Chapter Text
"How long is this going to take?" Dean asked in a voice that he knew boarded on petulant but not particularly caring who heard him.
"Dean, this is an honest-to-God nice restaurant, not a bar. Hell, this isn't even just a nice restaurant. This is one of the nicest restaurants in New York City," Sam hissed softly, looking around at the other patrons with an embarrassed look.
Dean smirked, satisfied with himself.
Ruffling Sam's feathers never stopped being enjoyable, even if nothing else about his lunch situation was. Besides, it felt good to do so after weeks of them being hardly able to stand each other after Dean's return from Purgatory, but they were moving past it. They really were, and it felt good to push Sam's buttons and not have to worry about the outcome damaging their relationship.
"Yeah, in a bar they get you food when you order it. They don't make you sit around on your ass all day. We've got better stuff to do than this."
"I know you think that," Sam said, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Just, play nice. We'll be out of here soon."
"Not likely."
Dean could play nice when he wanted to, but he saw little point in it now. Mr. Monx certainly was not some sophisticated woman to be wooed, an idiot to be conned out of his money, or even someone to be charmed into telling them the truth. He was simply a witness—one who had offered to buy them lunch to be fair—but still just a witness who no doubt had a relatively straightforward story to tell them. Or, more accurately, to tell Agents Smith and Jones.
Monx wasn't even here right now, having left to visit the bathroom once they were seated. After lunch, they would part ways never to see each other again, there was no reason to make a good impression.
Heaving a sigh, Dean settled back. He didn't want to be here, in the summer heat and in a suit while fancy people with fancy problems dined around them.
Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Man, wipe that look off your face. This is not an execution. Mr. Monx offered us lunch, you were the one that accepted. I know, I know," he added quickly as Dean opened his mouth, "you didn't realize that lunch meant this, but please, just behave," he said, gesturing impatiently with his hands and Deans shrugged.
"Monx isn't here, so why are you so concerned? Also, how long does it take someone to take a piss?"
Sam sighed. "Dean, he's an old man, I'm sure that—"
"That's exactly why you won't catch me getting old. I tried that once, and everything stops working." He shuddered dramatically.
Sam's mouth thinned out, becoming decidedly bitchy. "You can't stop aging."
Dean didn't have a comeback that wouldn't have dampened the mood and probably replaced Sam's annoyed look with some sort of heartbroken, puppy-eyed, one and Dean didn't want to see that. He let the conversation stutter to a stop, instead leaning back in his seat and toying with one of the forks as his stomach gave an unhappy grumble.
Seriously. How long did it take to get some food around here?
Sam didn't try and pick up the conversation again—probably scared of what Dean would say, the sissy— and instead gazed blankly out the window to their left as they waited for Mr. Monx to return to the table.
Their food, the day's special of mushroom bourguignonat at Mr. Monx's request, was served before Mr. Monx returned.
Dean took one look at the rubbery mushrooms swimming in gravy and no longer felt hungry.
Without having to be asked, Sam shifted his plate closer to Dean's and began to fish the mushrooms out with his fork, tossing them carelessly onto his own plate. "They really aren't that bad, you know."
"Yeah, I'll tell that to you the next time we have cantaloupe."
Sam grinned a little despite himself. "The taste and texture are all off. It's gross."
"I could say the same thing about mushrooms!"
"Yeah, well, you've had a thing against mushrooms ever since all we had to eat were those cans of cream of mushroom soup for days when I was, what, ten?"
"Closer to eight." Dean smiled nostalgically. "It made you change your mind about spaghettiOs, though. Even that was a treat compared to what we had been eating."
Sam smiled too, and Dean felt something in his chest loosen. Their relationship was getting stronger again, the hurt words said on both sides fading. The twinge of deep pain that Sam hadn't cared enough to look for him after he disappeared was still there, but it wasn't as prevalent as before.
Sam had chosen him over Amelia in the end.
"Sorry, gentleman, to keep you waiting."
Dean looked up as Mr. Monx lumbered towards their table, dabbing at the sweat glistening on his face with a handkerchief.
"It was no problem, sir," Sam said, and Dean kicked him under the table. What was with the sir business? Sam kicked him back even as Mr. Monx lowered himself down to sit in his chair with a loud sigh.
"Ah, good, the food has arrived. It's said that their mushrooms are some of the best there are in New York City." He smiled at them as he pulled his plate closer and began to eat.
Dean picked up his fork to pick half-heartedly at the contents on his plate.
They were so stopping and getting a pizza after this. This did not count as lunch.
"So," Monx said after a minute. "Now that we have situated ourselves, what was it that you wanted to ask me?"
The interview was short and they had finished before lunch was even done. Dean left most of the talking to Sam, although he watched Mr. Monx closely. He didn't like what he saw and was relieved when Sam wrapped it up.
Mr. Monx paid, assuring them with the fakest smile that Dean had seen this side of Washington DC that it was an honor to feed the men who were serving Uncle Sam, and that should they need anything at all, they should not hesitate to ask.
Dean didn't try and hide his disgusted snort as he watched Mr. Monx climb into his limo. Turning, he started to walk down the street, knowing that Sam would follow. It was oppressively hot outside and he slipped off his suitcoat before the restaurant was even out of sight.
"Well, that was a waste of time," he said, tucking the jacket over his arm.
They turned a corner and Sam leaned in closer to Dean in an attempt to keep their conversation private on the crowded street.
"You think so?" he asked with a thoughtful look on his face. "He didn't tell us much more than what we had read in the newspaper, but I don't know, something about it felt…off. I can't quite put my finger on why just yet."
"You know what that was, Sam? It was that Monx was a dick, a complete douchebag, and you like to believe that all people are saints or something like that."
"You didn't like him?" Sam asked dryly and Dean huffed.
"Bright observation right there. And don't tell me that you liked him. If mushroom dinners are the way to win you over then this world is screwed."
"I mean, it was pretty good. We don't get things like 'mushroom bourguignon' in most bars," Sam said, but he was smiling.
"Yeah, for good reasons."
Sam didn't push it, returning to the case. "I agree, though, that he was kind of a dick. He seemed cold about the whole situation for someone who had watched his butler, a man who had served him faithfully for over fifty years, die. I mean, he didn't even go to his funeral—or at least I didn't see him there He also seemed nervous. I don't think that he stopped sweating at any point during lunch."
"Yeah," Dean fired back, "and neither did you. It was hot. I don't think that it had anything to do with Monx's butler somehow dying in two different places. All he did was tip the police off when he heard someone breaking into his home."
"He watched the police shoot Ted Ambrose. He said that he saw the body too, heard them declare him dead on sight," Sam reminded him.
"Yeah, because Ambrose, and, man, I'm having a hard time getting past the whole it was the butler who did it, stole an antique vase worth, how did Monx put it, 'more than both of us put together'. Personally, I think that we should be offended about that."
"Probably," Sam broke him off before he could really get started, trying no doubt to keep them focused on the case. "But then he hears from the police that the body has been stolen from the morgue—broken out from the inside at that—only for the body to be found in Ambrose's own bed?" Sam paused, thinking with his lips pursed.
They stopped at a crosswalk, and Dean wrenched the knot in his tie loose, before shoving his hands into his pockets as Sam jammed his thumb into the 'walk' button, still looking thoughtful.
"You know, I was thinking…" Sam trailed off as a gaggle of giggling girls pushed past them, clutching more shopping bags than they should rightfully be able to carry. They exchanged glances but were silent until the light changed, and then they followed the girls across the street and into Central Park.
"What?" Dean asked when they were again a suitable distance away from everyone else.
"Oh, I was just thinking about Ambrose. Mr. Monx said that he was acting normal in the weeks leading up to his death, but do you think that he could have been some other creature, something supernatural? Something that wouldn't be killed by regular bullets like a werewolf or a shapeshifter?"
"Then how did he end up dead with a bullet in his heart? I highly doubt that cops are carrying around silver bullets these days so that rules out both werewolves and shapeshifters. His head was still firmly attached to his shoulders when he went into the ground, so he wasn't a vampire either," Dean returned.
"What if," Sam countered, his hands fluttering a little as he got excited, and it made Dean want to smile, "it was as a demon. They wouldn't have been killed by the bullet, but the host would have. Then it goes back to Ambrose's house after leaving the morgue, leaves the host behind in bed to die before finding a new host."
"And what would a demon want with an old vase?" Dean asked witheringly. "Isn't that a little low on the soul spectrum?"
"Maybe Crowley wanted it, thought it might spruce up his place," Sam said, his mouth twitching upwards and Dean shook his head.
"He probably would. The bastard."
"So, more research, then? We could look into the vase, and see if it is something Crowley or another player would want. Or if it has a history of being connected with odd deaths. Maybe that is the link we are missing. We could even hit up the NYC library…" Sam shot a hopeful look in Dean's direction.
Dean shook his head in disbelief. "Do you know how idiotic it is that we are in New York City, the freakin' Big Apple, and you want to go to the library and sit in some dusty room buried underneath a pile of books? People save up for a lifetime to come and just be able to see this place, Sammy."
"And a lot of them go to the NYC library," Sam defended himself. "It's massive, one of the most impressive public libraries in the United States."
"Could you be more of a geek?" Dean asked, but the question came out more fondly than he had anticipated. Sam rolled his eyes, but Dean caught the warm, happy, look on his face that he tried to hide a moment later.
Dean suddenly smiled as he backslapped his right hand against Sam's chest. "Hey, while we are here, we should go to a Mets game. That way we at least are doing something worthwhile."
"Deal," Sam agreed easily and they walked on, their steps in easy sync.
They had paid hell to get here, but this felt good. It felt right.
A small family on bikes passed them and Dean fought a laugh as he watched the young girl skid to a stop—or as much skidding as one could do on a tricycle—and shout excitedly as she jumped off, heading straight for a dandelion that was just off the path. She turned, her prize held high in her hand as she scurried back over to her parents, who had stopped and were waiting for her.
It was moments like this, moments surrounded by happy, successful, people and families who hadn't been torn apart by monsters, that made everything that they did worth it. That reminded him that there was more out there than just hunting, killing, and surviving.
Maybe Sam would have that one day, that kind of happiness. Hell, he kept trying whenever Dean turned his back.
Dean regretted the thought almost immediately. Sam had had his reasons, even if Dean didn't fully understand them, and he was trying to fully forgive him. It was working; it was just taking a little longer to forget than he had anticipated.
Sam nudged his shoulder, his gaze questioning, but Dean just shook his head. He didn't want to get into all that right now, not when he was feeling so good, and he doubted that Sam did either.
It was a relief to get back to the Impala, although it didn't provide much protection against the stifling heat after sitting in the sun for a couple of hours. The library, on the other hand, was nice and cool. That appeal wore off soon enough, especially when it was accompanied by a mountain of books that didn't seem to be yielding any results.
Finally, Dean threw down the book that he had been half-heartedly flipping through for the past hour and rubbed at his eyes.
"Dude, I'm not seeing straight anymore. I mean, are we even sure that there is a case here? Maybe Ambrose just wasn't all the way dead yet and escaped from the morgue to die at home."
Sam looked up, blinking from behind his book as he switched his brain back over to the real world. When he did, he snorted, raising an eyebrow. "Like you believe that. You heard Monx, Ambrose was pronounced dead on location. He said that there was too much blood for him to have been anything but dead."
"Alright, alright. Don't get your panties into a twist. But we aren't finding anything here. I think that the vase was just a vase. We should start doing some digging another way. Talk to more people, maybe look into Ambrose again, see if he's got some dirt on him. Maybe you were on to something with him being something besides human."
Sam wavered, glancing back down at his book with a frown. "I mean, I was right in the middle of this fascinating history about the vase—Did you know that there are only four other vases like it? And that this one is more unique than even those because it's part of a matching set? They were sold separately more than a thousand years ago, and people have been trying to bring them back together again for…" he trailed off at Dean's blank look.
Heaving a sigh, he shrugged as he reluctantly closed the book. "The library is closing soon. Might as well get dinner and go back to the motel, anyway. I can finish this there. Or I think I can probably hack into some of Ambrose's financial accounts, see if he was paid to steal—"
"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy. C'mon," Dean wheedled. "Let's go to a bar, eat some actually good food, and have the night off. It's not like we have anything better to do. No one else is immediately dying, and we are in New York, not some rinky-dink little town. It'll be fun!"
Sam hesitated, looking unsure, and Dean tried to keep the disappointment off of his face. Apparently living a normal life meant that Sam had forgotten that their life could be good and fun sometimes too. It had happened after Stanford as well, only that was because Sam had been mourning the love of his life. What was he pining for now?
"Okay, sounds good."
Dean's head shot up and he blinked in surprise. "Really?" He grinned, slapping Sam hard on the back. "I know just the spot!"
"Of course you do," Sam said good-naturedly even as he shook his head. Grabbing his suitcoat from where it had been draped over his chair, he stood and shrugged it on as Dean led the way out of the library.
Dean knew of the perfect bar not far from their motel and they dropped off the Impala before walking together to it. It was a nicer—and more expensive—bar than what Dean would usually frequent, but Sam had agreed to come with even if he hadn't really wanted to, so he guessed that he could make his exceptions as well.
Tonight was going to be a good night. He was determined to make it so.
#
Sam couldn't help a smile as he watched Dean at work charming his way into a group of elegantly dressed women. Dean looked younger, more alive…happier…in this setting than Sam had seen him in a long time.
Someday, maybe, he would help Dean see that he also deserved a normal life. That he didn't have to forever subscribe to the bloody and crushing life of a hunter.
The thought was depressing, and Sam took a swallow of his beer, trying to escape…whatever it was that he was feeling.
He felt Dean's eyes on him, and he looked up to see his brother grinning broadly with his arm now wrapped around a woman's slim waist. He pumped his eyebrow suggestively and Sam shook his head before giving his brother a thumbs up.
Seeing Dean this relaxed more than made up for the time that they could have been doing research. It also made Sam regret not doing something like this with him sooner.
And just like that, Sam's mood was sinking again. Why was it that he only seemed to be able to let his brother down, even when things were good between them? Dean had lit up like a Christmas tree when Sam had said that he would go to the bar with him, he hadn't been expecting him to say yes. He should have done something like this with him earlier or at least more frequently.
Sam turned back to his drink and the half-eaten plate of chicken wings next to it, trying to break free of the morose thoughts. He was fine, he was, he just…wasn't feeling it tonight. He felt off, and being at the crowded and noisy bar wasn't helping.
Part of him just wanted to go back to the motel and be alone—to brood as Dean would probably unfairly say. He just wasn't always as social as Dean was. It wasn't even that Sam couldn't get up and go find someone to talk to. Hell, there had been a time that going to New York meant seeing Sarah, but they had long ago lost contact and he didn't think that she would be pleased if he showed up on her doorstep now. She was probably married and had kids anyway.
It was easier to just stick to himself. That way no one got hurt.
Rubbing his face, Sam tried to turn his attention back to his phone and the article that he had pulled up. It was the same one that had gotten their attention in the first place and brought them to New York, but now he was having trouble focusing as that general feeling of 'off' increased.
Either the drinks or what he had eaten recently was not agreeing with him, and his stomach was starting to twist and churn. That was just another reason to stay in his own space because he would never live it down if he puked all over someone, Dean would make sure of that.
It was starting to get hot in the overcrowded bar, and Sam tugged at his collar. Man, if he was back in the motel room right now, he could be sitting right in front of the crappy AC unit reading the book he had brought back from the library instead of sweating through his shirt. Hell, if he wanted to get adventurous, he might make a decent dent in the battered, second-hand copy of Les Misérables that he had picked up a week ago.
Or, he thought as his stomach turned over warningly, he could just go to bed and sleep this off.
Hunting was great and grand and all that, but it also meant a lot of questionable dinners and, while Dean had gotten the iron stomach, he hadn't.
Yet one more way that Dean lived up to the Winchester lifestyle while he did not.
Sam didn't know why he was having such a hard time shaking the melancholy thoughts tonight. They were together, dinner had been fun, and they were good. Everything was fine. It really was.
Sam supposed that he was just tired and feeling sick didn't help. It had been a long week, and now Dean wasn't around to distract him from everything else. Sitting back, he rubbed both hands over his face, before dropping one down to rest tentatively over his stomach, which definitely wasn't happy with him.
He should just go back to the motel and call it a night. He wasn't feeling good, and it wasn't like Dean would miss him now, not when he had managed to coax the woman away from her friends and was buying her a drink.
If things continued to go well for him, Dean would be leaving sooner rather than later, and not with Sam.
There was no reason for him to stick around any longer.
Wincing a little, Sam tucked his phone into his pocket and briefly thought about finishing his beer simply because they had paid for it, before thinking better and standing.
His stomach did not appreciate the movement, and Sam shivered, suddenly clammy as he broke out in a cold sweat. Saliva was coating the inside of his mouth, his body giving him one last warning of what was about to happen.
This was not good…
Sam began to weave his way through the crowd, trying not to draw attention to himself but still hurry, and zoned in on the bathroom.
Praying that there was nobody inside, he slipped through the door and made straight for a stall.
He barely made it in time before the beer was burning its way back up his throat. Gagging, Sam dropped to his knees, bending over the toilet and trying not to think about who had been there last and how dirty the seat surely was. Some things just did not pay to think about too deeply.
After that, he stopped thinking altogether as his stomach attempted to turn itself inside out. When it had finished, Sam was shaking.
Sitting back on his haunches, he wiped a hand over his mouth.
Outside of the stall, a urinal flushed.
Sam dropped his head, his cheeks hot from embarrassment, and waited for the sound of the door to close before using the stall wall to pull himself upright, flushing the toilet as he went.
Closing the door behind him, he tugged his shirt straight, trying to appear put together and normal as he made for the sink.
His face was white in the mirror, and he quickly dropped his gaze.
Scooping up a handful of water, he splashed it across his face, before running his damp hands through his hair. His stomach gave another threatening lurch, and Sam leaned down against the sink, breathing through the nausea. He wasn't going to throw up again, he had just done that, he wasn't doing a repeat performance.
The door opened behind him, letting the sounds of the bar in, and Sam closed his eyes. He didn't want to be here.
"Too much to drink there, buddy?" Someone asked and Sam forced an indulgent smile.
"Yeah."
The man laughed tipsily, and then thankfully the stall door shut with a click.
Sam forced himself upright.
He wasn't staying here any longer.
The noise of the bar hit him hard as he opened the door, and he grimaced as he worked his way through the crowd, paid, and then made his way out into the thankfully cooler and quieter street. He hadn't seen Dean, but he assumed that meant he had already left.
They were still in downtown New York, and the streets were bustling with clubgoers but it was still less overwhelming than the bar had been. Sam began to walk, shoving his hands into his pockets and clenching them into fists in a vain effort to keep the nausea at bay.
It was only a couple blocks back to the motel, probably only ten at the most. He could make it that far.
His phone vibrated in his pocket and Sam fumbled it out, squinting at the screen. Dean had texted.
Where'd you go?
Right. Dean had probably come to find him to tell him that he was leaving because Dean, despite his best efforts sometimes, was still paranoid and a protector.
Forcing his hands to steady, Sam replied, Gone back to the motel. Have fun.
Dean didn't answer, but Sam wasn't surprised. He didn't expect to hear from him again for the rest of the night.
Sam made it four blocks before his stomach decided that it had had enough and would not be ignored.
Ducking into a back alleyway, he bent over at the waist and braced his hands against his knees, fighting against the urge to vomit. He was a grown-ass man, he wasn't going to throw up in some alley like a drunk.
It didn't work, and Sam found himself heaving up what was left of dinner, lunch, and probably breakfast as well. The nausea wasn't as quick to fade this time, and he remained bent over for several minutes as his stomach tried to decide if it was done or not. The sour smell of vomit wasn't helping his situation and Sam pushed himself upright, moving away and back towards the street. He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand before pushing his now sweaty bangs out of his face and taking a deep, steadying, breath.
He had a feeling that this wasn't going to magically go away within the next few hours. It had come on quickly and with few symptoms or warnings, and from a lifetime of experience Sam was guessing that it was probably food poisoning. While that was good in some ways, it also meant that the rest of the night was going to be miserable for him.
Dean wasn't going to be thrilled with the news. At all.
He didn't have a lot of patience for weakness at the moment, and he was going to get that look on his face, the muted one that spoke of silent disappointment. Unfortunately, not all of them could be Dean, hardened warrior of Purgatory who never made any mistakes.
Sam banished the uncharitable thought as quickly as it had come. Dean was dealing with the trauma of what he had experienced as best as he could. He just wished that Dean could also see his summer that way too. How hard it had been.
He felt even worse than he had a minute ago.
Sam made it the last few blocks to the motel room without incident, although his gut was churning enough that he knew it was just a respite. Bothering only to change out of his suit and into a t-shirt and sweats, he curled up into a ball on the bed, his arms wrapped around his middle.
The AC unit clunked once, before giving a dying sort of hiss and turning off.
Sam winced, feeling a little bit like life was out to get him, but didn't get up. Dean would just have to fix it when he got back. He couldn't work up the energy to care, not when getting up might upset the very tentative truce he had established with his body.
Closing his eyes, he buried his face in the pillow, halfheartedly wishing that this would all just go away and that he would feel just fine when he woke up again. That way, Dean wouldn't have to know and they could carry on with the hunt.