Season Three

Episode Seventeen: Work of Art

By Tree

Part Two

Kelli Mattingly’s Dorm Room
University of Washington

Sam shifted nervously on the edge of the bed. A sudden chill swept over his body causing him to shudder but he ignored the sensation as he listened intently to the young redhead seated across from him.

Watching as Dana Severson wiped at the stubborn tears that trickled from her eyes, he reached over and patted her shoulder tenderly. Posing as a representative from the university’s Student Affairs, he’d easily won the young woman’s trust as she opened up and told him everything about her former roommate’s life.

“I just don’t understand what happened,” the redhead bemoaned as she stood abruptly and angrily tossed a light blue sweater into an open box. “She had everything going her way. Why would she do this?”

“How long were you roommates?” Sam asked.

“Just the past two years. I transferred over from Seattle Community College. But we hit it off really well. We knew everything about each other.”

“Was Kelli happy? You said everything was going so well for her. Did she ever mention feeling bad, strange maybe?” the hunter queried.

“Kelli was the perpetual optimist. Nothing ever got her down. I guess after how she grew up, everything else was better,” Dana replied.

“How’s that? She had a bad childhood?”

“Bad? That’s an understatement. She never told me all the gory details, but from what I gather, Kelli’s dad was a real bastard. Abused her, beat her something awful, and I’m not entirely sure he didn’t sexually assault her, but she never told me that for sure.”

“What about her mom?”

“Left her with her dad. Just took off and never came back, never called or nothing. I can’t imagine what that’s like. I know Kelli said she understood why her mom left, but deep down, I think it made her feel worthless or something. Like her mom didn’t love her enough to save her from that ass. Can you even imagine what it must feel like to know that your mother didn’t give a damn about you and all your dad wanted you for was… well, you know?”

Sam grimaced. “How awful,” he murmured. “Is that why she was studying law?”

Dana nodded. “Yeah. She was determined to go after justice for everybody she could. She used to say that no one ever spoke up for her, she wanted to make sure that never happened to anyone else.”

“What ever happened to her dad?”

“She never said. I think he drank himself to death. She let it slip one time that she wouldn’t drink because she didn’t want to end up like him.”

Sam rose and casually strolled over to look at the mound of books stacked silently on the small wood desk. Picking up the copy of Henry Abraham’s The [i]Judicial Process[/i], he couldn’t avoid the sudden onslaught of memories the textbook brought rushing back.

Poli-Sci 404… a class he would have taken the following semester if…

“I guess that makes sense,” he quickly added, pushing away the sad memory. “So she was pretty happy here then? Doing well in classes and all?”

“Oh God yes! She was like this sponge. Got here on a scholarship, was Dean’s list nearly every semester. Dude, she like aced the LSAT’s with a one seventy-two. Do you have any idea how hard that is? How smart she had to be to pull that off?” Dana asked proudly.

Sam nodded with a smile. Did he know about LSAT’s and high scores? Yeah, a thing or two, considering his result had been one seventy-four. It had been his above average score that had earned him the possibility of a full ride at Stanford’s Law School.

A fading memory… another lifetime… a different Sam Winchester.

“That’s really impressive,” Sam agreed, a tinge of sadness to his voice that he couldn’t quite mask. “I bet she had her choice of law schools.”

“She did. As a matter of fact, her boss at work had pretty much guaranteed her a spot at Columbia if she wanted. I guess he had connections with the selections council. That’s what makes this all so hard to believe,” Dana cried, shaking her head sadly.

“Yeah, that doesn’t sound like someone who’s suicidal.”

“Suicidal? That’s such a joke. If Kelli was suicidal or disturbed, then I’m Paris Hilton,” the short redhead said sarcastically. “The night before she died, we were watching Grey’s reruns and pigging out on popcorn. She was laughing her ass off about Izzy and Denny. Thought they looked so silly together. But then, she had a thing for the dude that played Denny, so I think that was just wishful thinking on her part.”

“So tell me, the night she died. Was there anything different about her then?” Sam asked.

“I hadn’t really seen her other than that morning. She seemed perfectly normal to me then, but later…” The redhead’s voice trailed off as she turned away and resumed packing the scattered belongings of her former friend.

“Dana? What? What happened later?” Sam questioned, turning to look back at the young woman.

She ceased her packing and sighed loudly as she rubbed the back of her neck. “It was weird really.” Dana began. “I was downstairs in the lobby that night, copying notes for a class I’d missed when I saw her walk through. I called out to her, several times, but it was like she was in her own little world.”

“She didn’t respond at all?” Sam asked.

“No, she just kept right on going like I wasn’t even there. It was like she was on a mission and everything else around her had just ceased to exist.”

“Could you see her face, more specifically her eyes? Did she look okay?”

“I could see her face just fine. I even ran right up to her before she went out the door. Her eyes seemed normal to me. Why do you ask? If you think Kelli was on drugs or something, you’re way off base, mister,” the young woman insisted angrily.

‘No, no, no,” Sam hastily replied. “I didn’t mean to imply anything. It was just curiosity. I was thinking there are a lot of reasons why someone can act abnormally. Things like head injuries, problems with their blood sugar, all sorts of medical problems.”

Yeah, and let’s not forget demon possession… he added silently.

“Kelli was healthy as a horse. I’m the one that never seems to make it through a week without coming down with something, but not Kelli,” the redhead answered.

Sam turned back to the deceased girl’s desk, casually sifting through a stack of perfectly labeled file folders. Spotting one marked “Law School Application,” he pulled it out of the pile. Yet, as his fingers teased at the edge, he couldn’t seem to make himself open it.

“She had so much ahead of her, why would she do something like this if there wasn’t something wrong? Something forcing her he mused.

“Why did you toss it all away? You had so much going for you. Law School, a beautiful girlfriend, a chance for a normal life,” his inner voice demanded.

“I didn’t toss it away. I was forced into this life. I lost everything the night Jess died,” Sam silently threw back.

“Did you? Did you really, Sam?”

“You know, there was one other thing that night,” the auburn-haired woman stated, interrupting Sam’s inner dialogue.

“Oh?” he asked, jerking back around to face her and dropping the folder.

“Well, I didn’t say anything at first, but I do remember her mumbling something as she walked past me. I would have told the cops but I just didn’t want people to get the wrong impression of Kelli.”

“What did she say, Dana?”

The girl grimaced as though she was still unsure of what she was about to divulge. “She said something about ‘making them pay’,” she finally informed him. “It didn’t faze me then, but after, I just had to wonder.”

Sam’s brows pinched together. “Make who pay?”

“I don’t know. She didn’t have any enemies and the people that knew her, loved her. Like I said, Kelli was all about helping people, never hurting them. What could ever possess her to do what she did?”

Possess her? Sam thought. If you only knew…

He talked with the girl for a few more minutes, eventually excusing himself after assuring that the young woman was “coping okay” with the tragedy. He completed the ruse by giving her his cell number and insisting she call him if she needed someone to talk to.

Stepping outside, the night air grabbed him in a bear hug, a shiver not unlike the one that had swept over him in Kelli’s room, coursing through him again. Pulling the edges of his jacket closer, he began walking away from the dorm.

Around him, several other students were out and about. Eavesdropping on their conversations as he passed them, Sam couldn’t help but let his memories of Stanford overtake him.

“Can you believe the damn questions on that test?”

“Yeah, the asshole swore it was only going to cover chapter sixteen but what the hell was all that stuff on the Angeli Dynasty?”

“I’m sooo gonna fail that freakin’ class…”

Smiling, the younger Winchester could recall making similar statements. He often thought that his Western Civ professor was either possessed or merely in the early stages of Alzheimer's. The man rarely if ever tested the class on any of the material they’d recently covered.

Still, Sam had survived. Not just survived, he’d excelled. Determined to dig his way out of a life of hunting not so grossly different than how Kelli Mattingly had tried to dig her way out of a childhood that similarly haunted her.

Neither one of us escaped…

A soft mist began to hang in the air and Sam withdrew the cellphone from the pocket of his jacket before buttoning it up.

While he was enthralled by Seattle and the UW campus, he had to admit that the daily quota of rain the northwestern town received was not high on the list of things he enjoyed, especially if he was caught outside in it while waiting on his brother.

Hitting the speed dial for Dean, he listened as the ring on the other end sounded once, twice and then two more times before his brother’s voicemail finally picked up.

“This is Dean. If you’re smart enough to use a cellphone then you’re smart enough to know what to do at the tone.”

Dean… ever the smartass, Sam thought to himself with a wry smirk.

“Hey Dean, I’m ready to go. Had an interesting conversation with Kelli’s roommate. Come pick me up and I’ll fill you in.”

Sam ended the call and found a bench beside the sidewalk. Sitting down in the illumination of the nearby lamp, he glanced at his watch and waited for the black Impala to pull up. Ignoring the earlier admonition to his brother about ceasing the “one-up-on-you” game they’d been playing, he began to silently plot a fitting revenge to the ice-cold water shower Dean had so kindly provided him.

He shivered one more time, assumed it was from the memory of Dean’s frozen practical joke, and drew his arms in around his chest. But the chill refused to abate and deep down, that little voice in Sam’s head began to whisper.

State Liquor Store # 182
2307 East Union Street

Potato chips flew outward as though someone had set off a bomb in a Frito Lay plant as the older man fired the shotgun a second time. Dean could smell the combination of salt and oil as he dove for cover to the opposite side of the aisle. His first leap had carried him out of the open and behind the relative safety of the potato chip rack just an instant before the Asian man pulled the trigger on the pump-action Mossberg.

Another blast sounded and the pungent odor of aged Tennessee whiskey assailed his nostrils as the shower of liquor rained down on him from the shattered bottles above his head. Under normal circumstances, the smell would have set his mouth to watering, but considering he was on the receiving end of a shotgun, indulging in Jack’s and Jim’s finest was the farthest thing from his mind.

“STOP!” Dean shouted when there was a pause in the gunfire. “PLEASE… STOP… SHOOTING… AT ME!”

He tucked in tighter against the perceived sanctuary of the shelving unit as another bullet whistled above him.

“Great, now Lucy Liu’s taking potshots,” Dean grumbled sarcastically.

Another break in the raucous noise and Dean chanced a look to his left. Just a few feet beyond his reach the wallet containing his fake police badge and ID lay splayed open on the floor. Taunting him like a raven-skinned temptress clad in silver it represented his salvation but remained well out of reach.

Story of my life…

Dean shrunk as he heard the telltale solid click of the shotgun being pumped. Glancing nervously up to the security mirror hanging from the corner of the store, he spotted the movement of the man as he stalked down the next aisle. Slowly moving to come up from the other side, Dean knew he would soon be trapped between the couple.

Caught between a rock and a hard place… or in this case a shotgun and a .357…

Gotta move… I’m a sitting duck if I stay here! But if I break my cover, the old woman will have a clean shot that not even she could miss with that big friggin’ gun…

From his cramped position, Dean could feel the muzzle of his Colt pressing against the small of his spine. His fingers twitched as though they had a mind and will of their own.

The gun… grab the gun… they beckoned.

“Tempting, but no,” Dean refuted aloud. “Can’t exactly justify shooting my way out of a liquor store just because the owners think I’m here to rob and kill them.”

While he had no intention of harming the innocent couple, Dean knew he was fast running out of options. He glanced again at the counterfeit badge and then shot a look at the front door. Calculating the distance, he reluctantly admitted that despite his usual “act-first, think about the risks later” M.O., there was no way he was cocky enough to try and outrun a bullet.

“Momch’uda! Namp’yon, momch’uda!” The woman’s higher-pitched voice broke the temporary silence of the store.

Dean listened, still not comprehending the foreign language other than to acknowledge that it sounded like something from a late night martial arts flick. Didn’t they have to speak English of some sort in order to operate the business? But then, he supposed that words like beer, whiskey and tequila were relatively universal. At least he always managed to make himself understood no matter how intoxicated he was or how slurred his speech had become.

“Momch’uda, namp’yon. Namja han kyongch’algwan,” she spoke again.

“Policeman?” the man answered in heavily-accented English.

Dean sucked in a breath and held it as his hopes were instantly lifted by that one word.

“Yes, policeman,” he repeated frantically while still maintaining his cover.

Tentatively peeking around the corner of the rack, Dean saw that the woman had moved from behind the counter and was now standing in the center of the floor, the dark wallet lay open in her hand as she stared at the badge and ID. He saw the look of realization sweep across her face and couldn’t help but breathe a sigh of relief.

“You… policeman… sorry, so sorry…” the man stammered. “Not mean to shoot at you.”

Sorry? Didn’t mean to shoot at me? Well that makes it all better…

Dean closed his eyes as the adrenalin began to ebb out of his system. His heart was slowly returning to a normal rate as he pushed himself up from the floor with a groan.

“Policeman?” the old man called out again.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m okay. Just lower your weapons all right?” he answered, cautiously rising up and slowly edging from his hiding spot.

Taking a stiff-legged step forward, Dean was met by the woman. She handed him the wallet containing the bogus badge with a nervous smile and an apology in her eyes.

“Yu gamsuron. Yongsohada naege," she begged, her head humbly dipping low.

“My wife, she say she sorry,” the man translated as he drew in closer. “I sorry as well.”

Dean carefully marked that both the shotgun and the Smith & Wesson were no longer in either of the couple’s hands. He relaxed slightly and nodded his acceptance.

“It’s okay. No hard feelings. I understand,” he offered. “You understand English now?”

“Yes. My English not so good. My son…” the man stopped abruptly and Dean saw his eyes mist over as his head lowered.

It became brutally clear to the hunter what had happened here. The storekeeper’s son must have been the victim of Frat Boy’s mindless attack. What other reason could the older couple have had for reacting so violently?

The man continued. “Chin Hwa was good son. He speak English good. He speak for me. But…”

“He was killed?” Dean asked.

“He not hurt anyone. But other boy come in store and shoot him. No reason.”

The man’s grief was palpable and interlaced with a yearning to understand the senseless act that had claimed the life of his child. Dean recognized the overwhelming need for justification all too well. He’d been seeking the same understanding of his mother’s death for over two decades.

“Can I ask you a couple of questions about what happened?” he requested solemnly.

Every instinct told him to just leave these people in peace, but inwardly, he knew he had to find out if there was more to the shooting and Frat Boy’s involvement than what the media had implied.

Speaking slowly and concisely, Dean began. “Were you here that night? Did you see the man that shot your son?”

The man looked at him carefully as he absorbed the words. He slowly shook his head and pointed to his wife.

“No. But Hae, she see.”

Dean turned to look at the woman. She remained quiet and withdrawn, nothing like the fiery-eyed attacker from earlier.

“What did you see?” he asked gently.

“So nyon, kun so nyon, oda ui ane, chwi da manun pyong. Namja oda ui ane uro kyesangi. So nyon yogu hada kum jon. Chin Hwa malhada chogumdo nahida. So nyon koyohan utda onje kununga ssoda Chin Hwa manun sigan.”

Dean listened as the woman spoke, her voice cracking with emotion, tears flowing freely from her eyes. He glanced back to the man, hoping her husband would translate.

“She say big boy come in and take many bottles. He come to counter. Boy demands money but Chin Hwa say ‘no.' He still laughing when he shoot Chin Hwa many times.”

“Big boy huh? I guess that’s Frat Boy for sure. Mister… uh…”

“Lee. Kwan Lee,” the man introduced himself, offering his hand.

“Mr. Lee, can you ask your wife if she remembers seeing the big boy’s eyes?”

“Eyes?”

“Yes,” Dean repeated, pointing at his own hazel orbs. “What color?”

“Nabbun so nyon, oddon pitggal kuui nun?”

“Ko dong saek,” the woman answered.

“She say brown. Why important? They catch boy at school,” Lee stated.

“Yes. They did,” Dean assured. So much for possession, Sammy.

Relatively sure that this case was just as he’d suspected, Dean was about to excuse himself and leave when he spotted the security camera again.

“That camera. Do you have a tape?” he asked pointing at the device.

The man seemed perplexed at first but understanding quickly dawned on him as Dean moved closer to the counter and pointed at the apparatus.

“Disc. It on disc. You want copy too?” Lee asked.

Dean nodded as the man trotted behind the counter and began processing the request. While he moved away, his wife took Dean’s arm and began chattering away, her language still foreign but flowing off her tongue rapidly as she relayed significant information.

Unable to understand her, but seeing the importance in her face, the magnitude of emotion held in her voice, Dean remained still and listened.

“Hae say there more. She say that boy not act right. Like he not really see Chin Hwa. Like he shoot something else. When he done, he take money from register, but then still pay for liquor he take like he never know what he done,” the husband informed him.

Dean’s brows pressed together as he considered the woman’s information. If it wasn’t possession, then Frat Boy must have truly been off his rocker. Robbing the liquor store was one thing, even killing the Lees' son in cold blood was demented but explainable, but to do both and then still pay for the merchandise after the murder was just bizarre.

“I’m really sorry,” he offered, gently patting the woman on the shoulder in consolation.

Still, Dean wasn’t sold on the idea of something supernatural being involved, but he knew he’d have to appease Sam’s insistence of this being a hunt. Hopefully the security tape would clear that up once and for all and they could move on to something more promising.

Mr. Lee came back around the counter and handed him the disc. “I sorry again. Never mean to hurt police,” he apologized fervently. “We in trouble?”

Yeah, ’cause I can so haul your asses in for unlawful discharge of a firearm… or better still… assault with a deadly weapon on a fake law enforcement officer.

Dean smiled and shook his head. “No. I understand. No trouble, okay? No hard feelings,” he assured the man once more.

The Lees' showered him with offers of merchandise as he headed for the door as they repeatedly apologized. All in all, they seemed like a truly nice couple and his heart went out to them for the needless loss of their son. He didn’t harbor any bad feelings towards them for all their attempts to kill him. On a level, he kind of understood.

Stepping outside into the quiet of the night, Dean finally acknowledged the insistent ping of his cell alerting him to a waiting voicemail. Pulling the phone from his pocket as he reached the waiting Impala, he tapped the button and replayed the message.

Leaning against the side of the car, he quickly dialed Sam.

“Dude, where the hell are you?” his brother’s voice demanded as the call was picked up. “I’ve been waiting for nearly an hour and it’s raining.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry. Are you melting?” Dean snapped back absently grimacing as the muscles in the lower right side of his back protested the earlier abuse.

“Not funny, Dean. Seriously, if you’ve been jerking around at a bar or something while I’ve been waiting, I’m gonna kick your ass again. I know you don’t think there’s any hunt here, but I need you to take this seriously.”

“Back off, ass-munch, I am taking this seriously. You don’t know how serious things just were for me,” he retorted.

“Well, good…” Sam continued, his irritation diffused, “’cause I have some interesting information from Kelli’s roommate about the night she died.”

“Yeah, well I got a security tape from the night Frat Boy stormed the liquor store.”

“Seems Kelli was perfectly normal up until that night. Then she just seemed to zone out. Her roommate says she kept repeating ‘make them pay’,” Sam rambled on.

Dean groaned. Sammy was on a hunt-high. Like a dog with a bone, whatever he’d learned had been enough to convince the younger sibling and Dean could tell that his brother was even more determined to investigate what he perceived to be some sort of demonic interference.

“Sammy, that doesn’t mean she was possessed. Maybe she was just really pissed off.”

“No, Dean. You didn’t hear about this girl. She didn’t just snap, there was something else going on. Now how far away are you? When are you gonna get here so I can fill you in?” his brother questioned insatiably.

“Could really use a beer right now, Sammy,” Dean suggested with an exhausted sigh. The night’s events were starting to catch up with him and he shifted uncomfortably against the cold metal of the Chevy’s door.

“Work, Dean. We’re on a case, remember?”

Sam was starting to sound pissy and Dean wasn’t in the mood for a pissy Sam.

“On my way, Sam,” Dean conceded with a groan and ended the call.

There was no point in trying to argue with his brother over the phone, not when it would be so much more entertaining to do it in the flesh. Maybe he could find a Spencer’s on the way back to the university. Nothing said “game on” like sneezing powder. And besides, if Sam was insisting on preventing Dean from having any relaxation of the female or beer variety, then Dean was equally determined to create some fun of his own.

Pulling open the door, he dropped into the seat, wincing as another strong feeling of discomfort tugged at his lower back.

Pressing his hand inside his jacket, he was about to withdraw the unused .45 from behind the waistband of his jeans when his hand met another sensation.

Warmth… wetness… sticky, warm wetness to be precise.

Dean groaned, not from pain as much as from utter resignation to what had happened, his red-stained hand mocking him as he stared blankly at it in the soft glow of the streetlamp.

Blood…

“Guess I didn’t dive out of the way of that shotgun fast enough after all,” he bemoaned with a nervous chuckle. “Sam’s really gonna be pissed now.”

Puget Sound Inn

Dean had pulled up to the curb outside of the room of dormitories and waited for Sam to climb into the car, never moving from his position in the driver’s seat. He shifted gingerly, successfully managing to hide the pain by silently grinding his teeth together.

He could feel the annoying trickle of blood still flowing down his side and collecting underneath the right cheek of his ass. Wanting nothing more than to scratch at the irritation, he knew better than to twist around realizing that the resulting movement would likely cause him to let loose with a string of obscenities that would undoubtedly alert Sam to his injury.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want his brother to know he’d been shot; it was just more the case that he wasn’t in the mood for full-on worried Sam. In fact, what Dean really wanted the most was a hot shower, a soft bed and a healthy slug from the bottle of Booker’s Small Batch bourbon, courtesy of the Lees, that was sitting in the back seat.

Still, by the time they pulled into the parking lot of the Puget Sound Inn, Dean knew that the brief time sitting in one position had served to tighten up the already tense and abused flesh and muscles in his back. While Sam bounded out of the car and into the office to check them in, Dean remained behind, his knuckles tightly gripping the steering wheel as he summoned up the energy to pull himself from the car.

The adrenaline gone from his body, he had nothing to call on but sheer determination and the desire to move before he ended up just saying “to hell with it all” and sleeping in the Impala. The gunshot, coupled by the long drive up from Nevada had taken their toll and Dean knew he still needed to debrief with Sam before his brother was likely to allow him to call it a night.

“After a shower, food, and a stiff belt,” he added aloud.

He had just made it out of the driver’s side and was listing/resting against the cool metal of the door when Sam returned.

Unknowingly, the younger sibling tossed the key to Dean causing him to inadvertently jerk around to catch it. He ended up missing, groaning as the key continued to the pavement with a jingle of metal on concrete.

Dean looked down at the ground and then back up at his brother. He saw Sam’s eyes narrow in return, watching with growing suspicion as Dean slowly bent down to retrieve the key.

With his back exposed, Dean had no way of knowing that the blood from the gunshot wound had now seeped through the heavy material of his green jacket staining it with an incriminating dark red blot. But he quickly figured it out at Sam's loud huff of air from the other side of the Impala.

“Dammit, Dean! What the hell happened?” his brother exclaimed.

He considered his reply, toying with sarcasm or denial. In the end, pain and exhaustion demanded honesty as Dean managed to scoop up the dropped room key and force himself upright again.

“I sorta got shot, Sammy,” he admitted, leaning heavily once more against the Chevy.

Sam was by his side in an instant and for a moment Dean wondered if his brother had suddenly added teleportation to his repertoire of mysterious powers.

“Sorta shot?” Sam repeated, his hands already tugging up the tail of Dean’s jacket to explore the wound. “Sorta shot? How exactly does one get sorta shot, Dean? It’s like being pregnant, either you are or you aren’t.”

Dean shot him a weak smirk. “Well, I can guarantee I’m not pregnant and as for the gunshot wound, I guess I sorta didn’t jump out of the way fast enough.”

“Who was shooting at you, Dean? I mean, all you had to do was go check out a crime scene. How in the world did you end up in a gunfight?”

The elder sibling was about to reply, but was cut off with a wave of a hand and the rough grab of his wrist as Sam pulled his arm over his shoulders. Supporting Dean’s failing form his brother moved them toward the motel room door.

“Nevermind, just don’t say anything,” Sam continued. “Hold tight and let me get you inside so I can get a decent look at this.”

Once inside, Sam’s irritation had apparently lapsed, much to Dean’s relief. His brother gently lowered him down to the nearest bed then turned and headed back outside. In a flurry of activity that only Sam could pull off and make look coordinated, Dean watched out of half-closed eyes as his brother brought in their gear.

“Okay, roll over and let me take a look,” Sam ordered when he was finished.

“Aw, Sammy. You’re so not the person I want to hear say that to me,” Dean replied with a chuckle as he struggled to peel off the layers of clothing.

In the end, it was his brother that managed to pull off his jacket and dual shirts as Dean collapsed face down against the worn fabric of the bedspread. He vaguely heard Sam’s hiss of breath as his brother examined the wound. Yet even as exhaustion threatened to claim his lucidity there was no denying when his younger brother began to probe at the injury.

“Stop…” he gasped breathlessly. “Stop a second, Sam.”

“Dean, there’s at least a half dozen holes in your back. What was it? Shotgun?”

“Yeah…,” Dean replied, biting down on his lower lip as his brother started digging at the round pellets that peppered the area above his right hip. “Sam, hang on … hang on.”

“They gotta come out, Dean,”

“Yeah, Roger that, but how 'bout a little bedside manner there Florence? Back seat of the car, grab the bottle, would ya?”

Sam complied, quickly returning with the bottle of one hundred twenty-five proof whiskey.

Dean uncapped it and took a long pull straight from the mouth of the bottle. It was smooth, even better than some of the premium bourbons he’d treated himself to in the past. He had to hand it to Mr. Lee, the man had certainly gifted him with a fine bottle of alcohol. It was almost worth getting shot over.

Almost …

“So, mind telling me where you picked up a bottle of seventy dollar bourbon?” Sam asked as he went to work on Dean’s back.

“Kwan Lee. Nice old man…that's when he’s not wielding a pump-action Mossberg,” Dean answered from between gritted teeth.

“Liquor store?”

“Yeah, father of the clerk that Frat Boy killed.”

“His name is Steve Washburn,” Sam informed him.

There was a clinking of metal on glass as his brother withdrew the first of the shot and dropped it into an empty ashtray.

“That’s one,” the younger Winchester announced. “So what else did you find out?”

Dean sucked in a ragged breath, hoping to settle his empty stomach and clear his head enough to remain coherent.

“Well, after all the gunfire ceased and with the help of Mr. Lee’s translation, his wife said that this Washburn dude just strolled into the place, grabbed a couple bottles off the shelf and basically walked up to the counter and demanded all the money from their son.”

“And then?” Sam beckoned him on, knowingly keeping Dean’s mind on the hunt and off of the pain that was being inflicted on him.

“Their son refused and Frat Boy unloaded a clip into him. Completely cold blooded about it,” Dean answered, stifling a grunt as Sam withdrew another piece of metal.

“Did she see his eyes?”

“Yeah, they were normal, Sammy,” he answered before tilting the bottle of bourbon toward his mouth for another drink.

He heard Sam sigh from behind him. “But here’s the part that doesn’t sit right with me,” Dean continued. “Before he leaves, Frat Boy reaches into his pocket and leaves a handful of twenties to pay for the booze. Takes the money from the register, kills the Lees' son, but decides to pay for the liquor he could just as easily taken.”

“Yeah, that’s kinda bizarre,” Sam agreed. “Hold still a second.”

Dean grunted loudly as his brother probed for a deeper remnant. “Sammy,” he breathed out. “Mrs. Lee said that Washburn acted like he didn’t even see their son. Like it wasn’t even a human he was killing. She said he was laughing like it was a joke.”

“That’s not too different from what Kelli’s roommate said about how she was acting that night,” Sam added in. “She said Kelli was out of it. Didn’t recognize her, didn’t speak to her, almost as if she was in another world.”

“But no black eyes?” Dean asked.

“Nope,” his brother answered as he plucked out a third bit of shot. “What do you think, Dean? If not possession, then what?”

“Drugs?” Dean mumbled. “I’ve said it before, not every whacked out murderer has to be the result of a demon’s handiwork.”

“Yeah, maybe, but it wasn’t drugs, dude. Not for Kelli. No way. You didn’t see this girl’s room, you didn’t hear about her life. She was going to law school, Dean. She had everything ahead of her. No way she throws that all away,” Sam insisted as he pulled free another pellet.

“Law school, huh?”

“Don’t go there, Dean. I know what you’re thinking.”

“You do? Cause all I’m thinking, Sam, is that you can identify with this dead chick. She lost everything, you lost everything. Seems easier to think it was all because of a demon than to admit in her case she just snapped,” Dean proposed.

“And what about Washburn and Laurel Brown? Am I identifying with them too?” Sam snapped back.

Dean cried out as his brother’s anger was taken out on his flesh. He felt Sam dig deeper with the forceps into the muscle of his back, knowing it had to be done but likewise knowing that his brother wasn’t expending any extra effort on being gentle.

“Hold still, I almost have it,” Sam brusquely admonished.

Dean held his breath as his brother removed the final remaining shot. He felt the room spinning like a sick carnival ride and the emptiness of his stomach suddenly seemed like a good thing.

“Looks like a couple more went straight through. Just took the meat out of your side. Let me clean these up a bit,” his brother ordered.

There was the noise of movement as Sam stepped away from the bed and began rummaging through one of their duffle bags. Dean felt more than saw him return and in the next instant he bellowed as the cold burn of alcohol washed over his lower back.

“SONOFABITCH!” Dean shouted, rolling protectively over on his side and curling in tightly. “What the hell did you do?”

“Alcohol. Had to clean out those wounds. Can’t risk infection,” Sam replied coldly.

“Dammit, Sam. Just because I haven’t bought into this whole demon-possession thing, doesn’t mean you have to go all Nurse Ratched on my ass,” he cried out.

Dean watched as Sam became quiet, simply standing there with the empty bottle of rubbing alcohol in his hand. He saw his brother’s expression soften, his eyes glancing downward even as the shaggy brown mop of hair fell forward to obscure them even more.

Dean knew that look.

Guilt!

Pure, unadulterated, Sammy size, guilt.

“Dean…”

“'S all right, bro. How ’bout we call this round a draw? Matter of fact, let’s just call the entire match a draw and get down to business. Okay?” he offered.

“Yeah…”

Apology offered and accepted as Sam bent over the side of the bed and began to gently clean up the dried blood on Dean’s back. He finished in silence as Dean remained still.

“So, about this Kelli? Law student huh? Was she smart?” Dean asked.

“Scored a one seventy-two on her LSAT’s,” his brother answered as he taped a heavy bandage in place.

“Is that good?”

“Is the Impala fast?”

“Better than you did?”

“Not quite.”

“So, you’re not thinking she just woke up and got tired of being a geekgirl? I’m only asking just in case I need to keep an eye out for you doing the same?” Dean teased.

He relaxed when he heard Sam’s soft snicker.

“No, I don’t think she did. Her roommate said she’d been perfectly normal right up until that night. Hell, she didn’t even know any of the people in the bar. She was all about saving the world, Dean. No way this chick just randomly goes on a rampage.”

“Then what, Sammy?” Dean pressed, rolling back onto his side as Sam finished. He took another long gulp of the bourbon before setting the half empty bottle on the nightstand.

“I just don’t know, Dean. But whatever it is, it’s gotta be pretty powerful to control people like that without even possessing them,” Sam replied as he washed his hands in the bathroom sink.

Dean yawned wide as he carefully squirmed into the mushy mattress trying to find a comfortable position for his aching body. All thoughts about the shower, food or even getting out of his jeans, forgotten as the pain from Sam’s makeshift surgery took its toll.

“We’ll figure it out, dude,” he offered, his eyes blinking slowly as he succumbed to the all-over warming effect of the alcohol.

He barely saw Sam’s nod as his brother settled into the chair next to a small table and flipped open the familiar laptop.

“Yeah, you can count on it,” Sam answered as Dean drifted off to the rhythmic tapping of his brother’s fingers on the keyboard.

The Dockside Bar
SW Klickitat Way, Seattle

Cal Brauer ambled into the bar, his head hanging low, eyes focused on the pavement beneath his feet. He’d been coming to The Dockside for so long that his body was on permanent autopilot as he made his way inside. Locating an empty stool, he straddled the seat and pulled a wad of bills from the pocket of his work pants.

All around him the familiar faces of his coworkers abounded, most of them already reasonably intoxicated if their loud voices were any indication. He knew most of these men, having spent the last forty years working alongside them on the docks, loading and unloading cargo from the massive ocean-going ships. They were a rambunctious group, playing as hard as they worked, one day blending into the next.

Any other night, Cal would have been with them, drinking beer, shooting pool, and generally being obnoxious until the bartender chased them out. But not tonight. Tonight was more about drowning his sorrows than washing away the day’s sweat and grime.

“Thirty years,” he mumbled. “Thirty years and for what?”

“What’s up, Cal?” the blonde bartender, Julie asked as she wiped down the countertop in front of him. “What can I get ya?”

He glanced up at her, sadly realizing that he’d watched this woman age over all the years he’d been coming into the bar. She was never what he’d considered beautiful, but there was a time when he would have given his right arm to have called her his own.

Instead, she was now haggard looking, wrinkles creasing the once-smooth features of her face, her voice deep and croaking from years of exposure to the thick cigarette smoke that hung heavily in the place.

Like him, she had aged. Time had moved on for both of them, leaving them behind, weary and worn. What did either of them have to show for it? Certainly he had nothing, not after today.

“Beer… whiskey chaser. Keep ’em coming till that’s all gone,” he ordered, pushing the cash toward her. “Matter of fact, just leave the bottle.”

“Wow, what are you celebrating?” Julie asked as she pulled the tap and drew a beer.

Cal laughed. “Celebrating? I guess you could say I’m celebrating my retirement.”

She looked at him perplexed as she poured the first shot of Jim Beam. Like her, he was still too young to be signing up for McDonald’s senior discount.

“What’s going on, Cal?” she asked worriedly.

He threw back the first shot, barely tasting it, and quickly poured another. Looking up, he smiled at her as he considered his answer. Why bring her down with his problems? What could she really do? It wasn’t like she could go down to the docks and kick his foreman’s ass. It wasn’t like she could make him younger or stronger so that he could do as much work as the fresh meat working the containers. And after all, it wasn’t like she could get his job back for him... or his dignity.

“Ah, nothing Jules. Just a bad day at work,” he answered before chugging back the beer, emptying the glass in one long gulp.

He could feel her staring at him, knew she was concerned, but at the moment he just couldn’t bring himself to do anything more than submit to raging self-pity that was sitting in the center of his chest.

Eventually, she walked away and Cal breathed a sigh of relief as he poured yet another shot of whiskey, guzzling it as he had the ones before.

He stared at the loose bills spread out across the counter in front of him. Six hundred dollars, a week’s pay with overtime included. Not even enough to make the rent on the tiny little shack he called home, much less pay for food, gas for the truck or any other of life’s basic necessities.

“Thirty years and what do I have to show for it?” Cal bemoaned. “No family, no life, just a friggin’ bad back and a pink slip.”

Another drink, an empty stomach and he was well on his way to the goal of blissful intoxication.

An hour passed and then another as Cal sank further into his despair. It was almost midnight when he finished off his fourth beer, his eyes straining to focus on the nearly empty bottle of Beam sitting within the protective circle of his arm.

The Dockside was booming with business now, the jukebox blaring Kenny Chesney’s Everybody Wants to Go to Heaven while a group of burly longshoreman played eightball at the pool table. Cal looked around the crowded bar, taking in all the revelry through blurred vision as his retinas struggled to work against the effects of the alcohol.

Feeling his stomach churn, the beer and whiskey refusing to mix with the building acid, he rose unsteadily from the barstool and began to stagger off in the direction of the restrooms.

Nearing the pool table, he lurched, reaching out in desperation to grab anything to prevent his fall. Instead, he stumbled into Jacobs, one of the young, towering longshoremen that worked the docks. Like most, Jacobs was a mound of flesh stretched tautly over thick bulging muscles.

Cal stammered an apology as he swayed.

“Watch where you’re going, old man,” Jacobs snarled, pushing him backwards with the end of his pool cue.

Brauer staggered, falling into another of the workers who roughly shoved him away.

It quickly degraded into a game of human hot-potato as the younger men pushed Cal from one to another until he ended up back in front of Jacobs. The big man caught Brauer by the shirt and stopped his momentum, holding him steady an arm’s length away.

“Come on, guys. This is no way to treat good ole Cal,” Jacobs teased. “He can’t help it he’s washed up and useless. Maybe we ought to put him out of his misery?”

Cal saw the bigger man swing the cue backwards, but even as it sliced through the air, he couldn’t force his alcohol-deadened body to react in time. Instead, he caught the stick solidly against his ribcage, pain firing throughout his chest as he gasped for breath and collapsed to his knees.

The men walked away leaving a chorus of humiliating taunts and laughter in their wake. Cal ignored them as he struggled back to his feet, a hand pressed tightly to his injured side. Once he was able, he completed the trek to the restroom, stumbling inside and leaning backwards against the door as the noise from the bar diminished.

After a moment, Cal moved to the wash basin, twisting on the tap and splashing cold water over his face. The icy wetness served to clear his head slightly, allowing him the ability to lift his shirt to check the damage.

His skin was mottling at the point where the cue stick had impacted his rib cage, but as he stared at the injury, the flash of another blue and green mark caught his attention.

His mermaid…

Her turquoise body flowed down the outside of his arm, the tips of her tailfin twisting in and nestling within the crook of his elbow. Pulling up his sleeve, Cal twisted so he could see the entire tattoo within the mirror’s reflection.

A work of art in his opinion, the colorful rendition of the woman was so beautiful, so real, that Cal thought he could almost see her breathing. He had other tattoos, but none as striking or as cherished as his mermaid. Her flowing dark hair, seafoam green eyes, all served to make her precious, to make her his.

Tenderly, he caressed the flesh where the ink covered his arm, delicately running his fingertips across the edge of the mermaid’s face.

If only…

What? If only she were real? If only I had someone like her in my life? If only I hadn’t spent three hundred dollars on getting the damn thing? Especially now, when I have no idea where the next paycheck is coming from…

Cal turned abruptly away from the mirror as his current predicament overshadowed the draw of the artwork adorning his skin. Pulling the shirt back down, he splashed more water on his face as he prepared to head back out to the bar.

Protect me!

Cal spun around, seeking out the source of the haunting voice.

“Hello?” he called out, his eyes scanning the restroom.

They want to hurt me… protect me…

A woman’s voice, he was sure of it, but where was she? He was alone in the restroom, so where was the sound coming from? Had he had too much to drink? Was he somehow losing his mind?

He turned for the door, assuring himself that it was the Beam and beer, not a woman that was calling out to him, begging him for assistance.

Protect me…

He spun back around and came face to face with a vision. She stood before him, brown hair flowing, green eyes sparkling. His mermaid! It couldn’t be! Yet there she was, flesh, blood and solid bone.

Cal rubbed his eyes, trying to deny what he was seeing, but feeling the need to reach out and touch her.

Protect me … they want to hurt me… don’t let them hurt me… she pleaded.

He nodded, straining to touch her even as she pulled away.

If you love me…

“I do. I really do,” Cal insisted.

… don’t let them hurt me…

“Don’t worry, I won’t,” he promised her.

Storming toward the door, Cal flung it open wide and strode purposefully out into the crowd. Nearing the pool table he saw that the throng of young men was still there. He ignored their laughter when they spotted him, disregarded the insults that they slung his way.

… hurt them…

“Yes…” Cal murmured, reaching for an unused cue stick from the rack.

Blindly, he started swinging, the stick connecting with flesh as he cut a deadly swathe through the assembled men. Blood sprayed everywhere as he swung over and over, red droplets splattering against the walls as well as Cal’s face and upper body.

Even as the men crumbled before him, he never relented. As their groans rose from the floor, he continued on, brutally clubbing anything that stood before him. Dully, he could hear Julie’s scream of horror from behind the bar, but it was nothing more than a whisper compared to the voice of the mermaid beckoning within his head.

And then, when the bar was nearly silent, he came upon Jacobs. The massive man held his ground, a cue in his own hand as he waited for Cal.

He wants to hurt me… protect me…

“I am,” Cal replied.

He rushed forward, meeting the larger longshoreman with a flurry of vicious hits. Over and over, Cal struck, beating down the young man until he laid on the floor a bloody, whimpering mess.

“Please… stop… I’m sorry…” Jacobs begged, his arm held out protectively

“You’ll never hurt her. She’s mine…” Cal snarled as he brought the pool stick down on Jacobs' head.

Amid the relative silence that had settled in over The Dockside, only the sickening sound of a skull being crushed could be heard. Even as the cue in his hand disintegrated from the abuse of wood against bone, Brauer didn’t stop. Even as Jacobs sucked in a last, gurgling breath, Cal blindly continued his murderous rampage.

"For you, darlin'," he whispered a short time later as he stood complacently looking over the scene. "You're safe now."

But she didn't hear him. His mermaid was gone...

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The Winchester Chronicles