Supernatural: War of the Sons

by Dessertine, Rebecca; Reed, David

  Dean ripped open the corner of a bag and emptied half of it. He’d need to move fast if this was going to work. He hefted the sack in his arms.

  “What the St. Mary are you doin’?” James asked, suddenly awake and wiping saliva from the side of his mouth.

  Dean hesitated, the bag of salt raised above the guard’s head. Making a quick decision, he lowered the bag to his side.

  Neither man spoke for several seconds, then Dean cleared his throat.

  “Getting salt,” he said.

  James rubbed his eyes, which were a normal greeny-blue color.

  No sign of demonic possession. Nevertheless, Dean knew that the demon could still be inside James, biding its time.

  “Do you remember me?” Dean asked.

  James leaned forward in the chair, running his hands through his short hair.

  “No, buddy. Why would I?”

  Looks like he has the world’s worst hangover, Dean thought. Oddly, he felt some sympathy for the man.

  “It’s nothing. Thought maybe you went to my church,” he said.

  James looked up at Dean, his face blotched and red.

  “Take your salt and leave me alone,” he said, without a hint of recognition on his face.

  He really doesn’t recognize me, Dean thought. Maybe Cujo’s moved on? He did as he was told, hefting the bag of salt and starting toward the door. He considered ‘accidentally’ dropping the sack into James’s lap as he walked past, but he controlled the impulse. There were three guards outside the door, each one capable of putting a bullet in Dean if they realized he was back at the Waldorf.

  Slipping back into the stairwell, Dean dumped the sack of salt and considered the situation. If James was still possessed, it was one of the strangest demons Dean had ever encountered. The hosts usually retained the memories of the demon, and vice-versa. Maybe it’s not a demon at all. Maybe it’s something else—that could explain the barking.

  Back in the lobby, Dean crossed to one of the bars. He ordered a Seven and Seven and sank into a deep red-velvet club chair.

  “May I join you?”

  Dean looked up. The girl from the day before stood in front of him. She was dressed in a slim burgundy suit, with a skirt that stopped just below her knees. Not waiting for an answer, she sat down opposite him.

  “So, one day you’re a bellhop, the next you’re at the bar as a guest. That’s peculiar,” she said, looking him over. Her eyes seemed to tick off each article of clothing Dean was wearing, as well as taking note of his features.

  He leaned forward. “It’s also peculiar that you noticed,” he said.

  The girl smiled, but didn’t blush.

  “How could I forget? It’s not often a man offers to buy me a drink within thirty seconds of meeting me.”

  “Give it a little time. When the sixties hit, girls like you will be—” Dean stopped himself. Why ruin the swinging sixties for her? “Anyway, I apologize for being so forward. It’s not like me at all.”

  “You’re already lying to me? That’s not a great sign.”

  “Okay, it is exactly like me,” Dean said, leaning back in his chair.

  “It’s okay, it’s refreshing. It means you’re not that complicated.”

  “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”

  The girl laughed. “Sort of.”

  Dean lied again. “I didn’t catch your name yesterday.”

  “Julia. Julia Wilder.”

  She held out her petite gloved hand and Dean shook it politely, grinning at the strange formality of the gesture.

  For half a second, he almost told her his real name. “I’m Malcolm. Malcolm Young,” he said instead. “Nice to meet you.”

  “You didn’t answer my question, Malcolm. How are you a bellhop one day and a guest the next?”

  “Big promotion,” Dean said carelessly.

  She beckoned over the bartender.

  “Scotch, please. One ice cube,” she instructed.

  Dean raised a brow. That was a stiff drink for such a small woman. As though she could read his thoughts, Julia leaned forward.

  “My father and I have lived all over the world. I’m very adept at drinking liquor. It’s unusual for a woman, I know.”

  Dean smiled. “I was actually going to say impressive.”

  “So Malcolm Young, tell me about yourself.”

  “Not much to tell, really. I’m in New York on business with my brother.”

  “What kind of business are you in? Besides carting bags, that is.”

  Dean adjusted his secondhand suit jacket.

  “Family business. Extermination. I was in the bellhop outfit so I could explore the hotel without alerting the guests.”

  “Are you saying there are bugs in the Waldorf Astoria?”

  “You didn’t hear it from me.” Dean raised his glass. “To being bug free.”

  Julia Wilder clinked his glass, then, with a lady-like swig, emptied hers. She stood up and smoothed her skirt.

  “Very nice meeting you, Mr. Young. Again.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I have an appointment. Are you going to be in the city much longer?”

  “We’re waiting for a bid, then we go home,” Dean said. It wasn’t a total lie.

  “Perhaps I’ll see you again.” She smiled and then walked across the lobby to the guest elevators.

  Dean watched her and sighed. Why do all the cool girls live in the past?

  NINE

  Sam stopped by the Western Union, and found another telegram from Mr. Feldman was waiting for him.

  JULY 1ST NOON PRESIDENTIAL SUITE WALDORF ASTORIA

  Sam had done it, he had gotten them an invite to the auction. Now the challenge was getting hold of the scroll itself. Could get dangerous, especially if Dean is the one who comes up with the plan.

  The obvious next step—they needed guns. Their usual contacts in New York were for the most part not even born yet, so Sam had to come up with an alternate solution. He decided to make his way to Little Italy. Thanks to his older brother, Sam had seen all the Godfather films dozens of times, and figured it couldn’t all be fictional. After all, Mario Puzo knows what he’s talking about.

  Leaving Canal Street Station, Sam aimed for some of the smaller side streets of Little Italy. Ten minutes later, he stood in front of a restaurant with a CLOSED sign in the window. Inside, he could see several middle-aged men sat talking around a large table. A similarly weathered-looking man sat out front, picking grape seeds from between his teeth.

  “Hi,” Sam began hesitantly. “I was hoping to speak to someone, about a... business arrangement.” Now that he was standing in front of what could be a real Mafioso, he had no idea what to say.

  “Members only,” the man said looking up. Sam noticed that one of his eyes was swollen shut.

  “That’s quite a shiner,” he commented.

  “Look kid, move along if you know what’s good for ya.”

  Normally, Sam wasn’t one to cause a scene. In this case, with the weight of the world resting on his shoulders, he was willing to break with tradition. He took a deep breath and plunged in.

  “Listen, guy, I don’t have time for subtlety. I need guns. Lots of guns.” Sam pulled his remaining dollar bills from his pocket and waved the wad at the guy. “I’m willing to pay—”

  “Whoa. Put that away.” The guy looked both ways along the street. He got up and pushed Sam roughly inside the foyer and against the wall and frisked him. Sam stood completely still. He knew better than to wiggle around when a Goodfella was getting handsy.

  “Up there, second floor.”

  Sam thanked him and headed for the stairs, passing the small cluster of guys who it turned out were playing a poker game in the main room—he made a mental note to tell Dean, in case they needed to replenish their cash reserves.

  A small man, about forty years old and wearing a cable-knit sweater, sat at a desk on the second floor landing. Two bigger guys stood by the wall, their hands clasped in fr
ont of them. They were clearly packing some sort of weapon.

  Sam cleared his throat and explained what he needed: two shotguns, two handguns, and no questions.

  The transaction went very smoothly, all things considered. In the end Sam was only able to afford the two shotguns and ammunition, but within a few minutes he was holding a packed duffel and surrendering the last of his cash.

  As he was preparing to leave, Sam hesitated.

  “Um, actually,” he began. “I don’t know how I’m going to get these back uptown. See, I gave you all my money, and—”

  “Bambi will drive you,” the cable-knit guy said. He motioned to the slightly bigger of the two men near the wall. Bambi nodded.

  A black 1953 Cadillac idled in the back alley. Bambi held open the trunk while Sam dropped the duffel inside. Then Sam reached to open the back door of the car.

  “Upfront,” Bambi ordered. “I ain’t a chauvinist.”

  Sam was pretty sure he meant ‘chauffeur,’ but regardless, he did as he was told, and they were on their way. As they cruised up 5th Avenue, Sam stole a couple of glances at his driver. His mouth looked like it had been cut with a meat cleaver, with pock-marked skin that hung in indefinite wrinkles down his face.

  Sam attempted small talk. “So, why do they call you Bambi?”

  “’Cause of my doe eyes,” Bambi growled and looked at Sam with big droopy, brown eyes. They would have been adorable, if they weren’t filled with murder.

  “Ahh.” Sam realized he was in a car with a complete sociopath. Give him a demon any day.

  When they reached the apartment, Sam pulled the duffel bag from the trunk and said goodbye to Bambi. The car departed at speed.

  Sam carefully stashed the shotguns in the small apartment, and smiled to himself, pleased with his hiding place. He then decided to see if Dean had made any progress at the Waldorf.

  When he arrived at the hotel, he immediately spotted Dean. He was sat at the bar, chatting to the bartender, who clearly thought he was a lunatic.

  “Aww, he’s great,” Dean slurred. “When they play ‘Stairway to Heaven’ he goes like, da dah daaaah.” Dean mimicked an air guitar. “You’re going to love them. Led Zeppelin—look out for them.”

  Sam tapped his brother on the shoulder. Dean turned toward him, bleary-eyed. “Hey bro. How ya doing?”

  “Dean, we’re in the middle of a job. What are you doing?”

  “We’re in the middle of the century! Sit down, have a drink.”

  “Not now Dean. Come on man, let’s go home.”

  Dean scowled and slid off his seat. “Okay, fine.”

  Dean stumbled away from the bar with Sam holding his arm. Then he looked at his brother, suddenly dead sober.

  “What took you so long? I’ve been playing drunk for hours. That girl over there to the left—I had a drink with her. She said she had an appointment and she’s been lurking around the lobby ever since.”

  Sam looked around, but he couldn’t see any girl. He wasn’t entirely sure that Dean was just playing drunk.

  “Sam, I think she’s here for the auction. For the first hour, I just thought it was my animal magnetism, but I’m starting to think she’s onto us.”

  “You don’t say,” Sam replied, pulling Dean along by the arm. “By the way,” he said, “I haven’t been sitting around wasting time at a bar. I scored us an invite to the scrolls auction, and the hardware we need to pull it off. Three days from now. Noon. Here.”

  As the brothers walked out the door, the girl who called herself Julia Wilder followed close behind. She was now wearing a blonde wig and a light-green suit. It was the best disguise she could put together from her suitcase upstairs. Now that she had confirmed that the two young men were working together, she allowed them to escape from her sight and made her way to the lobby phones.

  “Columbia 367,” she directed. After several seconds, a voice answered the phone. “Hi. It’s me. You were right, they’re together. Definitely casing the place.”

  As the other party spoke into her ear, Julia’s face fell.

  “No, I know. They won’t. I won’t let them,” she said.

  With that, she hung up and went back to her room.

  TEN

  In Dean’s pretty extensive life experience, there really wasn’t very much that could compare to a good bacon cheeseburger. Despite that, the hot dog—with everything—that he devoured as he and Sam marched back to their apartment came close.

  Sam was decidedly less enthusiastic about their dinner.

  “Nothing like mystery meat you bought from a guy wearing a skirt,” he said distastefully, swallowing the last of the bun and flicking ketchup off his fingers onto the sidewalk.

  The sun had set behind the towering buildings, casting long inky shadows over the boys’ route. But as the city fell into darkness, it seemed to be coming alive.

  “Can you imagine the kind of supernatural critters that must be running around these alleys?” Dean asked as they passed a particularly decrepit-looking apartment complex.

  “Dad’s journal had a lot on New York,” Sam replied. “Wouldn’t be surprising if there were other hunters working the city—we know there are in the future,” he said thinking of General Cox. Sam gave his brother a cautious look, as if he was worried Dean wouldn’t like what he was going to say next. “It might be something to consider if we need backup.”

  “Backup schmackup,” Dean responded. “What do we need other hunters for? We’ve got guns. Plus, you think we’d be able to convince anyone to help us once we start talking about the Apocalypse... and coming from the future?”

  “Guess you’re right.”

  “Damn straight. We tell anybody what we’re doing here, we risk them interfering,” Dean said definitively, knowing that interference may well be the least of their troubles. That certain people—and/or forces of Hell—would kill or worse in order to stop Sam and Dean was left unspoken. They both knew it, so it bore no repeating.

  They walked up the cracked steps of Villard House. The sound of an ancient television set echoed out of the landlady’s open door as they passed by.

  “Lady’s watching the DuMont Network in there,” Dean said with a grin.

  “The what?” Sam asked, his brow furrowed.

  Dean just stared at him, incredulous. He sometimes forgot how young Sam was. Not that Dean himself had been alive to watch the DuMont Network, which, in 1954, was due to be shut down in two years, but he watched enough TV to be familiar with its history.

  “Cavalcade of Stars? The Honeymooners? Not ringing a bell? Seriously?”

  “Do you watch those shows before or after Dr. Sexy, M.D.?” Sam asked, derisively.

  “I’m off Dr. Sexy,” Dean said.

  “Tell me again about the girl,” Sam said, his voice serious.

  “Julia.”

  “She was tailing you?”

  Dean slipped the key into the door of their apartment.

  “She was definitely interested,” he replied.

  “Becky Rosen interested, or demon Meg interested?” Sam probed.

  “Listen buddy, both of those chiquitas were after you,” Dean said, trying to keep the vision of Becky rubbing Sam’s chest out of his mind. “So, where are they?” Dean looked around the room. “You lose the guns just like you lost the knife?”

  “Dean, it was stolen,” Sam retorted. Then, realization dawned on him. “... By a girl. Brunette, cute, about five-foot six?”

  Dean nodded.

  “Could be the same girl that brushed past me in the hall,” Sam continued. “Right before I realized the knife was gone.” He walked to the Murphy bed, pulled it down, and extracted the gun-filled duffel from the bed’s cavity. “As for these, they’re safe and sound.”

  Dean watched Sam wistfully. The kid really has become a good hunter, despite everything, he thought. He grabbed the weapon-laden bag and opened it.

  “Fifties women, dude,” he said as he appraised the contents. “It’s like a big riddle, and
Betty Draper is the... thing you get for solving a riddle.”

  “Wait, are you still into the girl who you know is on to you? We got robbed already, Dean. We don’t have time for you to get played.”

  “Don’t start. I know. I’m not hitting on anything that was born before the microwave.” Dean hefted one of the shotguns, and expertly tilted the weight of it back and forth to feel its balance.

  “I was thinking...” Sam began, then trailed off.

  “Spit it out, big guy,” Dean said. “Thinking about taking a crap? Thinking of getting us some toothpaste? ’Cause your breath is ripe.”

  “If this wasn’t 1954, we’d be loading these with salt, right?” Sam asked, grabbing a few of the shotgun shells. “But here, we’re not. Because we’re not just fighting demons and ghosts and things that go bump; we’re robbing humans. Humans who didn’t do anything to us, or to anyone, didn’t do anything wrong, and we’re going to hold guns to their heads? Doesn’t it faze you even a little to be the bad guys?”

  “We ice Lucifer, nobody’s crying over a little bit of armed larceny,” Dean retorted.

  “So the end justifies the means?” Sam paused. “’Cause it sure didn’t when it meant me juicing up on demon blood.”

  Sam’s words drilled into Dean.

  “That was different,” he growled.

  Sam shook his head and started to pace the room, the creaky floorboards giving slightly under his weight.

  Dean looked at his brother impatiently. Why does he always have to make things so complicated?

  “It was different,” Dean persisted. “Look, I’m willing to go pretty damned far to get this stupid scroll. Whether that includes killing or maiming some poor bastard who gets in our way, I’m not sure yet. Won’t know that till my finger’s on the trigger. But Sammy, I sure as hell am not willing to lose my little brother.” Dean let out a sigh. “Saving you is the reason we’re here.”

  But Sam’s face was resolved.

  “Nobody else gets hurt,” he said. It wasn’t a statement, it was a command. “I have enough blood on me already.”

  Dean reached into his pocket, felt the wad of bills, and started toward the door.