Title: Objects in Mirror
Rating: PG-13 Language, err…off screen deaths (it helps keep things in budget), off screen sex (sorry)
Spoilers: Occurs sometime after Dead in the Water. Vaguely. Since this is a Crossover with a book most of you probably haven’t read “Requiem for the Devil” (great book BTW) I suppose there are spoilers for that, although it’s all fairly self explanatory
Description: Gen story, structured like an episode. I wanted to cross Bob, a character from Requiem, and Azariah, a err., um character from the Book of Tobit. So I did. The boys hunt down something that’s eating people in a small college town in Arizona. Vague enough?
Disclaimer: I own none of it. Oh, well.
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4
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Part 1
~~~~~~~
Sunset
Nuevo Pinyon, Tesla House Graduate Student Housing
Nobody wants him/He just stares at the world/Planning his vengeance/that he will soon unfurl
Next door, Gerry was playing his stereo on eleven again. "I am Iron Man," growled through the cement wall.
Linda whispered, "Shut up iron man."
She stared out the apartment window at the light show. Green lightening split the purple clouds. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, five one thousand, six one thousand, seven one thousand. Boom. One point four miles and cool. Howard leaned against the window next to her and looked out the window.
Linda sneaked a peek at her boyfriend. Rolled the word around in her head. Boyfriend. Friend, who is a boy. Skinny, glasses wearing, Trek quoting boy. Blinking at the lightening. Not that they'd said the words yet. They'd both been burned before. There was plenty of time. She slid her hands along his ribs and bones and started a completely unwarranted tickle attack.
Howard tried a defensive strike, but his Federation skills were no match for her Jedi tickle tricks. Soon she had her skinny little geek pinned to the floor. Weak with laughter. Right where she wanted him. In the dimly lit room, light flashed and boom. That one had been close.
She kissed her geek and felt the rumble of the thunder in her bones. The electrical arc of their lips. Howard might look like Opie, but he had lover boy lips.
The door bell rang. Linda whispered, "Ignore it."
Howard whispered back, "It could be Death Race 4000 - the Revenge. UPS was supposed to deliver it today."
Linda pecked a few more kisses and then rolled off him. Kisses were great, but DR4K had gotten great reviews in PC Gamer. She was going to beat Howard's pants off. Heh, pants off. She poked him. "So, what are you waiting for. Get me a cup of Revenge."
Howard laughed. She propped herself up on the floor and watched his scrawny little ass walk to the door. He opened it, but there was no nice UPS person holding a nice brown box. He bent down and picked up...what the hell. Linda stood up and over to him. Howard was holding an old school Optimus Prime action figure. It was twisted. Halfway transformed between robot and truck. Someone had scratched its sides with a ball point pen and dipped it in, eww, she touched it, some kind of animal blood.
It was sticky.
From Howard's expression, Linda guessed it was another little present from the psycho ex. Last week it had been a half way immolated Sampson figure from Gargoyles. What kind of person would torch a guy's action figures?
Linda said, "Howard, you've got to do something about this. It's getting out of control."
Howard just stared at the figure. "I don't understand why she's doing this."
Linda thought about going into the let me kick the ass of the whacked out bitch speech again, but didn't say anything. Took the figure from Howard and said, "We're going to put Optimus here in a plastic bag and then we're going to call the police." She pushed the door and then put her arm around Howard. Pulled him toward the kitchenette.
The door swung closed, but her hands had blood on them, so maybe she should have pushed it harder. But it wasn't like she was worried about the psycho bitch. Bring it on. So the door didn't quite close. Not that it would have mattered. But as a symbol, it was important, or at least the symbols liked to think so.
Outside it began to rain, but Linda didn't notice. She was focused on Howard, who was focused on some inward place. So, she didn't notice the rain. So he didn't notice the thunder pounding the sky above. Didn't notice when they swirled in through the door.
There was crash from the kitchenette. Yells drowned by the rain and thunder and thunderous speakers.
Then there was just the rain and the thunder and the last chord of the song died away.
~~~~~~~~
Weed, California
But I’ll take my time anywhere / Free to speak my mind anywhere / and I’ll redefine anywhere / anywhere I roam
A bare light bulb hung by a white extension cord from the chipped and pealing ceiling. The smell of cigarette smoke camped out in the waxy baby animal safari curtains and velvet kitten paintings on the walls. At least the room was clean. Good solid front door. Only a short drop to a back ally out the bathroom window. Looked like that exit had been used a few times before.
Been a good day.
Torched a haunted phonograph last night. That'd been a bitch and a half to figure out. But that was done and bad kareoke singers could now breath easy.
Sucked away the morning researching. Miss Sammy said he had other stuff to do and gave him that look. Fine. Whatever. Jack Lambert was about ready for charge off. At least the free credit check said Sheriff Devins had a decent score. Worth the bother of applying. Dean applied and filled out balance transfers until his eyes crossed and his head felt like rail road spikes were hammering away.
Maxed out the last of Bill Carlton with supplies for the afternoon reward.
Opened up the Impala for a tune-up. His hands still smelled like engine oil. Drained out the old crud and poured in the sweet black bubbling new. Gapped her sparks. Replaced that crimped Ignition wire. Driving around on a bit of copper wire and insulation tape had been making Dean twitchy. Impala deserved better. Plus it was less likely to them killed.
Dean sat cross legged on one bailing wire twin bed. A faded blue towel over the baby duck bedspread, while he laid out the guns.
Dean splashed No. 9 lubricating oil on a small rag and the room smelled like home. Faded cigarettes and bleach. Oil and gun metal.
Sam sat on the other attack of the springs twin bed. Tapped and clicked on the laptop. Rubbed his neck where last night's playmate had choked him. Again. What was it with ghouls and Sammy's neck?
Sam had that little line of worry between his eyes as he flipped pages in Dad's journal.
The room sounded like home. The buzz of insects trapped in the window and the creaking of springs. Keyboard tapping, paper rustling, the steady rhythm of metal as Dean took their guns apart. Taking things apart. Putting them back together. The world focused down to this moment. This space. This task.
Sam said, "I've found something in last Sunday's Pinyon Post. There's an editorial urging the city council to do something about a string of fatal wild dog attacks in the hills outside of town. A hiker was killed last week. The writer blames urbanization and global warming."
Dean carefully attached the oiled rag to a cleaning rod. "Point Sammy?"
"I'm getting to it. Start small and build. There's a separate article that talks about two SWA grad students, Linda Nieman and Howard McCormick, who were found dead in Howard's apartment." He looked at Dean.
"And that makes this one of our gigs how?" Cover their bases. Play the devil's advocate. Dad taught them that. Dean inserted the rod down the barrel of his Glock. Rapidly slid the rod back and forth. A clean gun is a happy gun.
Sam smiled slowly and paused; waited until his brother looked. As if Dean didn't always have a little focused on his little brother. Dean sighted down the gun barrel. Gleaming. He said, "Sammy, waiting for the punch line here."
Somewhere under his washme bangs, Sam's forehead got all wrinkled and earnest. Sam said, "All the authorities ever find are bones. Even the students were picked completely clean."
"Completely?" Dean glanced over at his brother and began to reassemble the Glock. Nice and easy. He could rush it, slam the pieces into place, but he liked to do it steady. Feel the smooth metal and worn wood in his hands. Feel the rhythm of the movements. Oil and rub and snap and click. Next.
"Completely," said Sam. Sam looked washed out in the harsh light. Tired.
Dean rubbed a soft cotton cloth down the double barrels of the shotgun. "That's some wild dog problem. Could be a curse." Dean didn't like the feel of the Beretta lately. So he gave it some extra love. "Stumble into the wrong spot, pick up something you shouldn't, and...hey," Dean grinned suddenly, "remember that mummy in El Paso. Walked about zero miles an hour. Tough bastard though. It took us hours to hack it apart."
Sam rubbed his throat again. "Don't remind me. I had a Physics exam the next morning."
Which as Dean recalled, Sam had aced. His pool game was still crap though.
Dean snapped a chamber into place and let it spin. Inhaled the smell of oil and metal. Listened to Sam click and scroll. Felt the next job settle down his spine like a compass needle, pointing the way to go. "Does the Pinyon Post - you'd think they'd stop to think before naming these things - have anything useful to say?"
Sam said, "There isn't much else."
Dean glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eyes. Sam's eyes were hollowed out. Focused in and down on the monitor. Dean said, "Could be a Mummy or our good friend Chupacabra."
Sam stopped typing. "You think it could be a Chupacabra? In an apartment!"
"No. I just like saying Chupacabra. Chu-pa-cabra." Dean smacked his lips. "Makes me hungry. Think Taco Hell's still open?"
Sam worried at his hair and said, "I looked through Dad's journal, but other than some notes I can't read, there's not much to go on."
Dean shrugged. "We'll head down. Do some research. Do some co-eds. There's this trick I've been wanting to try in a hot tub." Dean was rewarded with a grimace from Sam, a bit of lurking smile. Good. Took him long enough. Chupacabra! Dean added, "One thing's for sure. This time, no costumes."
~~~~~~
Nuevo Pinyon - Tesla House Graduate Student Housing
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show / To move, but doth, if th' other do / And though it in the centre sit, / Yet, when the other far doth roam, / It leans, and hearkens after it
Sam tried to look like he belonged, while Dean quickly picked the rather pathetic lock on the door to Howard McCormick's apartment.
Weird to be in what amounted to a dorm while wearing a suit. Like something was out of phase. That something being him. But it was easier to play at cop when looking the part. Glanced at his brother. Dean's suit was wrinkled, like it'd been rolled up in a Ziploc bag. Which it had. Wrinkled and out of phase. Sam wondered what it would be like to just not care.
They ducked under the police tape and they were in.
Howard's room was decorated in early student. Tiny. Cramped. Stuffed with electronic toys. The obligatory Einstein and other geek posters on the walls. Dean picked up some sort of transistor. Sam said, "Dean, we're not here to shop."
Dean put the thing in his coat pocket. "I can use it to boost the pickup on the EMF." Dean nodded at a full length Mr. Spock poster taped to the wall. "Howard would'a wanted me to have it."
Sam shook his head. What was the point.
He began looking for something out of the ordinary. Other than the marked outlines on the floor. Sam looked out the window at the quad outside. There were students tossing around a hacky sack. Reading books. Strolling with turtle like backpacks slung off one shoulder.
Dean walked around for a few minutes with the EMF, but the room was clean. Clean being a relative term. There were piles of clothes everywhere. It already seemed strange to think of owning that many shirts, piled like trash on the floor.
Dean said, "I think the only Twilight Zone thing in this room is the mold in the mini frig. Linda's place is probably a bust too, but we should check it off." Dean waved at the door. "Lead on MacDuffy."
Sam walked to the door and tried leave like he belonged there. "It's lay on MacDuff."
Dean compressed his lips. "It's a saying?"
Sam couldn't tell if Dean was jerking his chain or not. Clueless or obnoxious older brother were remarkably similar. Sam said, "Linda's apartment was just upstairs."
Dean held open the stairwell fire door for Sam. "As I said, lay it on."
They climbed the heavy cement stairs. Bare cinder blocks and metal rails. The San Quentin style of student dorm architecture.
They came out in a corkboard and violently flyered hallway. Sam knocked on the door to Room 403. Looked at Dean. Glanced at himself. Maybe the roommate wasn't home. She never going to buy this. Dean pulled a radioactive yellow flyer off the wall and stuffed it in his pocket. "Hmmm, pool hall." He looked at Sam. "We're getting a little short on cash."
The door opened, and Sam tried to think normal, confident thoughts.
A studious looking woman, wearing a faded UC Irvine sweatshirt, stood carefully behind the door. Weight poised to slam it shut. Ramona Simons, Linda's roommate, according to the police reports. She glanced at both of them and almost whispered, "Um...Hello. Can I help you?"
Dean flashed a badge at her. "Good afternoon ma'am. I'm Detective Dimmock and this is Detective Shields."
Sam flashed his own badge. Tried to push non-threatening-normal-just-doin'-my-job into his eyes. Yeah. Right. "Are you Ramona Simons?"
"Uh, yeah." Ramona pushed on the nose piece of her wire rim glasses. She moved slightly away from the door and let it swing open. Sam concentrated on being just a couple a bored cops. Normal. Boring. Smile. Ramona smiled faintly back. She said, "Um...what's this about?"
Dean glanced through the open door. There was a yellow 'Do Not Cross' police line tacked to the ceiling. He smirked. "Looks like you're a bit of a police groupie?"
Ramona glanced back at the ceiling. "Oh, that. Yeah, we had a 'Come as Your Favorite Mutant' party first week of the quarter. Um. We...yeah, we...uh, had this whole story planned if anyone asked about it, but no one did." Ramona chewed on her lower lip. "Is this about Linda?"
"Yes, ma'am." Sam wrote something random on a little notepad. Dean insisted you could go anywhere if you had a notepad and pretended you knew where you were going. Sam wasn't sure why he had to carry the notebook. "We just have a few questions. May we come in?"
"Uh, yeah, I, uh, yeah Linda had the bedroom." Ramona waved at the room behind her. "She was letting me crash here. My scholarship...well, it was cheaper." She stepped back and they walked into a room furnished in late student. Much taped copies of Klimpt's The Kiss and "Kthulu for President: Why Vote for the Lesser Evil" posters on the cement walls. Purple and green dining hall milk crates full of books. The remains of a pallet serving as table. White Christmas tree lights wrapped around a wilted paper palm tree.
Ramona said, "It's all been such a shock. I mean, I keep expecting her to walk through the door and tell me that it's all just a joke. But," She rubbed her eyes under glasses. "I don't even know how someone could do this. Do you know something new?"
Sam made another gibberish note in his notebook. "It's just a routine follow-up to cases of, um, malfeasance." Dean snorted. Sam ignored him. "Is it okay if my partner takes a look at Linda's effects?"
Ramona pushed at her glasses. Much harder and they'd be over her eyebrows or broken. "Yeah. I, sure. I mean, God, I've known Linda for a couple of years." She made a flat, pale reflection of a smile at Sam, "My living here wasn't even official or anything. I feel like a horrible person. I keep thinking about housing and, how am I going to pay for next semester. I think I might be in violation of the housing rules. And that's just stupid. My friend is dead."
Dean shot Sam a look. Worrying about housing costs and rules didn't really come into Dean's world. Just get a new credit card and move on. Dean said, "Don't tell 'em. They probably won't move anyone in here for awhile. Because of Linda." Dean shrugged. "I don't really know. Ask my partner. He's got loads of advice." Great. Thanks. Way to throw him under the bus. Dean continued, "Where was Linda's stuff?" Throw him under the bus and bail.
Ramona took a deep breath and said, "Sorry about that. Um." She pointed at a closed door. "That was Linda's room over there."
Dean nodded briefly and opened the door. Sam moved slightly to the left, so Ramona would have her back to the open door. Sam said, "Ma'am. There's nothing wrong with worrying about how you're going to handle going on. Having someone close to you die like that can affect you in all sorts of ways."
Ramona sighed. "You've gotta be my age. Call me Ramona. So, what are your questions. I want you to catch the sicko Bastard."
Sam looked down at his notepad. He wanted to offer Ramona more advice. Tell her it was all going to be okay. Go over scholarship websites and work study programs and; he asked the next question. "Ramona, do you know if Linda had recently come into possession of any sort of antiques or artifacts?"
Ramona shook her head no, "No, Linda was hard core Computer Science. If it didn't happen tomorrow, then she kinda didn't care. She was just so alive. If she wasn't studying, she was always going out and doing things. Got good grades. She'd just started dating someone."
Sam made a few more notes. "That would be Howard McCormick?"
"Yeah." Ramona looked around the room distractedly. Sam moved a little to bring her focus back onto him while Dean looked through Linda's closet. Ramona said, "I didn't know him that well. He seemed nice. I mean." Ramona crossed her arms, "It wasn't super serious yet. He'd just gotten out of a relationship with some psycho chick. But he was cool. Bit of a geek, but I guess..." Ramona held herself a little tighter, white fingered. "I'm sorry, it's just all so horrible."
Sam put his hand on her shoulder, just a light touch. Ramona looked two steps from cracking and Sam felt so finger in the dam tired. He said, "Take your time. You're still in shock."
Ramona took a deep breath. "Yeah." Another breath. "Okay."
Sam put a little extra glow into his smile. Not enough to be flirting. Just warm. "Did Linda or Howard seem worried about anything?"
"Um, no." Ramona glanced up at the police line on the ceiling. "You know it's funny. Its been up there for weeks, but I feel like it's the first time I've noticed it. I suppose I should take it down now." She started throwing books out one of the milk crates.
"Here. Let me." Sam reached up. Grabbed the plastic line and gave it a quick yank. It floated to the floor. Ramona tried another cracked winter smile. Sam said, "This next question may sound a little odd, but it's all standard procedure. Do you know if Linda or Howard were getting into any non-traditional religious activities? Witchcraft? Seances? Maybe a magic ritual out in the desert?" Sam spread his hands out a little. "Exploring?"
Ramona pushed her glasses up her nose. "No, like I said, if it wasn't here and now, Linda didn't care. She thought all that kinda stuff was a waste of time."
Over Ramona's shoulder, Sam could see Dean standing in the door to Linda's room. Dean shook his head.
Sam flipped back the pages on his notebook and said, "That's everything. Like I said, this is just a routine follow-up. I'm sorry if we stirred things up for you."
Dean said, "Ma'am, thanks for your time," and went to the door.
Ramona stood in the center of the room, her arms folded, glasses reflecting the light of the fluorescents. The police line curled around her feet in a yellow line across the floor. She said, "Oh, okay. Um...goodbye."
Sam closed the door behind him and after a moment, he heard the lock click.
Dean said, "Damn. Man, I thought she was going to go critical on us." Dean started back down the stairwell and said, "I looked all over that room. There were lots of text books and plenty of short dresses. There wasn't even mutant mold. Whatever killed her, she didn't bring it home with her."
Sam looked out the stairwell window. The sun was setting. Another day.
Dean opened the door and headed out of the building. "So, Dude, when you were at Stanford, how did you pay for it. I know you weren't scamming credit cards." Dean put his hand on Sam's shoulder and looked him in the eyes, "You know, if you had sell yourself for money. I'd understand." Dean held the moment and then starting laughing. "Dude, the look on your face."
"Yeah, nice Dean. Real nice," said Sam. "The University library will be open until late. We should research the pattern on the other attacks."
They cut across the quad towards where the car was parked. Dean said, "Yeah, that definitely sounds like more fun that beer, sorority girls, and pool. Come on Sammy. Live a little."
Sam put his hands in pockets. He said, "Dude we drove 27 hours to get here. I'll be lucky if I don't fall asleep in the stacks." Remembered how the other side of his first year in college. Two pennies to rub together. Scrambling for work study and student loans.
Dean smiled at some women jogging the opposite direction down the path. "Life's short. Enjoy it."
"By watching you hustle some poor college student out of their rent money." Sam's eyes felt gritty. He could still feel the road, like it'd been dremeled into his skin. He just wanted to sit still. He wanted black coffee. He wanted to be alone for awhile. If just for a few minutes.
"Yeah. I can see you're going to be a barrel of fun." Dean unlocked the car door and it creaked as he got in.
Sam got in the car. Listened to it cough to life like a cancer victim. Stared out the window as they went back to tonight's flamboyant fleabag to change into their other skins.
~~~~~~
The Happy Piñata Pool Hall and Lounge
I don’t know where I’m going / But, I sure know where I’ve been / Hanging on the promises / In songs of yesterday
The air was practically a black lung. Musky tobacco and sweet cloves, and here and there, the faint college town smell of weed.
Fat, happy college students clustered around pool tables. Laughing and chugging beer. Slamming down shots and devouring toxic nachos. Stumbling off to the john to start it all over again.
Dean stood by the bar. Swallowed his first beer of the evening. Scanned the crowd for his mark.
They were almost out of cash and pulling too much money from the credit cards tripped fraud checks. They needed food. Gas. Needed to pay for their motel. They needed cash. More cards. More fuel to keep running forward.
All part of the job. Dean focused on here and now and the moment. There plenty of kids with lots of ready money to burn from their moms and dads.
In a dark corner, Dean spotted a fresh faced guy talking with a white wannabe dreadlocked. A little package of something changed hands. A little money.
Dean smiled. Practically his civic duty. He started to make his way over to Fresh Face's corner of darkness.
Wannabe dreadlocked went back to his pod of his friends. Fresh Face paid for a pool table and looked around the room. Their eyes met in the dim.
Dean leaned against the slick wood of the table and said, "Hey. Kinda crowded tonight. Mind if I join in? No fun playing by yourself."
Fresh Face smiled a little. "Sure. I'm Bob Carvahlo and I'm all about the friendly." Bob pulled a roll of greenbacks out of his pocket and said, "Mind if we put a little wager on things to keep it interesting? Say forty?"
The punk kid was trying to scam him. Good. Dean smiled all country boy shark. "Ozzie Winchester. I was about to suggest the same thing."
Bob stared at Dean for a moment, like he was looking through him. Then he laughed. Slammed back his beer. "Cool. Winchester, like the Mystery House. Your stairways run into walls too?" Bob bounced around the table to the pool cues. "I was getting bored." Bob rubbed his chalk against the tip of his cue stick. "Usually by this point of the evening, my tongue's halfway down the throat of a drunk girl who can't remember her name, but the slut pool's a little shallow tonight." Bob slid his fingers along the length of his pool cue. "I love to break things. Do you mind?" Bob actually tried to look innocent, all big eyed and rabbity. Sammy had him beat cold. When he was five.
Dean leaned against his own rented cue and said, "Hmm, but I love to break things too."
Bob pulled a quarter out of his pocket. "We could flip for it."
"Only if I do the flipping," said Dean, as he held out his hand.
Bob tried another big eyed puppy look, which was sort of destroyed by his shit-eating grin. "What don't you trust me?"
Dean didn't bother to answer. Just looked at Bob, while holding out his hand. Dean loved college bars. Kids talked shit, not had their buddy hit you in the head with a beer bottle from behind, which could be fun too. But right now, he was working.
Bob gave another last shot with the pathetic lost velvet child look and then started to laugh like he was possessed. By the ghost of Christmas Past. Jolly old bastard. Wiping his eyes, Bob said, "Man this is so awesome. This never happens to me." Bob slugged back some more beer and then waved to a roving waitress. "Hey Leslie, two more beers."
"It's Lurleen," said the waitress.
"Lurleen." Bob handed her the quarter, "Flip this."
"Tails," said Dean.
"Mostly," said Bob, "Although heads're good too."
Lurleen rolled a ton of mascara over her eyes and flipped the quarter. Heads. Bob grinned at Dean and then proceeded to play the most amazing game of pool that Dean had ever seen in a lifetime of hanging out in seedy dives of scum, villainy, and the suspicious. Bob never missed. Sank multiple balls with one play. Bob made shots that shouldn't have been humanly possible, which given he spent the entire game slamming back beer, chattering about his philosophy of life and general badassness, and bouncing around like a rubber ball; not human was a definite possibility. Never hurt to be sure.
Dean handed Bob some twenties from his stash. Looked him in the eyes and said, "Kristos."
Bob put the money in a jeans pocket and laughed like all three ghosts of Christmas, even the kickass future one, were somewhere in there, wrastling around. "What, dude, the landscape artist? God dammit it. Jesus H. Christus. And the Holy Mother-Fucking Ghost. Lou would be shitting bricks about now. Always hated it when I took our 'Holy Father's' name in vain." Bob leaned against his pool cue. "Lou always was caught up in who he thought he was supposed to be."
"Lou?" It had been worth a try. Kid could have an amulet somewhere, but he was probably just some sort of pool hall rain-man. It happened. Better if Bob won the first game anyway. Get a taste for the win. Get sloppy. Drunk.
Bob downed three fast hard swallows of beer. He said, "Lou's my brother. Never would let me be taller than him. Not even once."
Drunker. Then again, rain-boy might have been getting into his own stash. His eyes were certainly an amazing shade of red. Course, that could just be the acid air. Dean said, "Another game? Double the stakes? I'll break."
"Sure. This'-es fun." Bob looked away. Flashed Dean a grin. "I'm bad, cuz that's who I am, n' I like it." Blah, blah, yeah, bad. Got it. Must be why Bob kept talking about it. Bob finished his beer. He held up a hand for the waitress and ordered some more beers. "So, Ozzie Walls, you got a brother?"
Dean looked at Bob. Considered his line of patter. His audience. Who is Whatsmyname today. "Yeah, Younger brother." Dean held the cue lightly in his hands and stared at the table. Slid the wood fast and hard through his fingers and crack. Even with the crappy rented pool cue, it was a good break.
Bob took a baseball cap out of some baggy ass pocket or another and started to fiddle with it. "You'd let your little brother be taller than you wouldn't you?"
Dean drank some beer. Considered his options. "Not like I have much choice." Best not to say too much. Never knew when it'd come back to bite you in the butt. "Other than knee capping. One in the side corner pocket."
"When he had knees." Bob tilted his head and watched Dean line his shot. Lines of force and trajectory and spin. Bob said, "You know I pulled my brother from a lake of fire once."
"Yeah?" Dean looked up at Bob. He had this weird ass grin on his face. Dean made his stroke with the cue and another one down.
"Yeah. Right after Dad kicked us out of the uh, house. Lou and our Father had a difference of opinion. So, we took off." Bob leaned his head against his cue stick. "Better to reign in hell and that kinda shit. So, how about you?"
Weird, but Dean was a tougher nut than that. Bob could get all emo-shary if he wanted. "What heaven or hell? I don’t know. Eternal torture, lots of hot chicks. Tough call." Dean stretched out over the table and thwack and another one dropped and fell. Take that and cry in your beer with it.
Or, okay, Bob had somehow acquired a tequila shot, which he threw back with a, "Woo Yeah!" Bob shook his head. "Want one?"
Why not. A little lubrication kept the world going. "Bring it on." Dean stroked another ball down and kissed his next shot into place. Bob gave their order to Lurleen. Bob leaned over and whispered in Lurleen's ear. She gave him a nuclear look and stomped off.
"Down in flames. What'd you say?" Dean leaned out over the table, rap, tap and the ball spun out across the green just like he'd known it would. Slapped against the side of pool table and flew back across to put another one down the hole.
Bob shrugged. "I said that I wished I were her, so I could have sex with me."
Dean narrowed his eyes and looked over the balls at play. "That has to be the worst line ever." There were a couple of easy shots, but they'd screw things later. Who said he didn't plan for the future. He went with the bridge shot.
"Yeah, but if a chick goes for it, it'll be an enthusiastic night." Bob started tapping his cue against the floor and started humming something boybandish.
Whatever. Dean denied the existence of pop and light rock. "True, but you pissed off the waitress."
Bob shrugged. "I have amazing powers of alcohol." A new waitress, college bar battle hardened came over with their order. "See."
Bob held out a shot to Dean. This was a stupid idea.
All the more reason to do it. Dean threw it back in his mouth and fire seared a trail down his throat. Warmed his stomach. "Tasty." Dean cracked off another shot, just to show he could. Straight and pretty and true.
Bob slid into Dean's space. Dean gave him a look. An inch closer and Bob was getting a pool cue where the sun don't shine. Bob grinned. "Dude, I can't believe that you're trying to hustle me. This is so cool. Most people are all..." he waved his hand in the air, "stuff, tied up in who they think they should be, instead of who they are."
Dean lined up the eight ball and down. He grinned. "Game. Another round?"
Bob handed Dean his own twenties back, plus. "You're thinkin', um, that cuz I've been drinking that my games gunna suck. But it won't. Cuz I know what I am."
Dean racked the balls and smiled a big molasses smile. "Then break."
Bob chuckled, "I was just going to fuck with you, but now. Dude." He sighed, "I miss my brother. We argued. N' haven't seen him in years."
Dean leaned against the table, just a good old boy, and ordered more tequila. Practically his civic duty.
~~~~~~~
Kresge Library
Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly? / Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy.
The tiny newsprint in the microfiche machine wavered and blurred. Sam narrowed his eyes and glared the words into focus. Outside the high particle board walls of the research station, students were listening to head sets, watching monitors, being students.
The light was dim in the Audio Visual room. All the better to hear them clicking and rewinding and whispering broken phrases in bad French, the words to some latest love song.
There new songs in the world. Jess had died and people kept writing songs. Sam wondered if he'd ever hear them or if he'd live forever in the music of his childhood.
Sam made another note in his notepad. By now it was full of notes. Sometimes, Sam had a hard time imagining a twenty year quest that resulted in single notebook. Cryptic words cramped on sparse pages.
Sam wondered if Dean was still playing pool. Felt a little edge of resentment that he was always the one that had to do the research; while Dean went off and did whatever. Even though that was stupid and kinda not true and this was his idea and he could have gone with Dean. Even though there were those fast obliterating years of away. Even though the only one making him do this was him. Sam resented even his own resentment. Felt cranky and crappy and unfit for anything. An angry octagon in a circular world. Dean probably didn't even care that he was an octagon. If he knew what an octagon was.
Man. Sam felt ugly in his own skin.
He made another dot on the survey map he'd bought earlier at the school store. He'd been through the last fifty years of newspapers. Marked every attack since the town was founded. The dots didn't form a shape or a symbol. The few scattered attacks happened mostly North of town. Linda and Howard were the first people killed in city limits. It didn't make sense. Things that go bump in the night behaved according to a pattern if you could figure it out.
If you could see it.
If.
Sam rubbed his eyes. Caught himself in a yawn that nearly dislocated his jaw. Leaned forward to stare at his map. Head propped in his hand. Closed his eyes for just a moment and breathed in.
"Hello." said a voice. "Tell me if you've heard this one."
Sam about fell out of his chair. He hadn't been asleep had he? He blinked until his eyes focused on a mild looking young man in his early twenties. Ratty brown coat. Baggy pants. "Um, what," said Sam. There was no one else in the room.
The young man said, "Don't worry, you weren't snoring. Just breathing loudly." The young man, whose badge read R. Azariah, clicked off the light on the microfiche. "Anyway, there were these Thai monks and they were visiting a monastery in Santa Fe. Buddhist monks, because, you know, most Thai are mostly Buddhist. Friendly people. Smile a lot. Anyway, one morning while bowling, that's begging for food, not throwing bowling balls, although that'd be funny. Anyway, that morning they came across these people with brightly colored hair standing in the parking lot of a 7'11."
Sam wiped his face. Damn. Drool. Sam wondered how to head off the flood tide of words. "Okay."
Azariah picked up a scattered stack of language DVDs and put them away in their case. "The 7'11 isn't really important. So, the monks said, 'Hello, we are Thai monks.' and the strangely dressed people said, 'Hey, we're Santa Fe Punks.' And the monks talked with the punks about walking the middle path, and;" Azariah peered at Sam like he was nearsighted, but not wearing his glasses, "you're not really ready for this story yet are you? You really do need to be awake for it."
Sam looked at Azariah and wondered what he was supposed to say. His mouth felt dry and tacky. Like he'd eaten glue.
Azariah put a stack of magazines in a recycling bin decorated with a hand painted sign, 'recycling is good karma.' Azariah said, "There's a coffee shop right off the library. Shifts over. I was just heading down there. I can show you where it is. You look like you could use a cup. Or three." Azariah chortled.
Sam said, "Yeah." Huh, chortled. It was the only word for it. In a lifetime of new schools and unfriendly faces, this guy might be the jolliest person Sam had ever met. Sam was kind of afraid to even ask his first name. He'd be flooded with jolly. Although, his bad mood from earlier had ebbed some. Sam wiped the sleep crystals from his eyes. "That's probably a good idea." Sam shoved his stack of papers in his backpack and stretched. Stood up and blinked some more. Yawned.
"That's some interesting research." Azariah locked up a stack of DVDs in a metal cabinet. "I took a look while you were breathing heavily."
Sam tried to shake off the sleep fog in his head. "Yeah, um, I was looking at some local folklore."
Azariah chuckled, as a break from the chortling. Coffee was a really good idea. Azariah said, "Looked like you're taking on our mystery cloud of death." Azariah made a vague mysterious cloud of death gesture involving waggling fingers, flapping wrists, and some small helicoptering motion of his arms. It was pretty funny.
"Cloud?" Sam tried not to seem too desperate. Just eagerly interested in a term paper or something. Okay, desperate. Tired. Coffee please.
"Hey beanpole, closing up here." Azariah stood by the door. "We can talk on the way out to coffee. It feels like I haven't had coffee in seven times seven years. Which reminds me, how many Existentialists does it take to screw in a light bulb?"
"Uh, forty-nine," said Sam. He followed Azariah out the door. After the relative darkness, the main library was bright. A confusing maze of stacks and tables and stairs.
"How can we know that there is a light bulb?" said Azariah, as he flipped through an enormous brass ring of keys. "Key to Eden, the gate sticks. Key to Purgatory, aka the break room. Key to the gates of Dis, aka my brother's house. Ah, here we go." Azariah locked the door.
"So you were saying about a cloud?" Sam followed Azariah as he meandered through the stacks and down a wrought iron staircase.
"Oh, so there's this local legend." On the landing, a middle aged woman was struggling with a wire trolley weighed down with cleaning supplies. Azariah said, "Ah, Rosa, mi corazone. Don't tell me, the ascensor’s c'est capute again."
Rosa said, "Si." and a flood of words tumbling in an apocalyptic Grapes of Wrath sort of way..
Azariah briefly replied in a soft cascade of words. He turned to Sam and said, "I've volunteered us to carry the cart downstairs. It's on our way. Rosa needs to put this away or she can't go home."
Sam wondered why me, but couldn't maintain his grump. They picked up the cart and started down the stairs. Azariah proceeded to tell a long complicated story, in both Spanish and English, and possibly German, about Jesus and Satan having a programming contest. The jist of which was that Jesus saves. "Get it." Azariah craned his neck back, "Jesus saves"
Sam didn't want to smile. It was a terrible joke. He kept waiting for an opening to ask about the 'cloud,' found himself chuckling for no reason. Next thing you knew he'd be chortling. And then a door to hell would open up and really it was best to avoid those kinds of thoughts. Way Sam's life went, it just might.
At the base of the stairs, Rosa gave Sam a pink bucket, decorated with a Virgin Mary sticker, and a bottle of disinfectant, because young men could always use cleaning supplies. Which, okay, what was he supposed to do with a pink bucket?
Sam followed Azariah and carried the bucket. He said, "So, you were going to say about the cloud?"
Azariah cut between stacks 542-596 and 597-601. "Oh, yeah, local legend. Students love to scare each other with it. You know, the bump next to Fallher plaza is a dead man. Tunnels connecting Poly Sci and the Admin building. The hall of faces in Hell Hole cave. That kind of thing. Anyway," Azariah darted off to a table. "Sahar! Still downing in Dante I see."
A thin dark skinned boy in jeans and t-shirt looked up from his surrounding stack of books. "I'm trapped in the Malebolge." Sahar looked at Sam. "Hell sucks."
Azariah picked up one of the books and idly leafed through it. "Well, where will and power are one," he put a piece of paper in between the pages, "you'll find your way through. Say, have you heard the one about the three cranes and the gambling goat?"
Sahar hadn't and Sam did and in the middle of the story, Sam realized that he'd hit the Schmu hour. The telephone book was now hilarious.
As Azariah wrapped up his story, they all said, "And the goat went gambol, gambol down the green, green hill." Heh, schmu Azariah waved goodbye to Sahar and darted through another maze of stacks.
Azariah said, "So, anyway, out somewhere North of town is a remnant of an Indian village. Not much of anything. A few mud bricks and a trash heap. Anthropology professor's do love their trash. Well, I suppose technically other people's trash. However, students and conquistador's, having a great deal in common, love to tell stories about gold in them thar hills. Sometimes its a city of gold. Sometimes stolen gold."
Sam followed Azariah out across a vast dark faux marble lobby. "And the gold is supposed to be cursed?""
"And comes with a free topping of a mysterious dark cloud, which people sometimes spot descending in the general direction of the unlucky victim. The cloud is also cursed and always seems to show up with a thunderstorm. Or was that frogurt? Sodium benzoate?" Azariah waved at a stream of students headed out the front door. Ducked down a poster slicked corridor instead. "Is this the end of zombie Shakespeare? Doth cried the Raven Lenore." A young woman, wearing some sort of a headscarf, was standing in a glass doorway at the end of the hall. Azariah said to her, "Still kicking chemo's posterior with your affordable boots I see."
"Only with the help of your famous brownies." Lenore had coffee. There was coffee. She said, "Salute. And well, met Raph's good looking friend to whom he has not introduced me." She winked at Azariah, "Shocking. Just shocking."
"Since he's yet to introduce himself to me, I shouldn't introduce him to you. It would be gauche. Plus downright uncanny." Azariah pointed at the door. "Sluggo's Coffee my good son. And remember, believe in the light bulb. Lenore, as it dark and stormy, please give me the pleasure of escorting you to your bus."
"Why thank you kind sir." Lenore took Azariah's arm. With a smile and wave, they were gone.
It after was midnight on a Thursday night. Sluggo's was packed with students. Sam resisted the call of the chocolate covered espresso beans. That way led insomnia and paranoia.
Looked up at the vast menu of coffee options and decided that there was no reason in the world he shouldn't get some sleep.
Left without buying anything. Went to go turn the light bulb off.
~~~~