

"But Dad did?"

"Yeah," Dean shrugged. "Dad and Frank were close; they both trained with Elkins, and they were good at what they did. So, when we got word about some mysterious fires in Texas, Dad thought it might be the thing that killed Mom, and Frank was the first one he called for backup."

"Was it?" Sam asked, scooching closer to the edge of the bed.

"Was it what?" Dean repeated absently.

"Was it the Demon starting the fires?" Sam asked exasperatedly as though he shouldn't have to explain himself.

"Oh. No," Dean answered distractedly. "It wasn't the Demon. A demon, though. Turned out it was a pyre demon that had been disturbed by some oil drillers, and it was burning the houses of the oilfield workers in retaliation. The oil men were tapping the natural gas pockets that the demon was feeding on. . ." Dean paused, realizing that was all irrelevant. "Anyway, it was still a tricky situation."

"Yeah," Sam agreed wholeheartedly. "Anytime there's a demon involved, it's pretty hairy. So what happened?"

"Like you said, it was pretty hairy, so Dad called up some of the brotherhood. Only, no one wanted to come as long as Taliean was involved," Dean rubbed the heel of his hand over his forehead as though the memories erupting from within caused an itch between his eyes. "But they finally caved. They all trusted Dad, and he gave them his word that Frank would come through."

"And he didn't," Sam extrapolated.

"Right," Dean sighed. "The SOB didn't even bother showing up. The demon got into a gas line and blew the oil rig sky high, and when Frank finally showed up, all he could say was that his meeting ran over. His meeting ran over, and a man died, Sam. One of the brotherhood, a good man. And the ones who managed to drag themselves away from the disaster would've ripped Dad a new one. . ."

Dean stopped, his eyes darkening as his gaze dropped to study his bare feet.

"Would've?" Sam asked, confused.

"Yeah," Dean muttered, "they'd have never let Dad live it down, except they figured the fact that he landed in the hospital for almost a month after risking his own ass to save all of them kind of made up for it." He went back to changing channels.

"Wait," Sam said, his face wrinkling in disbelief, "Dad got hurt?"

"To put it mildly," Dean sighed, not bothering to elaborate.

"But I. . ."

"Never knew," Dean completed. "We didn't tell you. You were just coming up on finals or something, and Dad didn't want you distracted."

Dean stood decisively and made his way over to the mini bar. Before Sam could even digest the story, his brother had opened and emptied two of the tiny bottles and slammed the cabinet shut again.

"Dean. . ."

The elder dropped his robe, leaving him only in his boxers, and flung the girlie throw pillows into the corner of the room before yanking back the covers and climbing into bed. "Drop it, Sam," he grumbled. "You wanted to come here, so we're here. You can play white collar superhero if you want, and I'm not gonna stop you. Just promise me something."

Sam shook his head, realizing that he would be in for a long argument if he spoke up in Taliean's defense. "What?" He asked, trying to sound genuinely inquisitive rather than coerced.

"You decide you like it here, and you wanna follow in old Frankie's footsteps. . .do me the favor of just bowing out. Don't jerk me around." He turned to face the opposite wall away from his brother's droopy eyes.

"Dean, I would never. . ." Sam realized it was pointless to drag this out. Dean had a relevant point, and though Sam would never abandon his brother with things still up in the air the way they were, he knew it would be best just to acknowledge his brother's concerns. "Sure," he sighed and picked up the room service card that Dean had been studying earlier. "Aren't you going to eat before you go to sleep?"

"Not hungry anymore," Dean dismissed, and as if to emphasize his point, he flopped over onto his stomach, shoved his hand under his pillow, and went to sleep.

* * * *

“Will you quit pulling on that?” Sam whispered tersely, jerking an elbow into Dean’s arm, the same arm that held the hand and fingers clawing and jerking at the tight knot secured at the top of Dean’s black uniform tie.

“I would if I could breathe!” Dean shot back heatedly, dropping his arm in exasperation and tugging on the cuffs of his sleeves as if they were cutting off his circulation.

Sam rolled his eyes at his brother’s constant fidgeting, thankful that at least Dean was wearing the required uniform. From the instant his big brother had unzipped the garment bag earlier that morning and caught sight of the long sleeved, collared silver shirt with pockets and large Security patch on the right sleeve that came complete with black uniform pants with a thick silver stripe down each leg, it’d been nothing short of a battle.

Sam had more or less been prepared for the adamant refusal; prepared meaning that, having snuck a peek at the outfit the night before, he'd rushed down to the gift shop and purchased the first camera in sight. Dean in uniform. This was the stuff of legend.

“Ugh, this is ridiculous!” Dean huffed, jerking on the wrinkleless material clinging to his skin. Sam couldn’t deny those pants were pretty tight, and had to laugh because Dean usually was fine with that kind of thing. Granted, girls were usually wearing them. Sam secretly hoped there might be a gay receptionist at the desk, preferably one named Josh, just to bring a blush of embarrassment to his brother's cheeks.

“And you were wondering why they didn’t let you in the internship program,” Sam teased and flashed a big smile in opposition to Dean’s murderous glare.

“Well, at least I don’t look like I’m going to my junior high dance,” Dean snickered waving a hand towards Sam's neatly pressed suit.

Sam fiddled nervously with his navy blue tie, straightening it unnecessarily. “Better than Andy Griffith.”

Dean scowled then countered. “Yeah, well, I don’t have to carry a briefcase to feel important. Whatcha got in there anyways? Dirty mags?”

Sam wrinkled his nose in disgust and got damn near defensive. “No, law documents I printed out last night,” he retorted, "and FYI, this happens to be genuine Italian leather."

“Yeah, I bet,” Dean replied with a knowing smirk and pretended to shine his gold-plated badge. "Girlie leather comes from Italy. The good stuff comes from Texas."

“Wait…You have a problem with my carrying a briefcase, but you’re fine wearing that? I mean, just what’s wrong with my briefcase?” Sam questioned rapidly, self-consciously looking over the deep brown leather case Taliean had provided for him.

“You mean minus the geek alert, right?” The younger’s face grew red with embarrassment at Dean’s ribbing, and he squirmed under the remark. He was nervous enough as it was. He didn’t need his brother adding to the amount of apprehension he already possessed at the notion of being scrutinized under some of the top lawyers in the country. First impressions mattered, and geek wasn’t one he wanted to leave.

Sam mustered the best and most adult response he could in retaliation. “Shut up.”

“You, Dean?” A gruff voice from behind startled the two brothers and they turned around to face the tall, white-haired man smacking a piece of what looked to be chew. Each noted out of habit that his company ID declared him to be Mike.

“Actually, no...I’m Taliean’s hired boy toy--Ricardo. He likes role play,” Dean snarked, ignoring the stunned gape on his brother’s face and relishing in Mike’s throaty laugh. He knew he’d like this guy.

“Ha! You gonna be ten times better than ole’ Earl.” Mike slapped Dean’s shoulder, rolling his chew between his teeth, and gave another sharp laugh. “I’m Mike, but I bet you’ve noticed. Call me Mikey, everyone else does. Welcome to the team, son. Well, more like the slave ship, but hey, you get a gun.”

Dean’s eyes flickered with excitement and he turned to give Sam a boasting glance. His job was going to be infinitely cooler. Well, minus the uniform. “Hear that, Sammy, he’s gonna give me a gun.”

Sam darted his gaze around and prayed to everything holy that the man Taliean sent to get him hadn’t heard the childish nickname and wished that Mikey would just take Dean away, the sooner the better. “It’s Sam!” He grumbled, just as a suit-clad arm projected itself in front of him.

"Good then you're just who I'm looking for, I think," the arm's owner declared, shaking Sam's hand prematurely. "Sorry, you must be Samuel Conners, if I heard right, and I'm George Jacobson, your supervisor in the Taliean Advance Program. Nice to have you aboard."

"Glad to be here, sir," Sam breathed excitedly, "honored, actually."

"I'm sure you'll be fine," George said, turning to Dean. "And you must be Dean Watson, the new night security guard." He held out his hand to Dean, who shook it and decided it was a decidedly limp handshake at best. "You'll do best to stay out the way of our up-and-coming young executives, Mr. Watson. Mike here will show you around," he dismissed.

Turning back to Sam, Jacobson added, "I'm sorry that you had to wait down here with the riff-raff. You can come right up the executive elevator from now on, Sam." The younger Winchester didn't know whether to clap the guy on the back and thank him or punch him in the mouth for referring to his brother as riff-raff. He looked over his shoulder at Dean as he was led away toward the elevators, and the puzzled cock of his brother's eyebrows had Sam walking a tad faster before the inevitable Dean Winchester comeback line could escape.

“Whatever,” Dean drawled, turning his attention back to Mikey as Sam headed across the lobby. “So what am I doing today?”

“Well, I’m s’posed to give you a tour. But if you ask me that’s kind of a stupid thing to do ‘cause I’m pretty sure you wouldn't pay attention. No one ever does,” Mikey reasoned aloud. “I’ll show you the ropes though. Head Man wants you on shift tonight.”

“Works for me,” Dean shrugged and took to scratching the itch rising under his forearm. Damn starch.

“You gonna fit right in, boy.” Mikey declared loudly and jerked his head to the side. “Let’s go then, eh?”

“Okay, sure.” Dean complied, gesturing for the older man to lead the way.

* * * *

For the years apparent in both Mikey’s build and face, the man’s gait was that of a freaky speed walker. Dean had to hasten his step and apologize frequently as he tried to barrel through the crowd with the same pace as his new coworker only to collide with most of them.

The wizened employee led him through the lobby and past the corporate elevators to a long back hallway aligned with plagues and pictures declaring the company’s fame. Dean studied them the best he could along his half-sprint/half-walk but found it hard to do so because, at the moment, he was wondering if Sammy had retaliated for the itching powder incident and laced his uniform. Whatever the coarse material held, it was worse than sandpaper to his skin, and itched like a hoard of mosquito bites.

“You got a problem, boy?” Mikey’s booming voice startled Dean, who quickly adjusted his posture so he wasn’t bent over and raking his fingers over his knee.

“Uh…no,” the older Winchester replied quickly but hardly convincingly.

Mikey’s lips curved into an understanding and somewhat smug smile. “Damn thing itches like hell, don’t it?”

“Kind of tight, too,” Dean confessed, to which Mikey chuckled. Maybe this all wouldn’t be too bad, as long as the other employees were like this guy.

“Yeah, I know. But the ladies love a man in uniform.”

Dean raised his eyebrows at the insinuation. “They love me anyway.”

“Alright, boy, no need to get cocky,” Mikey chided jokingly, coming to a stop in front of a small black box that held a gray-topped, thin shelf underneath. “This is how you clock in everyday. You see here--,” he pointed to the black box, and Dean noticed the numbered keypad, “is where you type your ID number, and then you put your hand on the scanner.”

“That gray thing?”

“Yeah,” Mikey replied absently, punching in what Dean assumed to be a code on the keypad and then looking at Dean. “What number you want? Got to be 5 digits. Could do like a birthday or something.”

“No!” Dean refuted loudly, trying his best to smile innocently when Mikey gave him a skeptical glance. “Just uh…no birthdays, too easy.” And way too tempting to certain lottery-loving demons.

“Oh, you one of those types?” The man mumbled. “Well you got to pick something.”

“Right…um, okay so eleven, two, eighty-three.”

“1, 1, 2, 8, 3?” Mikey repeated as he punched the numbers in and was rewarded with a series of beeps. “Sounds like a birthday to me.”

“Trust me. It’s not.” Dean shifted his stance, and his eyes studied the linoleum floor.

Mikey sensed the discomfort, and immediately gave an order. “You’re in. Put your hand here.”

Dean complied and watched in semi-fascination as the gray top turned a light blue then faded back to gray. “That it?”

“Yep,” Mikey nodded. “So all you got to do when you get here is type in the number, then place your hand on that, and it’ll clock you in. Just make sure you do it when you leave, too.”

“Got it.”

“Good. So that’s all I got for you. Somebody’ll be waiting for you when you get back at three. Okay?”

Dean shook his head yes. “What time is it now?”

“Almost 11:00.” Mikey answered, gazing down at his watch. “You think you can find your way out?”

Dean nodded the affirmative and turned to head back into the massive lobby and the sea of people when Mikey stopped him. “Hey! You like poker?”

“Hell, yeah!” Dean exclaimed. God, he was going to like this job.

“We play tonight and need a fourth. I’ll see if I can get you in seeing as you’re on shift.”

“That’d be great, Mikey. Thanks for everything.” Dean shook the man’s hand, and mulled over what the night held and what’d he do with the next four hours. He wanted out of the scratchy uniform but then he’d have to put the damn thing right back on. He could find Sam. See what the big intern was doing, maybe give him some grief….yeah, he could do that.

* * * *

By the time Sam and George stepped into the corporate elevator and turned around to face the crowded lobby, Dean had already disappeared in the throng of people. Sam felt about ten feet tall when the doors silently slid shut behind him. Real Italian leather. He fumed silently, still a bit perturbed by Dean's brotherly teasing. Geek boy, my ass, Andy Griffith. And God, if anyone heard you call me Sammy . . .

Truth be told, unless they were in a public place or in the middle of an argument, the name Sammy had a sort of endearing quality to it that Sam didn't mind, coming from Dean. It was the same brand of Winchester speak that made 'bitch' a perfectly acceptable substitute for 'love ya man'. But Roget, Webster, and the general public were not privy to the secret Winchester decoder ring that they'd fashioned over years of trading quips and insults, so those things were best left unspoken when other people could hear them. He was so gonna remind his brother of that fact the first chance he got, too.

As the glass elevator slid up to what Sam had only casually noticed was the second floor from the top, he subconsciously took half a step back from the wall, as though he might fall through the glass and plummet several stories to his death. George noticed the motion.

"Scared of heights?" The man asked with a hitch of a smirk.

"No, just not used to this perspective," Sam replied, coughing nervously into his fist. "I feel like one of those canisters going through the vacuum tube to the drive-through teller at the bank."

"Really, I thought a golden boy like yourself would be used to being on top of the world," Jacobson countered, staring blankly at the digital readout that ticked off the ascending floor numbers with his hands clasped neatly behind his back. "Well," he coughed into his own hand, mimicking Sam's gesture, "unless you got here by more questionable means."

"I'm sorry?" Sam asked, turning his head with a confused scrunch to his brow.

"Yeah, me too," George answered, not bothering to meet Sam's gaze. "I had a perfectly good executive assistant this time yesterday morning, and yesterday afternoon they told me he had to go, cuz they needed the office space for a new inductee into the program. Never mind the fact that the positions were all filled months ago," he said bitterly.

The elevator lurched to a stop, and the doors opened. Sam felt about six inches tall when he stepped out, and it had nothing to do with the altitude. This was so not the welcome he'd expected.

George took a few minutes to show Sam his office. It was small, but all the interns had similar accommodations. The young Winchester was just about to lay his briefcase on the desk when his mentor motioned for him to hold up.

"Nice briefcase, Sam," he offered. "Italian leather, I take it?"

Sam nodded, uncertain how to take anything the man said after the little jab he'd made in the elevator.

"Good, you're gonna need it. I got an errand I need you to run for me." He grabbed a post-it off the desk and wrote down a number. "Bring the briefcase, and run down here to pick up some items I have reserved. They'll know what you're there for if you tell them my name."

"Yes, sir," Sam nodded obligingly and glanced at the paper. His face fell. The lobby. Dude we were just in the lobby, you couldn't pick it up then? And so started the day of yet another unsuspecting corporate intern.

Ten minutes later, Sam exited the elevator for the third time in thirty minutes, glad that he wasn't paying for the mileage on that baby. He walked slowly, carefully balancing the ten large coffee cups he'd been presented with in the lobby Starbucks to which he'd been sent. His face scowled in determination as he made his way tentatively down the hallway, willing not a single drop to leak from the sippy cup tops onto the revered Italian leather.

As he approached the end of the hallway, he carefully planned his movements, angling out a bit so as not to take the corner too sharply, and hunched protectively over the cups as he rounded the bend.

WHAM!

The sound was nothing short of a bad sound effect from an old Batman rerun, and as he tumbled forward, managing to clasp a few of the cups to his once-white shirt, he couldn't help but think sardonically, Holy smokes, Batman, I never saw that coming. And there were no paper towels or bottles of Resolve carpet cleaner in his utility belt the last time he checked.

Sam slouched back against the wall, as one of his fellow office mates, probably had a name like Chip or Buzz or something, Sam couldn't remember, sidestepped around the mess he'd helped create by running around the corner at full tilt. "Uh, nice one, newbie," the jerk grinned, then grimaced at his shoe, which was covered in what looked to be a double mocha, half-caff, latte. "These are three hundred dollar shoes. You better hope they're not ruined," he said, stomping off.

Sam was just rising, balancing the four cups of coffee he'd managed to save against his chest, when old George himself rounded the corner. Spying one of the untipped beverages, George helped himself. "Thanks, Sammy," he grinned. "Nice save."

Oh God, can this day get any worse?

By the time eleven o'clock rolled around, Sam was more than glad to make his way out to the car in the parking garage where he could eat his lunch and meet his brother to discuss their progress, or in Sam's case, lack thereof. They couldn't really meet inside the building as no one was supposed to know their affiliation with each other, bar the receptionist who thought they were business partners. He reminded himself to ask Taliean what business the man had told her they were actually in.

All in all, Sam was ready to take back every thought he'd had about the name Sammy being endearing, or the idea that 'bitch' could ever mean anything other than lowlife corporate peon. His expensive suit jacket was wrinkled and flung over his arm, bare forearms exposed due to his shirt sleeves being rolled up to his elbows, and his fingers were all black, because apparently, the new guy was responsible for changing the toner cartridges in the copying machine. And, by the way, it was also some sort of sick tradition to initiate the newbies by directing them to the drawer full of leaky cartridges that they kept on hand for just such occasions. The bastards.

And if one more person calls me Sammy.

Sam sat on the front seat of the Impala, his legs outside the door, briefcase on his lap, with a scowl pursing his lips. He opened the expensive case for the first time that day, planning to catch up on reading some of the law papers he had inside while he waited for Dean to show up so they could get lunch.

Sammy.

The brown paper sack with his name written in what looked to be black sharpie stood out like a sore thumb. He recognized Dean's handwriting instantly, and wondered if his brother had actually planted dirty magazines in there as he'd suggested earlier. But he knew better. The anger that had welled up within him at the mention of his hated nickname and the humiliation of having it spelled out in bold black inside his big boy briefcase vanished instantly.

Without looking, he knew what he'd find inside the paper sack, and he wondered how Dean had found time to sneak down to the hotel lobby in order to prepare it. He opened the bag and dumped the contents out on the top of the briefcase lid. A peanut butter and banana sandwich. One twinkie. And a bottle of apple juice. It was the Dean Winchester sack lunch special, the same one his brother had made for him on his first day of kindergarten and every school day thereafter. Always peanut butter and banana, and always only the one twinkie, because those little delicacies were expensive.

He bit into the sandwich and looked up to see Dean approaching, a self-satisfied swagger to his step. He could tell by the expression on Dean's face that he'd seen Sam eating the lunch he'd packed.

"Hey, kid, you need any milk money?" Dean asked, smirking broadly.

"Bitch," Sam said.

And he didn't even care that crumbs sprayed out of his mouth as he said it. The hell with the Italian leather.

* * * *

The rest of the day passed as a blur to Dean. Security work turned out to be a lot of responsibility, to say the least. For the most part everyone was laid back, but he quickly learned the importance of a mask of seriousness and respect when approaching anyone in the upstairs offices. Polite nods to the scrutinizing glances. Yes sirs to the insane and stupid requests that really could be handled without aid.

Demeaning was a term he would’ve used if he’d thought he could get away with it and really he was beginning to feel the part, but then he’d met Rebecca, the charming blonde haired bombshell who chatted his ear off about how gray was one of her favorite colors and that reception work was a lot harder than people realized. Dean immediately sympathized in his signature flirting ways, and his mischievous grin at her invite to dinner, which he poutingly declined, was all he needed to get out of his funk and back in the game.

By the time he finished his rounds and responded to the slew of day’s requests posted on the work board, night had fallen and it was time for lockdown. It was then the list of security guards he’d seen listed as on duty finally emerged from the woodwork and the whole process was done in a speed that was truly impressive.

Before he could comment on it, Mikey had appeared behind him, clapping him on the shoulder, and ushering him back to the break room with a knowing smirk. There was no mistaking the deep green felt and clatter of red, blue, and white accompanied by the flick of cards in the dealer’s hands. The game was on.

“Oh, hell no!” Mikey exclaimed, slamming down his pair of tens in annoyance but laughing at the smile gracing their newest member’s face.

“You should’ve called,” Dean chided lightly, his white teeth clearly exposed as he placed down an even lower pair of sixes and gathered his winnings. Bluffing was his game, and these guys were suckers for it.

“You bitchin’? I had a friggen’ pair of kings on the river and still folded.” The man the guards dubbed Ricky shouted out over the jibes and jokes being made at the loser’s expense.

No one had expected the new guy to be this apt to the game, and the damn kid had ‘em all believing he had a full house by the way he was bidding. Not only that, but the sandy-haired boy had won the crowd by the end of the first round, making it all the more difficult for the seasoned workers to beat him amidst the constant chatter and praise of their newest player.

“You need to get a spine, Ricky. Take the boy on instead of foldin’,” a deep voice from behind Dean chuckled and he turned to see what had to be the hugest man this side of the globe hovering over him.

Dean smiled nervously as the man shoved Ricky out from the side chair, and the Winchester swore he heard the chair groan as the man known as Big Tom sunk heavily down in it. “You in?”

“Prepare to lose your shirt, boy.” The statement issued a round of laughter as well as a ‘I’d pay to see that’ from one random coworker in the back.

“Well, we’re all praying you don’t,” Dean teased. He was rewarded with a jovial response from all in the room for the snide comment, which turned hysterical when Mikey reached over and patted Big Tom’s pot belly.

Round after round was played, the games taking on a tournament style. Dean was up four hundred dollars before he even thought to glance at the clock clouded with dense cigarette smoke and remember that he was supposed to let Sam in at one to do a sweep of the building. Crap!

“Uh…bathroom?” Dean questioned, nudging the guy next to him in the winner’s circle as they awaited the next game.

“Down the hall. ‘s on the left,” the man obliged, his eyebrows furrowed in slight confusion as to why the man didn’t know that but then smoothed out again when a loud yelp was heard from the table.

Dean mumbled a ‘thanks’ and pushed his way through the crowd of workers to the exit. Then, once clear of the large glass windows encasing the break room, Dean hustled his pace. It was after 1:30. Sam was going to kill him.

Even with that knowledge in mind, Dean took his damn time fiddling with the keys and then unlocking the door, opening it with head bowed and arm gesturing entrance. If he was going to piss off his brother, he might as well go all out.

Just as he thought, Sam looked less than pleased. “What the hell took you so long?”

“Ah, c’mon, Sammy. You know I was working,” Dean taunted, locking the door as Sam entered.

“Right, so what? You thought I’d like staring at the mass of ‘Vettes out there while you just joked around playing cards?” Sam pressed, his nostrils flared in irritation. This hadn’t been his best day and he wanted sleep. Now.

“What year?” Dean asked curiously to which Sam rolled his eyes in exasperation. “What?”

“We got a job to do, remember?” Sam flicked his fingers against the side of Dean’s head, and then dropped the bag of supplies on the linoleum floor. “Don’t you need to get back?”

Dean didn’t move, rather watched as Sam unzipped the bag. “Did you remember the infrared thermal scanner?”

“Yes, Dean.” Sam gritted his teeth in annoyance.

“Do you know how to use it?” Dean inquired seriously, his posture indicating he wanted a true response. Damn man and his gadgets—almost as bad as the Impala.

Sam snatched the device from the bag, balancing it precariously on his knee, and zipped the duffle back up just to get Dean riled. “I think I’ll manage.”

Dean gave a resigned look. “Okay, well, the guards won’t do a round for another hour and a half, but there are two stationed at the elevators and three at the main desk.”

“Got it.”

“Alright, you sure you got everything?” Dean asked, he took Sam’s hard glance as a yes. “I get off at three. I’ll meet you then.”

“Whatever,” Sam huffed, hoisting the duffle onto his shoulders yet again, and turning on his heel to head in the opposite direction.

Dean waited until his brother had cleared the corner and then started off towards the break room with necessary haste. Too long of a bathroom break always warranted suspicion. They so didn’t need that.

* * * *

Do I know how to use it? Excuse me, one of us went to Standford, big brother. I think I can manage to find the ON switch.

Sam's face was contorted with disdain as he whipped out the digital infrared thermal scanner Dean had suggested he go over the place with. He'd had about enough of being talked down to for one day, and just being his brother didn't buy Dean a pick on Sammy free card.

His scowl tightened noticeably as he realized that he really did have no idea how to work the damned thing. His long fingers moved frantically over the device searching for anything that would pass for a power button. It was then that he realized that, like the EMF detector Dean was so proud of, this gadget appeared to be homemade as well.

Sam huffed forcibly. No way in hell was he gonna call Dean and tell him to come back and show him how to work the thing. Worse came to worst, he'd just tell his brother that it hadn't picked up on anything. What the heck did he make this out of? Closer inspection revealed the contraption to be a mishmash of what looked to be parts of a handheld digital video camera and some laser pointers fitted with servomotors.

Sam cocked his head to the side a little, eyebrows raised, and chewed on the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. Not bad. He'd really have to give his brother a little more credit for his handiwork.

Just not today. Not after the Sammy incident. Damn him.

A little more blind fumbling yielded some results at last, and the gizmo whirred to life, emitting that high-pitched electronic squeal that supposedly only dogs were supposed to hear, yet somehow, Sam always managed to hear just fine when Dean had the television muted in the middle of the night.

He took a few minutes to study the screen, getting some idea of the base readings and patterns before he started moving quietly down the hallway. Unconsciously, he bent slightly at the knees and slunk along like a hunting cat, his shoes moving silently over the vinyl flooring.

Half an hour of slinking without uncovering a trace of anything unusual had Sam's legs burning from the controlled exertion. He would never question the effectiveness of tai chi as a form of physical exercise ever again. He had a feeling the scanner's battery was running low and was about to switch if off and do an EMF sweep, when a bluish-white smudge appeared in the upper right-hand corner of the screen.

Sam looked up, and saw that there was a door on his right that was just coming into the viewing area on the screen. On closer inspection, he realized it was a supply closet. He remembered reading something about the security guard disappearing after going to check out a supply closet, and a tingle of anticipation prickled down his spine.

He glanced back down to the screen and saw that the cool tones were definitely coming from under the closed door. As he moved closer, he thought he detected an icy breeze across the tops of his sneakers, but wondered if it was just the power of suggestion. Hesitantly, he put his hand up to the door, his fingers brushing across it inquisitively. As he did so, the scanner blinked unexpectedly and went blank. Damn, lost the battery.

He shook it a few times and tapped on the screen, but it failed to restart, and he dropped it to his side. Long fingers extended, he grasped the door knob, noting that it was abnormally cool to the touch. He glanced around for an air conditioning vent that might be inadvertently blowing on it but didn't see anything to explain the icy chill.

Heaving the duffel bag to the floor, he placed the scanner inside and stood, unburdened, before the door. He reached into the waistband of his jeans, grasped the comfortingly solid steel of his Glock, and drew it as his free hand turned the knob ever-so-slowly.

Hunter's senses tingling, he let the door fall open and entered, gun drawn, as a blast of cold wind sucked the air from his lungs. His eyes widened as his mouth opened in the shape of a mute shout.

Before him, the spirit awaited, dead, black shadows, spilling from empty eye sockets, and as the apparition moved slowly and confidently toward him, Sam cursed himself for not knowing better than to open the door.

Continue...

Discuss The Episode Here

E-Mail the Authors!