Season Two

Episode Nineteen: Last Call

By Kittsbud & Thru Terry's Eyes

Part Two

Finger tightening on the trigger, Dean watched in morbid fascination as the keys on the piano rolled through the motions of being played. The lilting bars of "I'll Be Seeing You" still filling the air, the hollow voice accompanying it seemed to be coming from overhead, but the sound was filling Dean's head so much that dizziness was creeping over him, either from the situation or the tequila. Although he couldn't really tell which at this point.

Realizing he really had nothing to aim at and all-too aware of what would happen if rock salt blasted from the gun struck all the mirrors surrounding him, not to mention the damage it would do to the piano which Bentkover would no doubt expect them to pay for, Dean made a face and reluctantly relaxed the pressure on the trigger.

Moving closer he stretched out one hand and held it over the keys, jerking back as he felt the ones under his fingers being depressed, notes ringing out. Stepping to the side he used the muzzle of the gun to push up the lid on the piano, shining his flash around the interior as the strings vibrated, trying to see if some mechanism might be responsible, but his knowledge about such things was too negligible to bear even commenting on.

He grimaced, letting the lid drop as the music began to play more loudly and off key, the voice becoming even more tinny and grating.

The crystal chandeliers overhead began to sway, the multitude of glittering crystals striking each other in the crescendo of a thousand glass wind chimes, flashing lights filling the room with sparks. He cupped a hand over his ear, the cacophony of sounds beginning to cause him actual pain.

He twisted to the right as a fleeting figure, in a swirl of flashing cape, suddenly shot past the mirrors Dean was facing, as though moving in a run from glass to glass. Patience at an end he yelled, "Stop it!!"

Silence reigned instantly.

The lounge went dark and even the chandeliers ceased their clinks and tinkling.

Rubbing a hand across his lips, wishing he had that damned shot glass, Dean raised the shotgun again and began a cautious sweep of the room, the faint reflection of light from the adjoining bar giving the lounge a dim glow.

His eyes went to another flash of sparkling cape in the corridor leading to the bathrooms, the only area that remained lighted.

Great, he thought, rolling his eyes with a grieved huff. He was chasing friggin' tinkerbell.

Alarms went off in his body, sending adrenaline pumping into his veins as he realized the corridor led to the bathrooms where Sam was supposed to be.

Gripping the gun more tightly he ran out of the lounge and down the hall. Skidding to a halt, he tried the door and found it was locked.

Hearing crashing and thumps from inside, water running and toilets being flushed, Dean hit the door with the flat of his hand.

"Sam!!! Sammy, what's going on?"

Not waiting for an answer, Dean took a step back and kicked the door inward with one blow, cracking the tiles as the door slammed into the inside wall.

He slipped in the water covering the floor and almost fell, saving himself by grabbing the counter, the gun flying from his surprised grip.

He could see Sam's legs thrashing through the open door in one of the stalls as something tried to hold his head down in the toilet. Water flew everywhere as he thrashed, struggling to break free.

Dean threw himself at the gun, sweeping it up from the puddle it lay in and braced himself, pumping both rounds into the air over Sam's heaving body. Rock salt pinged around the room and stung Dean's exposed skin but Sam, released, fell backwards, coughing and gasping.

Dean rushed over to him and pulled him out of the stall and back onto the floor. "Are you okay? Sam?" Dean demanded, trying to check Sam for injuries. "What the hell happened?"

"I'm okay!" Sam spluttered, wiping his hands over his face, "Something tried to drown me in the toilet!" He gagged, as much from the concept as the action itself.

Relived that Sam appeared to be relatively unhurt, Dean got to his feet, pulling his sopping wet brother up with him. "For a minute there, I thought you tried to wash your hair in the toilet like you did when you were a kid," he said with a crooked grin.

"I did not!" Sam cried in embarrassed outrage, grabbing hand towels to dry his face.

Dean laughed, recalling Sam's four year old antics, "You so did, and you figured the fresh water coming in after you flushed would do a kick ass job of rinsing it!!"

"DEAN!!!" Sam bellowed, throwing the wadded up towels at Dean. "I think we have more serious issues to discuss!" He shook his hair like a wet dog, scattering droplets around the room and Dean. The truth or lie of Dean's statement notwithstanding, Sam sure as hell wanted to wash his hair now.

Sam suddenly leaned toward Dean, eyes narrowing suspiciously and sniffed. "Have you been drinking?"

Dean's face straightened so suddenly he may as well have carried the bottle in with a straw in the neck to proclaim his guilt.

"Dude," he said, suddenly anxious to divert the conversation, "Let's get outta here and let me tell you what happened to me. You sure you're alright?" he asked with an over abundance of concern. He reached out to Sam but couldn't quite bring himself to touch Sam's dripping form.

Sam glared at Dean but nodded and pushed his way out of the bathroom and walked back toward the bar.

The lights in the corridor were still on but the bar and the lounge beyond remained dark. Dean clicked on his flash and guided them back to the carved wooden bar. He set it on end so that the light bounced off the mirrored ceiling and gave some weak illumination.

Sam grabbed a handful of bar towels and went back to trying to dry himself off, taking a seat at the polished mahogany bar.

Dean grabbed the Pasion Azteca Tequila and the shot glass and put them down in front of Sam.

"I don't want a drink," Sam snapped, ruffling his hair. He paused and took a second look at the bottle, squinting at the label in the thin light. "Dean, this is one of the most expensive tequilas in the world!" he exclaimed in horror.

"Really?" Dean replied, taking another somewhat bleary look. "How do you know? Tasted like regular old tequila to me." He glanced around under the bar. "Maybe if we had some limes and salt…"

"One of the guys in my class got a bottle for his birthday. You didn't drink any of this did you?" Sam said, eyeing the broken seal. "Dean-"

"No!" Dean protested, "I mean, well…yeah, I had a couple-"

"Dean!"

"Will you stop saying my name like it's a swear word!" Dean yelled, "and let me finish! Dude, you gotta see this."

Wearing a bitchface so perfect he must have been practicing in private, Sam crossed his arms and stared at Dean.

Unable to meet Sam's accusing stare, Dean uncapped the tequila and filled the shot glass. "I came in here to check out the bar and, yeah, I figured the least that… Bendover guy could do was spring for a drink, so I had one." Dean tossed the drink back as a demonstration, despite the look of protest that crossed Sam's face. He realized a trifle belatedly that five tequilas in an hour might have put him a tad over his limit, but he went gamely on, blinking.

"Anyway, when I went to pour another the glass was already full. By itself. I didn't pour it." He raised the shot glass which remained woefully empty. Dean peered into it, puzzled. "Sam, swear to God! It was like someone was giving me the drinks! And then I heard this music playing from the piano, and someone singing that stupid, "Seeing You" shong—song!" Dean went on hurriedly.

Sam cocked an eyebrow and peered at Dean skeptically. "Filled by itself, huh? Sounds like Liberace's after your ass if he's trying to ply you with liquor."

Dean went on doggedly, "I went in there to see what the hell and the piano was playing by itself. I even checked under the…" he stopped and gestured trying to think of what he wanted to describe with no help from Sam. "The hood thing…to make sure there wasn't some machine playing it, then I saw this figure in the mirrors-"

"Was it pink with a long trunk?" Sam asked, dryly very much not amused.

"I'm ser-serious!" Dean hiccupped, which pretty much destroyed his claim of veracity. "It had on this sparkly cape and moved across the mirrors, the music stopped and the lights went out except for the ones in the hallway going to the bathrooms. That's how I ended up there…in time to save you from drowning…toiletboy!!"

He hiccupped again, making a face at the still-empty glass. "And I gotta tell you, Flushie the Kid, you're damned lucky you didn't drown, 'cause there's no friggin' way I was gonna do CPR on you after I pulled you out of a toilet!" Dean punctuated his remark by dropping the shot glass, which bounced off the bar top, hit Sam's chest and rolled across the counter back to Dean.

Sam ground his teeth into his cheek to keep from laughing at Dean's ludicrously injured air, his pupils so dilated Sam wondered that he could see at all.

He frowned at Dean instead. "When I was in the bathroom," he began in a more serious tone, although watching as Dean blinked at him in a rather slow, lizard-like manner, Sam wasn't sure he really even had Dean's wavering tequila soaked attention. "I felt like someone was watching me, it was this weird sensation. All I wanted to do was get the hell out of there." He shifted uncomfortably, cold from his soaking in the toilet but also from remembering how desperately he wanted to leave that room and the feeling as he was dragged helplessly along the floor. "Next thing I know, something grabs me and tries to drown me. Then you showed up."

"Sorry it took so long to get to you," Dean said contritely, fumbling with the red shot glass.

Sam shrugged, "Sounds like you had stuff to deal with too, anyway you got there in time."

Dean nodded. "Yeah, woulda been a crappy way to find you." His face split into a grin and he snorted at his inadvertent joke. "A crappy way…you get it?" He poked Sam's arm.

Try as he might Sam couldn't stop the answering grin on his own face. "Yeah, Dean, I get it," he rolled his eyes. "Can we try focusing here? This thing started to write a word on the mirrors in the bathroom. 'BARA.'"

Dean scrunched up his face. "Bra…ah? What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Not bra!" Sam snapped, exasperated, "Bara! I got grabbed before it was finished, I think. I dunno. I want the laptop but it's in Bentkover’s office. Gimme your flashlight and I'll see if I can find my way back in the dark."

At his words the lights suddenly flickered back on.

Dean looked around. "See? When I was checkin' out the piano, just as I saw that figure the lights went out except for the ones in the hall. That's what made me go…that way."

He gestured loosely toward the hallway with one hand and rubbed his eyes with the other, starting to seriously feel the tequila now.

Sam made a face. "It's almost like there's two different things going on. One trying to hurt people and one trying to help." He pushed away from the bar and sent a glare at Dean.

"I'm gonna go get the computer and our bag, see if I can figure out what that word means. Can you just stay here and try not to get in any trouble? I'll be back in a few minutes."

He snagged the bottle of tequila and replaced the cap, screwing it down as tightly as he could. "And no more free drinks from your invisible friend!"

Dean jerked the bottle out of Sam's grip and pushed it back into its place on the shelf, looking offended. "Hey, I was okay enough to pull your ass out of the crapper!" He snapped, then paused to think about what he had just said. "Fine, I'll wait here," he replied. "I'll check the EMF…or something."

Sam nodded. "Good."

Sam grabbed the flash just in case and headed back toward Bentkover's office.

Dean, very buzzed but still annoyed, tapped his fingers on the bar. He pulled the EMF out of his pocket and gave the room a perfunctory sweep with it. The needle quivered slightly but he wrote that off to the lights.

He glanced in the direction Sam had gone, a little concerned about splitting up again, but the only thing more boring than watching Sam do research was…come to think of it, nothing was more boring than watching Sam do research.

He sighed and rubbed his face again. His eyes strayed back to the bottle on the shelf. He was definitely riding a tequila high, much more and he would be officially drunk so it was probably just as well-

He jerked as the EMF suddenly gave off its buzzing whine and the needle jumped to the end of the red mark then fell back.

"Shit…" he muttered, moving it back and forth. As it passed the doorway to the piano lounge the needle jumped again. Great, he thought, eyes flicking back the way Sam had gone. He moved slowly from around the bar, grabbing the shotgun and advanced toward the piano lounge, alternately watching the bouncing needle and glancing up to make sure he didn't blunder into…anything.

Walking through the filmy curtains hanging everywhere was skin crawlingly like walking through spiderwebs and Dean sent several of them to the floor as he wove through them, the EMF held in front of him, screeching annoyingly, the needle holding steady at the high end of the red mark.

He stumbled as his foot caught on another of the damned chairs, but not because he'd had too much to drink!

He dropped the EMF and broke his fall against one of the tables which tipped over with his weight and he crashed to the floor in a clumsy heap, swearing.

"Hello, Dean…"

His flailing stopped instantly and eyes shot up at the sound of that, oh-so-familiar, slightly sneering voice.

He scrambled hurriedly to his feet, grabbing the same chair that had tripped him to keep his balance. "Meg!" he coughed out in shock.

He shook his head, grinding his fingers into his eyes. Okay no more tequila for him - ever.

She stepped out of the shadows, the same short blonde hair, brown eyes, tan leather jacket and the same smirk twisting her pretty lips.

She rolled her eyes. "Dean, Dean, Dean," she chanted softly, dragging one of the filmy curtains through her hands. "You were never one to let the obvious escape you. It's nice to know old friends don't change." She laughed softly and watched him from the corner of her eyes.

Dean felt his heart start to beat faster. "You can't be here," he asserted, straightening. "We sent you back to hell. The girl you possessed died in my arms, you bitch!"

She ran her fingertips over a gilt-edged chair with distaste. Her head swiveled up to fix him with a cold stare as she undulated closer to him. "Yes, you did, on both counts. And yet another innocent dies at your hands." She smiled, sharing a secret between friends. "Admit it, Dean, I know you get off on killing demons, but wasn't the thrill of killing a human being, knowing you held their life in your hands, that you could crush it out with no more thought than you'd give to stepping on a bug, just that much more…fun?"

Dean felt himself giving ground as she advanced. "You aren't here," he said firmly, feeling the wall behind him. Saying it apparently didn't make it so as she kept coming.

He fumbled for the shotgun and raised it but her resultant laugh made him wonder if it would do any good to fire it.

Bentkover’s Office

Sam tapped gently on the door out of courtesy even though he was pretty sure their boss was no longer in the building. It was just a guess, but the hunter suspected Bentkover was pretty much a coward when it came to anything supernatural. Anything the man couldn’t understand he seemed to fear – which was probably why he’d taken an instant dislike to Dean.

Plus, Dean never really seemed to get along with members of his own sex. Maybe it was the inherent air of threat that followed Dean around and was sensed by other males like some bizarre anti-pheromone.

When no sound came from within the office, Sam twisted the door knob, half expecting it to be locked. Water dripped from his cuff and trickled along his hand onto the metal, reminding him that bathrooms really should be "no go" areas for this particular Winchester.

“Great, Dean will be calling me 'Soggy Sam' next,” he muttered to himself as he entered the office, fumbling again until he found the brass light switch by the side of the door frame.

Flicking it on, Sam entered, smiling as he left damp footmarks on Bentkover’s plush carpet. It was funny just how soaked he’d gotten from the overflowing sinks and “terror toilet.” That’ll teach Bentkover to diss hunters…

Spying their trusty laptop on Bentkover’s desk where they’d left it earlier, Sam sat in the plush chair, taking care to press his damp body into as much of it as possible in a gesture that would have made Dean proud.

As polite as Sam was by nature he was well aware that Bentkover was a total jerk, but he was also their current meal ticket and if Dean wanted to play with the big boy toys that Las Vegas had to offer, they needed to smile and be relatively servile so they could collect their pay.

He twisted the sleek silver computer around and quickly booted it, careful not to get any of the dripping water from his clothes and hair into the machine.

Toilet hair – I’ll start a new fashion, Sam thought with a grimace, pushing his shaggy, sopping mop back with one hand while he worked on Google with the other. Forget José Eber, just stick your head down the john…

Sam winced at his own humor and continued his search for the mystery word he’d seen scrawled in the restroom mirror.

“Bara” was apparently a name in some countries, a place, and even an association of some sort in the U.K. The problem was, none of the definitions exactly jumped out at the hunter as being something a ghost would write. A pissed ghost with a toilet fetish at that.

“I’m hitting a brick wall, and I bet Dean is down there having fun with that damn ever-full glass of tequila. How the hell did I get to be research boy?” Sam shook his head, knowing full well he’d made his own fate by being the only family member to actually go to college. Not that Dean was dumb – frighteningly far from it - he just played it sometimes when he wanted no part in the “boring side” of the family business.

Still, that didn’t mean Sam had to like it when he got stuck with the investigating while Dean got drunk. Sam smiled. Then again, sitting tapping at a laptop was way better than getting hit on by the King of Bling’s singing spirit.

Did I really think this gig would ever be fun?

In a way, it was amusing to see his brother squirm, but on the other hand the actual case was going nowhere. They hadn’t even exactly proved they were dealing with Liberace, let alone the "why" the spirit was back. And even if this was Liberace – which was looking like a big "if" right now – salting and burning a beloved Hollywood icon’s remains that were entombed in an above ground concrete crypt in the middle of the most famous cemetery in the world wasn’t going to be any party.

Sam sighed, wishing the bar towels had absorbed more of the sweet smelling water from his clothing.

Who the hell puts scented water in a toilet? I smell like a damn girl…

Of course, if he didn’t get to a shower and soon, he’d get called more than that by Dean – especially when his sibling sobered enough to dredge through his seemingly endless supply of insulting names for every occasion.

Sam would have considered anything better than “Raymond” at this point. For a second, he even considered forgetting the word “Bara” in search of the elusive moniker’s origins, but after a quick shrug he pushed away the idea. He had to remember who “Raymond” was without the aid of Google, if only for his own sanity.

Focusing back on the word at hand, Sam tapped more keys, hitting the more obscure sites on the search engine’s pages until something made him pause. “Bara” was apparently a word belonging to the Taino culture – a pre-Colombian people who believed the word meant "death."

“Okay, after being half-drowned in a toilet bowl I’d say this is the word I’m looking for…” Sam’s eyes danced across the writing on the screen, trying to miss out anything that seemed irrelevant to his search. “Now what the hell is an ancient word from an ancient culture doing being scrawled in the bathroom from hell?”

The page ended with no other reference to what he was investigating and Sam pushed back in Bentkover’s chair, annoyed that he was probably getting no further than his half- inebriated brother.

At least when someone is after Dean's ass in this place it’s literally. It’s not trying to show him one hundred and one new ways to shower head first down a crapper.

Sam looked up as he heard a shuffle outside the door. Speak of the devil. He wasn't surprised, Dean bored easily and after the earlier incident, even half in the bag, Dean would not be happy about them separating again.

“Hey, Dean, you need a hand finding which door is the real one? Go for the one in the middle,” He called out. Smiling, he closed the laptop to stride across the room into the outer corridor. Despite Sam's admonitions, Dean had no doubt given in to temptation and had partaken of more tequila and would probably need to puke or pass out somewhere pretty soon.

And let’s face it I doubt he’s going to want to visit the john in this joint ever again, and I'm sure as hell with him in that…

Sam stopped the minute he stepped into the corridor.

It was darker than when he’d entered the office and it was wrong all over again, just like in the bathrooms.

In the shadows, the lanky hunter could see a figure, but it wasn't Dean's form in the deeper darkness. From the lithe shape and height he guessed it was a woman – certainly not what he was expecting at this time in a haunted bar’s offices. Not that Dean would complain if he were here right now.

“Hey, the place is closed. Did you get locked in?” He asked, nerve endings prickling as he cautiously moved forward a step.

The woman didn’t answer, and Sam stopped dead as she came smoothly toward him, floating over the ground. Sam glanced downwards at the end of the long fluttering skirts where no feet were visible. The effect was better than any Hollywood movie, but the best was yet to come.

As Sam watched in morbid fascination the girl’s features came into view. So young, so beautiful, so familiar.

“You…you…” Sam's spine hit the doorjamb to Bentkover’s office even though he didn’t recall sending the signal from his brain to back up. His breathing sped up along with his heart and he seemed to stall, caught between the urge to run and the desire to crumple to the ground in shock as Jess's lips curved into a smile.

“What, Sam?” she asked in feigned surprise. Her arms stretched outwards, beckoning, calling him to her, but something told him the embrace from this abomination that wore Jess's face would not be affectionate.

“You can’t be here.” Sam’s Adam’s apple bobbed and he swallowed convulsively. It had to be a nightmare. He was asleep, remembering, imagining. "This isn't real. You aren't Jess."

The Jess thing shook her head, long hair billowing backwards even though there was no breeze in the passageway. “You’re not asleep, Sam. I’m real. Just as real as your pathetic, drunken, brother-”

Sam tried to compose himself, fighting the part of him that wanted - needed - this to be real because he still loved Jess – still missed her even though he had accepted he needed to move on. Whoever, whatever this was enjoyed his pain, perhaps even fed on it like the Alp that had once attacked Dean.

“Jess is dead." Trying his damndest to keep the question out of the statement. "I don’t know what you are, but you’re not my girlfriend.” Sam pried his back from the doorframe and ducked back into the office, desperate to retrieve the bag the brothers had left behind earlier along with the laptop. His eyes flashed quickly across the room, but there was no sign of the elusive holdall or its contents.

Shit!

“You can’t run from me, Sam."

Sam spun around, facing the entity that had joined him in the office, unsure whether it really was the specter of his girlfriend, warped by her time stuck in the ether, or whether the thing was something more – something that enjoyed extra-toiletry activities.

The voice took on an ethereal sound. One he almost felt more than he heard. "You can’t run from your past or what you did that night…” Jess held her head at an odd angle, the meager lighting somehow reflecting some strange glow in her eyes that made her look almost like a mannequin.

“What I did?” Sam asked, then cursed himself for responding to the bait. “Was it you in the bathroom?”

Jess’s smile widened and she reached out again, fingers spreading this time, the motion of her arms sending a gust of wind through the room that almost left icicles hanging from Sam’s soaked locks – almost.

“Hey!” Sam complained suddenly, pulling a burst of bravado and wit from somewhere inside him that nearly rivaled his brother’s, even without the tequila. “Next time make it warm. I kinda need a blow dry after your bathroom foreplay.” He stuffed a hand in his pocket while he talked, hitting on the right buttons from memory to speed dial Dean.

You so better not have passed out on the bar, bro…

The cell chimed, indicating it was calling someone, but Sam had no real way of knowing if his brother had picked up or not. He really didn’t want this Jessthing, or whatever the hell it was, knowing he’d called for reinforcements – reinforcements that he hoped were sober enough to know the right end of a rocksalt-filled shotgun.

I hope you’re hearing this, Dean…c'mon, c'mon.c'mon!!!

Jess’s brow suddenly creased and she stopped her forward motion, her head cocking slightly as it tipped towards Sam’s pocket. “You shouldn’t have done that, Sam," she murmured, disappointment in him plain on her lovely face. "He can’t help you anyway…”

“What have you done?” Sam’s voice cracked as the abrupt thought hit him that Dean may be in worse danger. They had already speculated there might be two spirits. What if they were both evil playing off each other?

“Nothing that I’m not going to do to you next-” The Jessthing lifted her left arm until it was level with the young hunter, opening her palm as it came in line with his chest.

In an instant, Sam felt something slam into him like one of Rocky Balboa’s best. Sheesh, whatever the hell this thing was it may have looked like a girl but it sure didn't hit like one…

The power of the punch was so unexpected he seemed to absorb it more, his body spinning backwards and over Bentkover’s oak desk before he could gain any semblance of balance.

Hey, Dean’s the one who's supposed to get tossed into something hard at least once per gig, not me!

Sam grunted loudly as his ribs glanced off the arm of Bentkover’s outrageously large chair, winding him as he landed in a crumpled mess on the other side. “Why?” He managed to gasp, grimacing, one hand covering his ribs. “Why hurt people here? Why now?”

The hunter shakily used the back edge of the desk to pull himself up, leaning heavily on the worktop as he sucked down several breaths in quick succession.

Jess's doppelganger didn’t answer. She simply stared at him with those cold, doll-like eyes until he could take no more. Sam looked away, wanting, needing to remember his girlfriend the way she had been not this macabre facsimile.

This wasn’t the woman who he’d made love to, worshipped, hell, intended to marry. No matter how long Jess was trapped in limbo, she wouldn’t be this way. He couldn’t believe it.

Not now.

Not ever.

“You killed me, Sam." Her voice grew hard, angry. "The night you left me behind to go with your brother, just like that. You walked away and left me behind at the mercy of that yellow-eyed thing. A toy for it to torment. I didn’t deserve that. Now you have to pay, just like the others…”

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The Winchester Chronicles