Fallen Idols. // Dean //

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Sam Winchester
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Posts: 958

Fallen Idols. // Dean // Dec 1, 2015 0:05:07 GMT -5

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Post by Sam Winchester on Dec 1, 2015 0:05:07 GMT -5

ooc; SEASON FIVE. EPISODE FIVE.

The Winchester brothers sat side by side, cruising in the Impala down some back road in Ohio, the radio on softly in the background, neither really listening. Sam had been staring out his window for the last fifty miles but could no longer contain his thoughts. "So uh, what's with this job" he asked as casually as possible. Dean had come to him yesterday with the headlining article about a man who'd apparently been killed in his own car...his own stationary car. And then they'd packed and left without really discussing it. "Dude suffers a head-on collision in a parked car" Dean summarized, sounding intrigued. "I'd say that's worth checking out." "Yeah, definitely" Sam agreed, followed by a small hesitation and then his main point. "Uh, but, uh, we got bigger problems, don't you think?" "I'm sure the apocalypse'll still be there when we get back" Dean returned with a wry smile. Sam frowned. "Right, yeah, but I mean, if—if the Colt is really out there somewhere" he began, the many details of Dean's journey to 2014 as told to him a few weeks back filling his head. "Hey, we've been looking for three weeks, we got bupkis" Dean interrupted. Sam took a beat to think over his next words and then tried again. "Okay. But Dean...I mean, if we're gonna—ice the Devil"- "This is what we're doing" Dean snapped, his grip on the steering wheel tightening. "Okay? End of discussion." Sam felt his shoulders stiffen at the authority radiating off of Dean's tone. Before he could say anything however, Dean sighed and added in a much less bossy attitude, "it's just that this is our first real case, back at it together. You know, I, I think we oughta ease into it, put the training wheels back on." "So you think I need training wheels" Sam countered, narrowing his eyes, feeling belittled once again. "No, 'we'" Dean stressed. "'We' need training wheels, you and me. As a team. Okay?" This was better. Sam gave a clipped nod. "Ok."

Dean glanced sideways at Sam, his expression genuinely sincere. "Man, I really want this to be a fresh start, you know? For the both of us." Sam wanted that too, he really did. He just wasn't sure how to make some of his resentful feelings about Dean always taking the lead and barking orders at him go by the wayside. But if Dean could try to make a fresh start, so could he. So he nodded again, really meaning it this time.

"Ok."

Last Edit: Dec 10, 2015 9:57:55 GMT -5 by Sam Winchester

Dean Winchester
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Fallen Idols. // Dean // Dec 1, 2015 13:32:25 GMT -5

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Post by Dean Winchester on Dec 1, 2015 13:32:25 GMT -5

Dressed to impress in their crisp black fed suits, Sam and Dean sought out the local sheriff upon arrival. "Agents Bonham and Copeland" Dean introduced as they flashed their badges professionally before tucking them out of sight again. "Rick Carnegie" the sheriff returned, shaking both of their hands. "Good to know ya. So you're here on account of Cal Hawkins' death?" Sam nodded. "That's right." "Well, 'fraid you came a long way for nothing" Sheriff Carnegie apologized. "We already booked the guy that did it." The brothers exchanged a look. "I'm sorry; who do you think did it" Sam wanted to know. Sheriff Carnegie held up one finger, then moved off behind the counter and produced a small tape from a video camera which he then proceeded to play for them on a television in the back room. "Cal? Is something wrong" a voice off-screen was asking as the film moved through a garage. Suddenly the camera panned around to see Cal Hawkins face planted into the windshield of his parked car, blood everywhere. "Oh my God, Cal" the off-screen voice shouted in panic. "Cal!" The picture went shaky, then static cut in as it fell to the floor and finally it went black. Sheriff Carnegie shut off the television, shaking his head in disgust. "Sicko taped his own handiwork." The boys exchanged another look, both feeling rather confused. "I don't follow" Sam finally said, speaking for the pair of them. "It was Jim Grossman that killed Cal" Sheriff Carnegie explained, looking as though this was the most obvious thing in the world. Dean blinked, doing a double take. "Wait, what??" "Well, he was the only one on the scene for miles" the sheriff went on, still looking as though the brothers should have picked up on this easily. "They were best friends" Sam pointed out, countered by the sheriff's immediate fact recitation of, "most violent crimes are committed by someone close to the victim." Sam stepped to one side, letting Dean give it a try. "And how exactly did Jim slam Cal into a windshield with all the force of an eighty-mile-per-hour crash" Dean wanted to know, pleased to have stumped the sheriff, who shuffled his feet uncertainly. "Um...drugs maybe" he suggested finally. Dean raised an eyebrow incredulously. "Drugs" he repeated. Sheriff Carnegie looked slightly flustered. "Look, you know this ain't brain surgery, boys! Whatever it looks like, that's what it usually is. It's simple." "Simple." Dean snorted. "Right."

"Right" Sam echoed doubtfully. "But um, if you don't mind, we'd like to speak to Jim Grossman anyway." Sheriff Carnegie shrugged and led them down the hall to the holding cells. Jim was in the first one, dressed in an orange jump suit, staring at the barred window on his wall morosely. Sheriff Carnegie introduced Sam and Dean, then left them to their own devices. Dean started off the interview. "So what happened Jim?" "I was in the house when it happened, I didn't even see it" Jim explained in a shaky voice. "For argument's sake, say we believe you" Dean informed him, leaning up against the wall while Sam took the room's only seat across from Jim's cot. "Why would you" he asked miserably without looking up from his feet. "The cops didn't." "Well we're not your typical cops" Dean promised honestly, followed by Sam's gentle encouragement of, "please, just tell us what you saw." "It's not what I saw, it's what I heard" Jim explained, looking up at last. "Tires squealing, glass breaking." Jim paused, taking a deep breath and gearing himself up for the last bit of what he wanted to say. "It was the car that did it." "The car" both brothers echoed in unison, staring. Jim nodded with conviction. "I mean, I heard about the curse, but, I just thought it was a load of crap" he admitted. "Curse" Dean repeated, swapping yet another look with his brother. "What do you—what do you mean, curse?" "The car" Jim filled in, looking between the two of them. "Little Bastard." Dean did a double take, pushing off of the wall. "Li—Little Bastard" he repeated in awe. "As in the Little Bastard?" Jim opened his mouth to answer but Sam cut in, holding up his hands. "Wait, wait, wait, wait, uh, what's Little Bastard?" "It's James Dean's car" Dean explained, shaking his head in wonderment. "It's the one he was killed in." Jim nodded his confirmation of this fact. "Yeah, that's the one. Cal had been looking for it for years." He wrung out his hands, still looking majorly distraught. "I mean, hell, we both had. But he found it first." Dean leaned closer to his brother, unable to stop the smiling spreading across his face.

"Oh, we are definitely checking this out."
~~~

Little Bastard had been towed to a local garage where it now sat untouched. Dean circled it carefully, keeping his distance. Sam stood a few paces away, watching. "So, what, this is, like, Christine?" Dean shook his head with a low whistle of appreciation. "Christine is fiction. This...this is real." "Ok." Sam crossed his arms with a mildly interested expression. "Enlighten me." "Well after James Dean died, his mechanic bought the wreckage, and he fixed it up" Dean explained, finishing his lap of the car's perimeter and coming to stand beside Sam. "And it repaid him by..." Dean made a motion with one hand, indicating something dropping with great speed. "Falling on him" he finished dramatically. "And Tony McHenry was killed when it locked up on the racetrack" he went on, eyeing the car from a respectful distance. "I mean, death follows this car around like exhaust. Nobody touches it and comes away in one piece." "Hmm." Sam looked to be considering these facts, though not quite on board yet. "Then, in nineteen-seventy, it vanished off the back of a truck" Dean informed him without taking his eyes off of the car. "Nobody's ever seen it since. But I'm telling you, man, if this—if this car is Little Bastard, I will bet you dollars to donuts it's what killed the guy." Sam nodded slowly, appearing to at least allow the theory some credibility. "So how do we find out?" "Well Cal matched the VIN number" Dean supplied, starting to feel anxious. "But the only real way to know is the engine number." Sam nodded in understanding. "I'm guessing the engine number is-" he began, finished by Dean's remark of, "on the engine, yeah", accompanied with a nervous smile.

Letting out a deep breath, Dean removed his jacket, tossed it onto the workbench and began rolling up his sleeves. "You want me to do it" Sam asked after a minute of Dean not moving. "No. ...No, no, I've—I've got it" Dean assured him, taking the offered slip of paper and pencil and approaching the car. "Okay, baby. I'm not gonna hurt you" he promised, holding up his hands in a show of peaceful intent. "So...don't hurt me." With that being said, Dean put the pencil in his mouth, lowered himself down onto a handy rollerboard, and scoot beneath the car, being as careful as humanly possible not to touch it in any way. Once he was situated directly below the engine, he removed the pencil from his mouth, preparing to place the slip of paper on the engine so he could take a rubbing of its number. There was a sudden groaning sound and the whole car seemed to shift over top of him. Dean tensed up, his breathing becoming a touch more rapid than it had been seconds earlier, his eyes darting every which way. "You need a flashlight?" Dean jumped, startled, as Sam appeared out of nowhere on the ground next to the car, watching him expectantly. "No" Dean breathed without turning his head. "Don't...do anything, just go away." "You" Sam began but Dean cut him off anxiously. "Don't speak. All right? In fact, don't even look at her, she might not like it." It took another second but finally Sam just rolled his eyes and stood back up, allowing Dean to concentrate on the task at hand. Holding his breath, he lay the scrap paper as gently as he could against the engine with one hand, using the other hand to take a rubbing of the number, all the while trying to tune out the various shifting and groaning noises that seemed to amplify one hundred times from his current position.

The second the number was transferred to the paper, Dean was bulleting it out of there, hopping up off the board unscathed. Letting out a breath of relief and wiping his forehead with the back of one arm, he held out the slip of paper for Sam to take. "Find out who owned it" he instructed, his breathing still a little labored. "Not just the last owner, you gotta take it all the way back to nineteen-fifty-five." Sam stared at him. "That's a lot of research" he pointed out. Dean clapped him on the shoulder.

"Well, I guess I just made your afternoon."

Last Edit: Dec 1, 2015 16:45:32 GMT -5 by Dean Winchester

We hunt monsters....you know who does that? Crazy people!

Sam Winchester
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Fallen Idols. // Dean // Dec 1, 2015 17:02:13 GMT -5

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Post by Sam Winchester on Dec 1, 2015 17:02:13 GMT -5

Back at the motel room, Sam had been combing through the car owner's records for going on three hours. It was painstakingly slow work and his head was starting to hurt but he was finally done. So he took out his phone to call Dean, who had mysteriously disappeared only about half an hour after the two of them had returned to the room. "Yo." Dean's voice floated casually over the line after two rings. "Hey" Sam greeted in return, shuffling through the multiple stacks of paper in front of him. "So it took me a while, but I traced all the car's previous owners." "Any of 'em die bloody" Dean wanted to know. "Nope" Sam informed him with a shake of the head even though he couldn't see that part. "In fact"- There was a loud cracking noise in the background that sounded suspiciously like a rack of pool balls being broken. Sam had played enough pool in his life to know that sound. "Dean, are you in a bar" he accused, feeling bitter resentment start to swell inside. "No, I—I'm—I'm in a restaurant" he corrected quickly. "Here's your beer" added a young woman's voice. Sam waited. "That happens to have a bar" Dean amended his earlier claim. "I've been working my ass off here" Sam reminded him irritably, angered by the fact that Dean was just dumping their caseload onto him so he could slack off and drink while hitting on bartenders. This felt more like old times than a fresh start.

"Hey, world's smallest violin, pal" Dean countered unapologetically. "I spent the afternoon up Christine's skirt. I needed a drink." Sam sighed heavily, forcing himself to let it go and move on. "Actually, you didn't." There was a brief pause. Then, "meaning?" Sam shuffled around pages until the correct listing caught his eye. "The car's first owner was a cardiologist in Philadelphia" he read-off. "Drove it 'til he died in nineteen-seventy-two." Another pause. Then, "so you're saying?" Sam put down the paper stack and leaned back in his chair. "That Porsche is not, nor has it ever been, James Dean's car. It's a fake Little Bastard." "Well then what was it that killed the guy" Dean wanted to know, almost sounding disappointed the car wasn't the real deal. Sam shook his head uncertainly.

"Good question."

Dean Winchester
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Our lives are weird, man.

Posts: 2,165

Fallen Idols. // Dean // Dec 1, 2015 19:48:02 GMT -5

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Post by Dean Winchester on Dec 1, 2015 19:48:02 GMT -5

The following morning found the boys at a local college. The scene of Professor William Hill's grisly murder. "I want you to use a, a fine-tooth comb" Sheriff Carnegie was instructing his forensic team as the boys approached. "The evidence is here, we just gotta find it." "Heard you got another weird one" Dean announced by way of a greeting. Sheriff Carnegie turned to face them, his expression a touch on the baffled side. "Uh, well, it's a—it's a little strange on the surface, I admit, but, uh...you know, once you—you look at the facts..." He trailed off, obviously at a loss of what to say next. "William Hill died from a gunshot wound to the head" Sam supplied, gesturing over the sheriff's shoulder at the portion of red-smeared wall. "No gun, no gunpowder, no bullet." "Nope. Nothing strange about that" Dean added, each word heavily laden with sarcasm. "Well there's gotta be a reasonable explanation" the sheriff blustered, wringing out his hands. "There always is." "Well what's your reasonable explanation?" Dean eyed the sheriff expectantly, genuinely curious as to how he would reason his way out of this one.

Sheriff Carnegie looked left, then right, making sure no one was close enough to overhear, then leaned closer to the boys and lowered his voice. "Professional killer." Dean stared and all Sam could manage was, "come again?" "Well, CIA, NSA, one o' them trained assassins, like in Michael Clayton" Sheriff Carnegie explained, continuing to keep his voice down. "You're welcome to look around" he continued, gesturing vaguely at the room. "But—but these guys don't leave fingerprints." Dean went right on staring. "Mind if we talk with the witness" Sam asked after a minute. Sheriff Carnegie shrugged agreeably. "Be my guest. But she's not making any sense! And she's not making any sense in Spanish either."

So the boys made their way downstairs to the lobby where a young Hispanic woman was sitting on a bench, wrapped in a towel and sobbing. One of Carnegie's deputies was trying to get her statement but did not appear to be having much luck. "Consuela Alvarez" Dean called as they approached. She looked their way through teary eyes and gave a shaky nod. "Yes?" Her voice, even with just one word, was thick with a Spanish accent. "FBI." Dean and Sam flashed their badges at the officer who nodded and left them alone with Consuela. "Now, uh, you said you saw something in the professor's office" Dean prompted, tucking away his badge. "Right? Something in the window?" "Estaba sacando la basura" she rambled in panicked Spanish. "Imiré por la ventana y vi al hombre que mató al Señor Hill!" Sam knelt in front of her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Uh, Señora Alvarez. Cálmese, por favor. Uh..." He appeared to be thinking hard for a minute before finishing the sentence. "Díganos lo que vio?" "Nice" Dean praised, flashing his brother a thumbs up. "Freshman Spanish" Sam returned with a modest shrug. "Era alto. Muy alto. Y llevaba el abrigo negro largo y tenía bigotes" Consuela explained, translated by Sam as, "okay, uh, a tall man, very tall. With a long black coat and a—" He gestured at his chin to make sure he was understanding correctly. "A beard?" Consuela nodded, clutching the blanket around her tighter. "Y un sombrero" she threw out, kind of as an afterthought. "Dude was wearing a sombrero" Dean questioned with a lifted eyebrow, finding this a bit strange. "A hat, not an actual sombrero" Sam corrected before both boys turned their focus to Consuela again as she spoke. "No, no, no, un sombrero alto." "A tall hat" Sam translated. Dean nodded in understanding. "Oh, like a top hat." "Un sombrero alto" Consuela repeated, holding one hand above her head a significant distance. "Muy alto." "What, you mean like a—like a stovepipe hat" Dean wondered, imitating her gesture. She nodded. "Si." Dean nodded his understanding again, only one example of this type of hat springing to mind. "Like Abraham Lincoln." Without warning, Consuela burst into fresh sobs. "Si, El Presidente Lincoln" she confirmed, switching into broken, accented English. "Abraham Lincoln kill Mister Hill!" After hearing something like this, there was no other possible reaction other than the one Dean delivered. "Huh."

"S-so I go home now" Consuela pleaded, startling both boys out of their baffled stupor. "Si" Sam allowed, smiling gently. "Gracias." "Gracias" Dean echoed faintly, still mulling over the whole "Abraham Lincoln killed Mr. Hill" thing.
~~~

Back in the motel room, each Winchester was parked in front of their own laptop, working silently. Dean was watching and rewatching Jim's video of Cal's death, looking for something they may have missed. A flash of red caught his eye and he froze the video where it was, framing back a bit. "Whoa." Sam looked up from his laptop across the table. "What?" Dean alternated forward and back a few times between two different frames. A figure in a red coat was present in one but not the other. "It's a freeze-frame from Jim Grossman's video" Dean explained, spinning the computer around so Sam could see it as well. "Am I crazy, or does that look like James Dean?" "That...looks like James Dean" Sam confirmed, staring. Dean swiveled the laptop back around so it was facing himself again. "So we got Abraham Lincoln, and James Dean" he pointed out, frowning. "Famous ghosts?" It was all he could come up with and it made no sense. And yet, Sam wasn't quick to dismiss it. "Maybe." Dean made a face. "Well that's just silly."

"No, actually, uh, there is a ton of lore on famous ghosts" Sam explained. "More than the, you know, not-famous kinds. I'm actually surprised we haven't run into one before." "Yeah, but now we got two of 'em" Dean pointed out, still not totally buying this. "Two extremely pissed-off famous ghosts? In one place?" "Who are apparently ganking their fans" Sam declared, looking up from his computer screen. Dean raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" "Professor Hill was a Civil War nut" Sam read from whatever webpage he'd been browsing. "He dug Lincoln. Wrote papers about him and everything." "And Cal must've been a James Dean freak" Dean realized. "He spent seventeen years of his life tracking down the guy's car." Sam nodded knowingly. Dean leaned back in his chair, putting all this together. "So you're saying we've got two super-famous, super-pissed-off ghosts killing their...super-fans?" "That's what it looks like" Sam agreed, beginning to browse his computer again. "Well, that is muchos loco" he commented, getting into the Spanish theme. "Muy" Sam corrected with a grin, looking up from his computer screen. "Not 'muchos'." Feeling kind of stupid, Dean quickly changed the subject back to their ghost problem. "Yeah, well, the big question is, what the hell are they doing here?" Sam nodded, implying he held the same question. "Yeah. Ghosts usually haunt the places they lived. I mean, I, I get Abraham Lincoln at the White House-" "Or James Dean at the racetrack" Dean tacked on, rising to his feet and moving into the kitchenette to grab a can of soda from the mini-fridge. "But what the hell are they doing in Canton?" Dean took a long sip of his drink, leaning up against the counter. Sam tapped a few more keys and then, apparently having found something, shook his head in disbelief. "You gotta be kidding me." "What?" Dean set down his soda can and moved back over to Sam's side, peering over his shoulder at the screen. Staring back at him were the very lifelike images of wax Abraham Lincoln and wax James Dean, headlining an article about the town's local wax museum of famous people.

"You gotta be kidding me."

Last Edit: Dec 1, 2015 21:40:59 GMT -5 by Dean Winchester

We hunt monsters....you know who does that? Crazy people!

Sam Winchester
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Fallen Idols. // Dean // Dec 1, 2015 22:56:03 GMT -5

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Post by Sam Winchester on Dec 1, 2015 22:56:03 GMT -5

Sam and Dean immediately got in contact with the museum's manager, who invited them in that afternoon to meet with him. Upon arriving, while waiting for the manager to make his appearance, they took a brief tour of the place, checking out all the figures. Sam wandered past John F. Kennedy and Richard Nixon before stopping in front of Abraham Lincoln and studying him carefully. "Dude, he's short" came Dean's amused voice from the other side of the room where he was ridiculing the wax figure he was closest to. "Hey" Sam protested, feeling instinctively protective of one of his childhood heroes. "Gandhi was a great man." Dean snorted. "Yeah, for a smurf."

Before Sam could say anything else, the museum manager was approaching them from around the corner at a half-jog, slightly out of breath but smiling cheerfully. "Sorry to keep you waiting" he apologized, reaching out to shake their hands. "This is our busiest time of the year." The boys glanced curiously around the two completely empty rooms that made up the museum. "This is busy" Dean wanted to know, sounding doubtful. "Well, not right now, but it's early" the manager promised, still smiling. "It's 4:30" Dean countered, almost challengingly. The manager's smile slipped. "So what can I do for you" he asked a little sourly. Sam stepped in to answer before Dean could alienate them any further, losing a chance for answers. "Uh, well, we are writing a piece for Travel Magazine" he lied smoothly, giving Dean a pointed look. Dean rolled his eyes and added, "yeah, on how, uh, totally non-sucky wax museums are." Maybe it was because Sam knew Dean better than anyone that he heard the cynicism there because the manager was smiling again. "That's fantastic. A little press, just what we need." "Great" Sam enthused. "Well we're interested in a few of your exhibits, specifically Abraham Lincoln and, uh, James Dean." "Two of our most popular displays" the manager declared proudly. "Oh yeah?" Sam smiled. "So they bring in a lot of visitors?" "Well we have our regulars" the manager informed them. "I don't suppose that, uh, William Hill and Cal Hawkins were regulars, were they" Dean wanted to know, causing the manager's expression to sadden. "As a matter of fact, they were. Yeah, I heard what happened to them. It's tragic, just tragic." He shook his head and then looked up in alarm. "Oh—you—that's not gonna be in the article, is it?" "No, of course not" Sam assured him quickly. "You know, I gotta tell you, that—that Lincoln is so lifelike" Dean remarked, pointing over Sam's shoulder. "I mean, you—I mean, you can just imagine him moving around. You ever see anything like that?" The manager frowned, looking confused. "Um...no." Sam tried next. "Well, um, is there anything you could think of that would make your museum...unusual? You know, for the article?" "Well, I'll say" the manager declared proudly, his smile back in full force. "There isn't another place like us, not anywhere." Dean raised an eyebrow. "How so?" "Well, for one, that's Honest Abe's real hat." The manager also pointed over Sam's shoulder, beaming. "So...almost like his...remains." Dean gave Sam a pointed look behind the manager's back. Sam inclined his head, indicating he was on the same page. The manager turned back around to face them, shrugging. "Uh...I guess." "You wouldn't happen to have any of James Dean's personal effects, would you" Sam questioned casually. The manager nodded enthusiastically. "Ooh, yeah. Got his keychain. We got a bunch of stuff. Like, uh, Gandhi's bifocals, FDR's iron lung. This." He pointed to the leather jacket he was wearing. "And who did that belong to" Sam wanted to know. "The Fonz. Seasons two through four!" The manager did a double thumbs up, grinning widely. "W-wow" Sam stammered, trying to look and sound impressed. "Yeah, that's—that's really cool...ish."
~~~

The museum was scheduled to close at eight that night. At seven forty-five, Sam was making sure the Impala's trunk was properly packed, adding a final, fully loaded salt round rifle to the weapons arsenal before closing everything up and pocketing the keys. With this task complete, he returned to their room, entering just in time to hear Dean saying, "yeah, Abraham Lincoln and James Dean, can you believe that" in a low voice into his phone, facing away from the door. And then, before Sam could make his presence known, he was continuing. "Why so kill-crazy? Ah, maybe the apocalypse has got 'em all hot and bothered." Sam remained frozen where he was, silent, listening, a sort of building pressure starting to rise within. "Yeah, well, we all know whose fault that is" Dean was now saying bitterly into the phone. "Well I'm sorry, but it's true" he finished, and that was all Sam could take. Clearing his throat, he closed the door loudly to announce his presence. "I'll call you later. Bye" Dean muttered, hanging up and spinning around. "What's going on" Sam asked in a forced calm tone. "Did you get the trunk packed up" Dean asked instead of answering the posed question. "Yeah, trunk's packed" Sam confirmed briskly before trying a different question of his own. "Who was on the phone?" "Bobby." No explanation beyond this. "And" Sam prompted. Dean shrugged blandly, pocketing his phone. "Nothing." Sam exhaled sharply, done with trying to lead-up to the "elephant in the room" subject. "So we're just gonna pretend I didn't hear what I just heard?"

"Pretend or don't pretend" Dean returned tonelessly, grabbing his jacket and brushing past Sam. "Whatever floats your boat." "This was supposed to be a fresh start, Dean" Sam reminded him, feeling after the overheard conversation rather like Dean had just kicked him repeatedly in the gut. If that was how Dean truly felt and talked behind his back, this was never going to work. "Well, this is about as fresh as it gets." Dean shrugged into his jacket and held out one hand for the keys. "Now are we going or not?" Sam deposited the Impala's keys in his brother's open palm with a heavy sigh. "Fine." But it wasn't.

It was practically the opposite.

Dean Winchester
Hunter.

Our lives are weird, man.

Posts: 2,165

Fallen Idols. // Dean // Dec 1, 2015 23:35:11 GMT -5

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Post by Dean Winchester on Dec 1, 2015 23:35:11 GMT -5

Neither brother said anything on the drive back over to the museum. Nor on the walk through the empty rooms to where Lincoln with his real hat was standing. Dean wasn't going to apologize for anything he'd said, seeing as how it was all incredibly true, but maybe he should have been a little more careful about when he'd said them. So, trying to brush past the tenseness that was enveloping them, he opted for humor, the way he normally operated. "Check it out." Taking Lincoln's hat down off of the mannequin and placing it on his own head, he lowered his voice to imitate Lincoln's. "Four score and seven years ago, I had a funny hat." Sam sighed, unamused, and held out one hand for the hat. "Dean." Dean rolled his eyes and handed it over. "We can't have any fun with this?" Sam set a small metal trash bin down in the middle of the room and dropped in Lincoln's hat. "Let's just torch the objects, torch the ghosts, and get outta here" he suggested. "Okay?" Dean nodded reluctantly and tipped his head towards the second room. "I'll go grab East of Eden's keychain." Stepping through the doorway that connected the two rooms, Dean glanced around in search of James Dean. No sooner had he located him and pulled free the keychain, then the door slammed shut, cutting him off from Sam.

"Sam!" Whipping back around, he slammed one flat palm into the sealed door. "Sammy!" "Dean" came Sam's muffled shout on the other side. Lifting one foot, he brought it forward, trying to crash through the wood to no avail. "Dean!" Sam's muffled shout was even more distant this time as though he was no longer directly on the other side of the door. It also sounded more panicked. Which was never a good sign. "Sam!!" Dean took a few steps back and charged the door, ramming his shoulder into it with all the force he could conjure up. Stumbling backwards, he tried again. And once more. On that third time, he finally was able to burst through the door, stumbling forward a few steps from the momentum.

"Dean!" Sam's strangled shout for help came from the far side of the room where he was struggling to buck someone off of his back who had their arms wrapped around his neck. Dean tilted his head to one side, watching this. "Is that Gandhi?" "Yes" Sam gasped out as he and Gandhi continued battling each other. "Dude, he's squirrelly" Dean observed. Gandhi elbowed Sam in the chest, winding him. Sam, gasping for air and struggling to untangle himself from his attacker, gestured wildly to Gandhi's wax figure in the corner. "Get the-" Gandhi slammed Sam down onto the ground, pinning him there and beginning to choke him in earnest. "Get the what" Dean called urgently, standing next to wax Gandhi with no idea what to grab. He knew he should have been paying attention when that weird manager had been listing which artifacts from what people they were in possession of. "Glasses" Sam managed to gasp out, his eyes beginning to flutter closed.

Dean snatched the bifocals off of the wax Gandhi and high-tailed it back to the middle of the room where Sam had left the trash can. Tossing both the glasses and James Dean's keychain into the mix, he then squirted a healthy amount of lighter fluid over it all, struck a match and dropped it in. Gandhi vanished instantly. Sam lay on the ground, breathing deeply. Dean gave his head a bemused shake.

"You couldn't have been a fan of someone cool?"

We hunt monsters....you know who does that? Crazy people!

Sam Winchester
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Fallen Idols. // Dean // Dec 2, 2015 12:39:49 GMT -5

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Post by Sam Winchester on Dec 2, 2015 12:39:49 GMT -5

Dean buzzed around the motel room, grabbing clothes from drawers and under the bed, tossing them into his open duffel bag. Sam was much slower to pack. Partly because he always was and partly because he was still running the final few minutes back in that museum through his mind. Something was nagging at him about this, but he couldn't put his finger on what it was. "Ready to blow this joint" Dean called over to him, adding a final shirt to the bag and zipping it closed. Sam added his toothbrush to the toiletries kit he was holding, leaning up against the bathroom door frame with a puzzled expression. "Dean, didn't it strike you as strange the way Gandhi just...vanished?" Dean looked up. "Strange how?" "No screaming, no big flame-out" Sam pointed out, pushing off of the door and crossing to his bed where he tucked the toiletries kit into his open backpack. "I mean, that isn't the way ghosts usually go." Dean shrugged indifferently. "Still, I torched, he vanished." He had a point. But something still wasn't sitting right with Sam about this whole thing. "Yeah, but I..." He sighed and started over, bringing up a new issue. "Also, I feel like he was...trying to take a bite out of me." He remembered the way Gandhi had almost been clawing his way up his back as though attempting to reach his throat. "A bite" Dean echoed, raising one eyebrow. Sam nodded. "Yeah, like he was hungry. But the thing is, Gandhi—or, the real Gandhi" he amended, fiddling with the zipper of his bag. "He was a..." "A what" Dean prompted. Sam felt kind of foolish for knowing this fact. He continued to play with the zipper. "Spit it out" Dean demanded after another few seconds of silence. Sam sighed, released the zipper and turned to face Dean. "He was a fruitarian."

For a second there was pure silence. Then Dean started laughing. "Let me get this straight" he finally managed to say, calming down. "Your, uh, ultimate hero was not only a short man in diapers, but he was also a fruitarian?" "That's not the point" Sam argued stiffly. "That is good" Dean chuckled, turning away and heading for his packed duffel bag. "That is—even for you, that is good." "Look, I'm just saying, I'm not so sure this thing is over" Sam informed his brother's back. Dean turned back around, spreading his arms wide. "It was a ghost" he stated simply. "It was a weirdly super-charged "fruitarian" ghost, but it was still a ghost. Now let's go." He snatched up his duffel with a good deal of force as though this put a period on their discussion. Sam crossed his arms, not moving. "So first you drag me into town, and now you're dragging me back out." "You ain't steering this boat" Dean insisted, moving past him towards the door. "Let's go, chop chop." Sam remained planted. "You know, this isn't gonna work" he threw out, giving up. Dean stopped walking and turned back around to face Sam once more. "What isn't?" "Us" Sam replied, gesturing between them both. "You, me, together. I—I thought it could, but it can't." "You're the one that wanted back in, chief" Dean reminded him pointedly. "And you're the one who called me back in" Sam countered, uncrossing his arms, then thinking better of it and crossing them again. Dean let out a slow breath. "Well I still think we got some trust building to do." Which was, in Sam's opinion, just more cryptic double talk for meaning letting Dean lead everything while he just followed around like a shadow. "How long am I gonna be on double-secret probation" he demanded coldly. Dean shrugged, not bothering to deny that that's what was going on. "Til I say so." Sam uncrossed his arms again, taking a step towards Dean, his tone far less frosty than the last time he'd spoken. "Look. I know what I did" he stated. "What I've done. And I am trying to climb out of that hole, I am, but you're not making it any easier." "So what am I supposed to do, just let you off the hook" Dean demanded, not looking too pleased with this idea. "No" Sam rejected instantly, shaking his head. "You can think whatever you want. I deserve it, and worse." He shook his head again with a defeated smile. "Hell, you'll never punish me as much as I'm punishing myself, but the point is, if we're gonna be a team, you and I—it has to be a two-way street." Dean eyed him, unconvinced. "So we just go back to the way we were before?" "No, because we were never that way before" Sam pointed out, gearing up to say some of the things he'd been thinking for a long time out loud for the first time. "Before didn't work." Dean frowned, obviously confused. So Sam helped him out. "How do you think we got here?" "What's that supposed to mean" Dean wanted to know, locking eyes with Sam. "Dean, one of the reasons I went off with Ruby..." Sam took a deep breath.

"Was to get away from you."

Dean Winchester
Hunter.

Our lives are weird, man.

Posts: 2,165

Fallen Idols. // Dean // Dec 2, 2015 14:58:06 GMT -5

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Post by Dean Winchester on Dec 2, 2015 14:58:06 GMT -5

Dean blinked, caught off-guard by this revelation. "What??" Sam looked off to one side and then back to Dean, swallowing hard before admitting, "it made me feel strong. Like I wasn't just your kid brother." "Are you saying this is my fault" Dean challenged accusingly with narrowed eyes. "NO, it's my fault" Sam corrected intensely. "All I'm saying is that, if we're gonna do this, we have to do it different, we can't just fall into the same rut." The brothers stared at each other wordlessly for a few long seconds. Finally, Dean dropped his duffel bag onto a chair by the door and approached his younger brother. "So what do you want me to do?" It was as close to an apology as he would allow, at least for the time being. "You're gonna have to let me grow up, for starters" Sam informed him seriously. Dean thought about this. Sam had always just been the little brother that needed protecting. It was second nature. But maybe, especially over the last few years, he'd been so worried about taking care of him that he hadn't seen he was hurting him rather than helping him.

As this realization was crashing down upon him, he was saved by having to verbally acknowledge any of this by the ringing of his cell phone. Flipping it open, he placed it to one ear. "Yeah?" One of the local officers introduced themselves and then informed Dean that the Sheriff needed to see both Sam and Dean down at the station to deal with a new problem. "Yeah, ok" Dean agreed, hanging up. He turned to face Sam with a grim expression. "I guess you were right about this not being over."
~~~

"Sheriff, what happened?" The brothers stood beside the sheriff's desk where Sheriff Carnegie was sitting, head in his hands, looking at a complete and utter loss. "I...I don't know" the sheriff blustered, shaking his head and throwing up his hands before indicating the interview room where two young girls were sitting, both looking very upset. So the boys made their way over. Dean knocked on the door, holding up his badge. "Excuse us, girls. Hi, we're with the FBI." "Can you tell us what happened" Sam prompted with gentle encouragement. "It was horrible" the first girl blurted out, followed by her friend's agreement of, "way horrible." "What was horrible" Sam asked patiently. "I thought she'd be nice" cried the first girl, followed by the second girl's exclamation of, "I still can't believe it!" "Believe what" was Dean's prompt when neither girl explained beyond that. The first girl was still crying but the second one managed to sniff out, "she took Danielle!" Dean moved closer. "Who?" The girls looked at each other, saying nothing. "It's okay, you're safe" Sam promised. "Just tell us. Who took your friend?" The girls looked at each other again and then finally the second girl, who seemed to be the more chatty of the two, finally opened her mouth. "It was...Paris Hilton."

Sam and Dean openly stared. Sam finally got it together enough to say, "sorry?" "She looked really good, though" the second girl piped up quickly. "Skinny and fast!" "What—wait—huh?" was all that Dean was able to put together. Sam managed a coherent question. "Where did they go?" "We don't know" the first girl admitted, wringing out her hands. The second girl nodded in agreement. "They just vanished!" Dean's smile was strained. "Would you excuse us for just a minute?" He and Sam crossed to stand in the doorway, keeping their voices low. "Paris Hilton's not dead as far as we know, right" Dean clarified, wondering if maybe he'd missed a huge news article about it. "Pretty sure she's alive" Sam agreed with a nod. Dean furrowed his brow pensively. "Which means it's not a-" "Ghost" Sam finished. "No." "So, what?" Dean's furrowed brow deepened. "Either Paris Hilton is a homicidal maniac"- Sam finished Dean's thought again. "Or we missed something."
~~~

Dean waited in the idling Impala outside of the county morgue. Sam came jogging down the front steps after about half an hour, switching out of a white lab coat which he deposited into some bushes, and tugging on his fed suit jacket as he ducked into the passenger seat. "I can't believe I missed it" he commented with a shake of the head. "Missed what?" Dean shifted the gear into 'drive' and headed for the exit. "Went back over the other two vics" Sam explained, buckling his seat belt. "There was blood loss. Major." "Well being a gory smear will do that to you" Dean pointed out, merging back into the late afternoon traffic. "No, I—I mean more blood loss than a—a car crash or a head wound should cause" Sam corrected, frowning. "Almost like"- "Something's feeding" Dean finished knowingly. "Awesome." "Yeah." Sam gave a grim nod, reaching into an inner jacket pocket and pulling out a small plastic bag. "And then there were these." He handed the bag over. Dean took his eyes from the road briefly to study the two small round objects inside. "What are those, seeds?" "Yeah." Sam nodded again. "They were in both vics' bellies." Dean tossed the bag back at Sam instantly. "I hope you washed your hands." "They're unlike any seed I've ever seen before, Dean" Sam observed, squinting at them through the plastic, ignoring Dean's little quip. "Wow." Dean chuckled. "Just when I thought you couldn't get any geekier."
~~~

Back at the motel room, Dean sat on his bed, using his laptop to look for anything on those mysterious seeds. Sam was using his own laptop at the table, doing the same thing. For awhile it was silent as they both worked. Then, Sam spoke triumphantly. "Yahtzee." Dean looked over the top of his computer. "What?" "The seeds aren't from around here" Sam explained, reading from his computer screen. "In fact, they're not from any tree or plant in the country." "Where are they from?" Dean closed his computer, stood, stretched and moved into the kitchen to grab himself a beer. Sam read some more. "Eastern Europe. From a forest in the Balkans, which is not even there anymore. It was chopped down, like, thirty years ago." Dean twisted off the beer bottle's lid and tossed it aside carelessly, taking a swig. "So?" "So, local legend has it that the forest was guarded by a pagan god whose name was Leshi" Sam relayed. "A mischievous god, could take on infinite forms"- "And let me guess. He liked to munch on his fans" Dean concluded before taking another swig of beer. Sam chuckled in agreement. "Yep. Could be appeased only with the blood from his worshippers. It would drain 'em, then stuff their stomachs with the seeds." Dean set the bottle down on the counter behind him and crossed to stand behind Sam, peering over his shoulder at the screen. "So how's he doing it? What, he touches James Dean's keychain and then morphs into James Dean?" Sam scrolled down the page a bit, shrugging. "It's as good a guess as any." "Yeah, well, whatever." Dean shrugged as well, losing interest in that part. "How do we kill him?" "Says here to chop off his head with an iron axe." Sam pointed to the last line of the article. "Alright." Dean nodded confidently.

"Let's go gank ourselves a Paris Hilton."

Last Edit: Dec 2, 2015 15:07:43 GMT -5 by Dean Winchester

We hunt monsters....you know who does that? Crazy people!

Sam Winchester
Hunter.

Posts: 958

Fallen Idols. // Dean // Dec 2, 2015 15:43:17 GMT -5

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Post by Sam Winchester on Dec 2, 2015 15:43:17 GMT -5

An hour later, armed with their father's old iron axe, the boys entered the wax museum once more. It seemed to be ground zero for all these occurrences so it made sense to look for this Leshi god there first. Splitting up, each brother took one end of the museum, searching for maybe a hidden hallway or door that they hadn't noticed the first two trips.

After a few minutes of wandering, Sam came across a door with signs plastered all over it reading "sorry for the inconvenience", "closed for renovations" and "DANGER DO NOT ENTER". He whistled, nudging open the door with his flashlight, and Dean abandoned his own search to meet up with him. On the other side of the door, through a plastic sheet that they pushed through, was a room decorated like a clearing in the woods, with a path leading up the middle to a white house with a wax figure of a man in a suit standing on the front porch. Sam noticed a young unconscious woman, who could only be Danielle, standing next to the house, tied by her wrists to a large tree. "Hey." Sam hurried to the tree, using his flashlight free hand to feel for a pulse. "She alive" Dean called anxiously. There was a faint flutter in Danielle's neck. Sam let out a breath of relief. "Yeah. Barely."

Suddenly, without warning, the axe in Dean's hands flew across the length of the clearing, embedding itself high in the trunk of another tree. Dean spun around to confront Leshi's Paris Hilton form who was standing directly behind him. She punched Dean several times in the face, sending him sprawling to the ground. Sam lunged at her next but she flipped her hair and stepped aside. Sam felt her high-heeled foot connect solidly with his back, kicking him through the air to collide face first with the front wall of the house.

And everything went black.

Dean Winchester
Hunter.

Our lives are weird, man.

Posts: 2,165

Fallen Idols. // Dean // Dec 2, 2015 16:34:42 GMT -5

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Post by Dean Winchester on Dec 2, 2015 16:34:42 GMT -5

Dean lay on the ground, winded. As he struggled to get back to his feet, Leshi lifted one foot and brought it down on his face. Hard.

And everything went black.
~~~

Dean opened one eye and then the other groggily, giving his head a little shake, trying to remember what had happened. It came back to him just about the same time the realization dawned upon him that he was tied by the wrists to a tree in the same fashion Danielle was, and also in the same fashion as Sam who was bound to the tree beside his. Sam's eyes were open. Dean gave the rope around his wrists a few tugs trying to slip free but all this did was alert Leshi to the fact he was no longer unconscious. "Oh." She smiled cheerfully, sharpening her already long nails on a knife. "I'm so glad you're awake for this. This is gonna be huge." Dean swapped a look with Sam and then deadpanned humorlessly, "super. Yeah, I wouldn't wanna miss it." "I mean, I've been stuffing myself with fast food lately" Leshi explained, crossing one leg over the other gracefully. "So it's nice to do the ritual right. Prepare a nice, slow meal for a change." "Just like the good old days, huh" Sam threw out casually while Dean discreetly continued working his ropes. "You have no idea." Leshi flipped back her hair, then began filing the nails on her other hand, beaming proudly. "People adored me. They used to throw themselves at me, with smiles on their faces." "Yeah, I guess these days nobody gives a flying crap about some backwoods forest god, huh" Dean taunted, swallowing hard as his words earned a nasty glare. Leshi stopped filing her nails, rising to her feet. "No" she admitted sourly. "Not since they cut down my forest and built a Yugo plant." Dean smiled dryly. "March of progress sister."

Sitting back down, Leshi filed her nails a few more times. "For years now, I've been wandering" she informed them. "Hungry. Scared. Scrounging for scraps. So not sexy. But then, the best thing ever happened." She laid the knife down on a nearby tree stump and rose to her feet once more, smirking. "Someone tripped the apocalypse." Out of the corner of his eye, Dean could see Sam looking away with guilt. "And I thought, what the hell, I'm tired of watching what I eat" Leshi went on, taking a step towards the boys. "I wanna pig out. So I found this little place. It's awesome. Adoring fans stroll right in the door." "Yeah. But they're not YOUR fans" Sam argued, narrowing his eyes. "So?" Leshi shrugged, uninterested by this fact. "They worship Lincoln, Gandhi, Hilton...whatever. I'll take what I can get." "You know, I gotta tell you, you are not the first god we've met. But you are the nuttiest" Dean informed her bluntly. "No, you, you people, you're the crazy ones" Leshi corrected angrily. "You used to worship gods. But this?" She gestured up and down at her Paris Hilton disguise in disgust. "This is what passes for idolatry? Celebrities? What have they got besides small dogs and spray tans?" Dean opened his mouth but Leshi wasn't done. "You people used to have old-time religion. Now you have Us Weekly" she spat scornfully. "I don't know, I'm more of a Penthouse Forum man myself" Dean countered, winking. Leshi stalked over to him, leaning in close and smelling. "Maybe, but...there's still a lot of yummy meat on those bones, boy." Dean made a face. "Well I hate to break it to you, sister, but, uh...you can't eat me. See, I'm not a Paris Hilton BFF. I've never even seen House of Wax."

"No" Leshi agreed, trailing one clawed finger down Dean's cheek with a smirk. "But I can totally read your mind, Dean. I know who your hero is. Your daddy. Am I right?" Dean said nothing, clenching his jaw. But Leshi didn't need a verbal answer to know she was right. Strolling casually over to where the axe was still buried in the tree trunk, she gazed up at it. "And this belonged to him. Didn't it?" Again, a rhetorical question. "Poor little Dean" Leshi mocked. "All you ever wanted was to be loved by your idol. Well one distant father figure, coming right up." As she was lifting one hand to touch the axe, Dean used one final bit of brute strength to rip clear through his bindings. Letting the frayed bits of rope fall to the ground, Dean sprinted across the clearing, tackling Leshi. They rolled around, exchanging punches for a few minutes before Leshi was able to gain the upper hand, kneeling on top of Dean and punching him repeatedly in the face. Fortunately, at that moment, Sam was able to bust free, sprinting the length of the clearing, to where he could wrench free the axe. Leshi, distracted by this motion, looked up. Dean brought up one fist, connecting solidly with her face, knocking her off of him. And Sam brought down the axe, severing Leshi's head, killing her.

Sam tossed the axe to the ground, his face sprayed with droplets of red. He was grinning. "Dude." Dean held up one finger warningly. "Not a word." "You just got whaled on by Paris Hilton" Sam exclaimed in pure joy. Dean lay his throbbing head back down on the ground, groaning in pain. "Shut up."
~~~

"Uh-huh. All right. Thank you." Dean hung up his phone the next morning as the boys loaded up the Impala's trunk. "Sheriff Carnegie" Dean relayed to his brother, pocketing the phone. "Danielle's gonna be all right. She's sworn off "The Simple Life", but other than that"- "Glad she's ok" Sam interrupted, smiling with relief. "It gets better" Dean informed him with an amused grin.

"Sheriff's putting out an APB on Paris Hilton."

We hunt monsters....you know who does that? Crazy people!

Sam Winchester
Hunter.

Posts: 958

Fallen Idols. // Dean // Dec 2, 2015 16:56:23 GMT -5

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Post by Sam Winchester on Dec 2, 2015 16:56:23 GMT -5

Sam chuckled, imagining how that whole scenario would play out, as he dumped his backpack into the Impala's trunk and dusted off his hands. "Hey, listen." Dean added his duffel bag to the trunk and then closed and locked it up. "I was thinking about what you said yesterday. About me keeping too tight of a leash on you." Sam's smile faded as he bit his lip, watching Dean and waiting. "Hell, maybe you're right" the older Winchester admitted with a shrug. "I mean, look, I'm not exactly Mister Innocent in this whole mess either, you know. I did break the first seal." "You didn't know" Sam reminded him immediately. "Yeah, well neither did you" Dean pointed out. There was a pause and then Dean added, "I'm not saying demon blood was a great way to go, but, you did kill Lilith." "And start the apocalypse" Sam finished glumly. "Which neither of us saw coming" Dean reassured him firmly. "I mean, who'd have thought killing Lilith would've been a bad thing???" Sam supposed he had a point there.

Dean exhaled slowly. "Point is, I was so worried about watching your every move that I didn't see what it was actually doing to you. So, for that I'm sorry." His lips twitched upwards into half an apologetic smile. Sam couldn't believe he'd actually wrung a sincere apology from Dean on this front. He should have been honest about the way he was feeling much earlier. Sam gave a full smile in return. "Thanks." Dean perched up against the Impala's trunk, crossing his arms. "So where do we go from here?" Rather than just barking orders, Dean was actually asking for a new destination. Sam was floored. He rested up against the trunk next to his brother, putting out his suggestion. "The way I see it, we got one shot at surviving this. Maybe I am on deck for the devil, maybe same with you and Michael, maybe there's no changing that." "Well that's encouraging" Dean deadpanned, sparing a sideways glance for Sam, who smiled faintly, finishing his thought. "But, we CAN stop wringing our hands over it. We gotta just grab onto whatever's in front of us, kick its ass, and go down fighting."

Dean considered this plan of attack, then nodded in approval. "I can get on board with that." "Okay." Sam mirrored the nod. "But we're gonna have to do it on the same level." If there was any kind of moral or theme of that weekend, this was it. Dean pushed off of the trunk, straightening up. "You got it" he promised. "Now, I say we get the hell outta here." "Hell yeah" Sam agreed, also straightening. He headed for the passenger side but after only two steps, Dean's voice addressing him made him hesitate and turn back. "Hey...you wanna drive?" Dean was holding out the keys curiously. Sam's eyes widened. "You sure?" Dean smiled fondly, tossing them over. "Yeah, I could, uh...I could use a nap." Sam's fist closed around the keys, feeling a warm glow spreading deep within him. "Just don't change my music" came Dean's holler from inside the car where he was already getting settled in the passenger seat. Sam shook his head with a chuckle.

Some things just really never changed.

[THE END.]

Fallen Idols. // Dean //

Post by Sam Winchester on Dec 1, 2015 0:05:07 GMT -5

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