Supernatural: War of the Sons

by Dessertine, Rebecca; Reed, David

  “Have I told you what happened at the Yankees’ game?” a muffled voice said outside the locker. For a moment, Dean pictured himself holding a baseball bat and using it to punish the kitchen workers for the twenty minutes of dull-as-shit conversation he’d been forced to endure. I bet Sam’s having fun, he thought bitterly.

  The metal edge of the stair rushed at Sam’s face, catching him between the ear and eyebrow and momentarily blurring his vision. He had tripped while running up the flight of stairs, and from the sound of it, the Hellhound—or whatever it was—was only seconds behind him. Pushing himself upright, Sam risked a glance down the cavernous opening in the middle of the stairwell. It led all the way to the ground floor, maybe even underground.

  Nothing.

  Hellhounds are invisible, Sam reminded himself. Keep running.

  Lactic acid burned in his calves as he sprinted upward. Ahead of him, the door to the fortieth floor was only meters away. A terrible growling reverberated through the stairwell. Any moment Sam expected to feel the dig of teeth clamping onto his leg, but the sensation never came.

  He darted into the hallway of the fortieth floor, slamming the door shut behind him. He scanned the space around him, but didn’t see anything that could be used to barricade the door. He did, however, hear something. The familiar electric buzz of a vending machine was coming from a nearby room. Bolting inside, Sam quickly locked the door. He found himself in what looked like a staff break room.

  The snack machine weighed far more than Sam expected it to, and as he attempted to slide it along the floor it tipped over on its side. The laminate flooring shook with the massive crash, and Sam flinched. Everyone on this floor must have heard that. On the plus side, the machine was much easier to move now it was on its side. Sam slid it toward the door, effectively blocking it.

  Bags of pretzels hung haphazardly inside the vending machine, with big chunks of Kosher salt on them. Sam kicked through the glass and pulled out as many bags of pretzels as he could. He crushed them in his hands and poured the contents across the vending machine. Whether that was enough salt to keep a demon or Hellhound at bay, Sam wasn’t sure.

  He took a few moments to catch his breath, his ragged gasps for oxygen overpowering any noise from beyond the door. Leaning against the downed vending machine, he held in his breath for five seconds, allowing him to hear a raspy intake of air from the other side of the door. Some of the pretzel crumbs retreated under the door with the beast’s inhale.

  It’s sniffing me out, Sam realized. It knows I’m here. But the door never rattled and the beast never brayed. Instead, Sam heard the hollow clomping of feet on metal stairs. The creature was moving on.

  Sam waited a couple more minutes, then pushed the vending machine away from the door. He stepped over his makeshift salt and pretzel line and sighed. That was close.

  “You must of been hungry,” a voice said from down the hall. Sam looked up to see an elderly woman standing there, wearing a plaid bathrobe and holding an empty ice bucket with both hands. She nodded toward the pile of snacks that had spilled out of the machine, and the accompanying broken glass.

  Sam shrugged. “It stole my quarter.”

  For Dean, sweet relief came in the form of a hotel supervisor, who marched down to the loading dock and admonished the kitchen staff for letting the perishables sit for so long without refrigeration. Dean was spared. As they exited, a burly-sounding line cook with a Jersey accent said something about a package being moved through the kitchen, but Dean couldn’t hear the full exchange. The one phrase he definitely heard was “big-ass jars.” They must have been moving the scrolls upstairs, Dean thought. Hope Sammy hasn’t run into any trouble.

  Wringing the moisture out of his jacket, Dean exited the loading dock and headed back toward the Park Avenue entrance where he was supposed to meet Sam.

  Oddly, Sam wasn’t waiting. Being the more punctual of the two of them, it wasn’t like Sam to miss a rendez vous. Taking a chance on not being recognized again, Dean smiled at the hotel doorman and strode boldly into the lobby. The dick desk clerk was on duty, so Dean joined a large crowd that was milling near the lounge’s piano. Sam wasn’t in the lobby, but the stairwell he’d taken would spit him out right in front of the crowd. A red-haired man was playing the piano with some proficiency, although Dean didn’t recognize the song.

  Trying to blend into the group, Dean watched as a woman approached the pianist. She patted him kindly on the shoulder, whispered in his ear... and with the practiced skill of a professional, lifted the wallet from his jacket pocket.

  She moved off quickly, but Dean was only seconds behind her. As she made her way toward the elevators, Dean grabbed her by the arm and spun her to face him.

  “Should have friggin’ guessed,” he said.

  The woman was Julia.

  “Ah, how nice to see you again, Mister... I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name,” she said formally.

  “Don’t sweat it, it wasn’t my real name anyway,” Dean responded bitterly. “Let’s go have a chat with the nice piano man.” He tugged at her arm, pulling her back toward the lobby. But she resisted, digging her heels into the floor.

  “I’m sorry, but I really have to get back to my room,” she said.

  “We’re not done talking yet,” Dean threatened.

  “Let go of my arm.”

  “Give the ginger back his wallet,” Dean hissed, nodding toward the guy at the piano. Julia began to visibly struggle against Dean’s grip, attracting the attention of several other guests.

  “Is there a problem, here?” a man asked, looking concerned.

  With forced theatricality, Julia squeezed out a tear.

  “This man has me confused with someone else,” she said with a sob.

  Dean realized he had no choice but to let her go, and released his grip on her arm. She immediately hurried toward the elevator. Dean made to follow her, but was blocked by the hairy forearm of the dick desk clerk.

  “You’ve been banned from the building,” he said. Then yelled, “Security!”

  Julia stepped into the elevator and spoke quietly to the operator. Dean grabbed his opportunity, jamming his hand against the closing doors, halting them before she could disappear.

  “What do you want with us?” he demanded. But before he could continue, he was pulled away by a trio of burly hotel employees and dragged roughly outside. He’d never been so quickly and efficiently bounced from an establishment before, and it seemed strange that it wasn’t for drunkenness.

  Sam was waiting outside, eyes wide and with a fire in them that Dean hadn’t seen in weeks.

  “What’s the haps? Where you been?” Dean asked, but Sam ignored his question.

  “We need to leave. Now,” he said.

  “So, is it a Hellhound, or a dude?” Dean asked, nursing a beer. “I’m lost.”

  “I don’t know. It sure as hell sounded hellish, but I didn’t actually see anything.”

  “Yeah, ’cause you were hiding in the snack room.”

  They had spent the rest of the day and into the evening trying to figure out exactly what the new developments meant for their plan. Dean had insisted that they hole up in a nearby dive bar, despite Sam’s protests. With the deal taking place the next day, they hardly had time to drink, but that had never stopped Dean before.

  “You couldn’t have peeked out for a second?” Dean persisted.

  His brother rolled his eyes, fed up with the circular conversation.

  “I never saw the one that gutted you, either.”

  “’Cause that’s fair,” Dean muttered. “But you didn’t see its, like, hoof-marks—”

  “It’s a dog, not a horse.”

  “Whatever, but you didn’t see —”

  “I didn’t see anything,” Sam shot back impatiently.

  Their waitress came by with another pitcher of beer, but Sam shook his head at her. He then waited until she was out of earshot before continuing.

  “So we have a demon, po
ssibly a Hellhound, a scroll that could kill the Devil, no workable plan for how to get it, and apparently a pickpocket who has her eye on you.”

  “Yeah, we’re doing pretty well, all told,” Dean said with a smirk. He pushed back his chair. “Time for bed.”

  Sam followed his brother out of the bar and into the cool night, torn between needing his bed and wanting to better figure out their strategy for the next day. They had walked several blocks toward their apartment before he spoke up again.

  “It’s my life on the line. I’m not sure we should be winging this.”

  “We’ll do our best, Sammy. That’s all we can do.”

  Just before midnight, James McMannon found himself standing in the hallway outside the Presidential Suite, walking the distance between the elevator, the stairwell and the suite’s door with an even cadence. He couldn’t particularly remember why he had chosen this hallway to walk in, or what he had been doing before he got here, but he knew that what he was doing was important. Someone has to be here, he thought.

  Inside the Presidential Suite, something was giving off an incredible aroma. Like nothing James had ever smelled before. It made him feel very protective, as if it was his own child beyond that door.

  Child. Nephew. Barney. Dead.

  The words made James furious, but he couldn’t remember why. Did something happen to Barney?

  No matter. James had to concentrate on whatever was inside the suite. The smell.

  If anyone tries to take it away, I’ll kill them.

  THIRTEEN

  Sam looks goofy in his suit, Dean thought with a chuckle. It was the morning of their big day, and Sam was doing his best to look respectable, but as usual the formal clothing just didn’t look right on his tall frame. They’d been over their plan several times already, but Sam demanded they run through it again. It still wasn’t much, but Dean had come up with a new idea overnight that might get them out alive. Whether or not they got the scroll was another matter.

  Once Dean had suited up, the two of them made their way uptown to the Waldorf. They were about an hour early, which gave them time to move cautiously. Getting caught with a duffel bag full of shotguns and shells probably wouldn’t go over too well with the NYPD, even in the fifties. They’d bought a briefcase at a pawnshop for Sam to carry into the meeting, but with no way to procure the necessary funds, it was packed with old newspapers to give it some weight, and secured with an impressive-looking lock. Their entire plan hinged on Security not kicking Sam out for being broke before the auction had even begun.

  Setting down the duffel on the street outside the Waldorf, Dean looked up at the building’s façade and smiled. What he saw there put his part of the plan in motion. Jesus, he mused, this could actually work.

  The elevator rattled disconcertingly as it made its way up to the Presidential Suite. Sam tried to ignore it. He already felt like his stomach was in his throat, what was a little bit of motion sickness compared to the prospect of armed robbery?

  Standing outside the elevator were two Waldorf security guards and a uniformed police officer. The cop looked annoyed to be there, probably thinking that no one would care enough about some old pieces of parchment to cause any trouble. Boy was he wrong.

  “I’m here for the auction,” Sam said, aware that he was stating the obvious. The entire floor looked to be shut down for the event. A desk had been set up perpendicular to the elevators, effectively barricading one entire side of the corridor. The uniformed officer sat behind the desk.

  “Your name?” he asked dully.

  “Bob Singer,” Sam replied. “Maybe under Robert.” The policeman looked up at him with exasperation. “But you probably could have guessed that.”

  “Yeah,” the cop said. “Thanks.”

  Sam took a step toward the suite and felt a hand on his shoulder. It was one of the two Waldorf employees—the grungier of the two; the guy looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Before Sam could say anything, the man narrowed his eyes and sniffed the air. Like a dog, Sam thought. That’s creepy.

  “James, what the hell?” the other employee said, breaking the tension.

  “He smells like death,” James said, his nose furrowing. As Sam girded himself for what seemed like an inevitable brawl, James cracked a smile, then started patting Sam down, looking for a concealed weapon. Yeah, still creepy, Sam thought.

  Without meeting James’s gaze, he turned and grabbed the door handle to the Presidential Suite. Guess Dean’s man-dog theory was right. Not that it made any sense.

  “Your briefcase, sir?” the other guy said.

  “What about it?” Sam responded.

  “We do not require the combination, sir, but we do require that you leave it outside of the suite. The Waldorf Astoria will take full responsibility for its contents during the auction.

  Perfect, Sam thought. As long as they don’t get curious, I’m home free. He handed the briefcase off to the policeman at the desk and entered the suite. Paintings cluttered the walls of the entranceway, which was by itself fancier than any place Sam had ever stayed. It was a good thing he’d studied the blueprints of the place, or he’d have been too much in awe to keep his focus. To the right, a hallway led to the master bedroom—The bedroom where Kennedy will someday sleep, and Obama, Sam thought. To the left, an archway led into a small dining area, the table set with silver utensils and fine crystal. The suite had its own kitchen, and Sam spent a moment picturing Bill Clinton raiding the fridge in the middle of the night looking for spare ribs.

  Across from Sam, past a small couch and chaise longue, was the main room of the suite. A cluster of people stood inside, chatting softly under the light of a chandelier. Nicer surroundings than our usual jobs, Sam thought. The only person in the group he recognized was Benjamin Shochat, Mr. Feldman’s aide. As he entered the main room, Sam noticed the collection of ornate clay jars on the center table.

  “Welcome, Mr. Singer,” Shochat said with a wry grin. “So glad you could attend. Let me introduce you to my employer.” He waved his hand toward an elderly gentleman who was hunched protectively over the jars. The man looked at least eighty years old, but as he looked up at Sam, his eyes betrayed his still-sharp wit. His olive brow was deeply creased, a telltale sign of a stressful life. The complete absence of laugh lines further proved Sam’s assumption— this guy meant business.

  “Mr. Singer, this is Mr. Feldman. The owner of the scrolls,” Shochat introduced him.

  “Hello, Mr. Singer,” Feldman said, his voice like gravel. “You have me very curious. Benjamin told me you were a young man, but I hadn’t fathomed the, well... extent of your youth.” He gestured toward the other potential buyers, all of them middle-aged. “I thought this to be an old man’s game.”

  “I’m, uh, flattered, Mr. Feldman. But I’m merely a representative,” Sam responded.

  The old man pursed his lips, considering that.

  “As long as they have the money, anyone is welcome here,” he stated.

  Sam took that as his cue to mingle. He approached a nervous-looking man, whose red hair seemed to glow in the chandelier-light.

  “Mr. Singer—” Sam began, but he was cut off abruptly.

  “I know your name,” the man blurted excitedly. “You just said it. Why wouldn’t I have heard it?”

  “Uh, sorry, just being polite.” Sam wasn’t going to make any new friends in this room, that much was clear.

  “Aren’t you going to ask my name?” the red-haired man demanded.

  “Wasn’t planning on it,” Sam replied, his attention now fixed on a table of hors d’oeuvres. He clocked a plate of deviled eggs, but was blocked by the red-haired man’s hand.

  “Eli Thurman,” he said, and Sam found himself forced into a long and awkward conversation about what he felt the Dead Sea Scrolls meant for modern theologians. As the discussion twisted around topics Sam barely understood and certainly didn’t care about, he had to bite his tongue to stop himself from bringing up the Apocalypse. “Hey Eli, did
you know I unleashed Satan?” he wanted to say. The socially-awkward yet talkative man would probably drop dead on the spot.

  Twenty minutes of boredom later, Shochat brought the room to attention with a clink of his wine glass.

  “Our last guest is arriving now, so we’ll be starting the sale.”

  After all of the surprises the last week had brought, Sam was too worn out to act shocked. Instead, he just looked the newest arrival in the eye and extended a hand. “

  Hi, Walter. Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

  Dean appreciated irony the most when it involved smashing public property. Yesterday, dripping water had nearly ruined his jacket, and now, the water that sprayed out of the broken Park Avenue fire hydrant would save his ass. The first phase of Dean’s plan was complete, and all it took was a wrench and the chutzpah to cause a ruckus in front of all of New York.

  Scores of people assembled to watch the plume of water soak the sidewalk, Park Avenue, and a good portion of the Waldorf façade. One of those people, exactly according to plan, was the dick receptionist. A pleasant side effect of Dean’s mischief was the squeals of hoity-toity women trying to exit the Waldorf without getting wet. Ain’t happening, ladies.

  Amidst the chaos, Dean was able to slip into the loading dock and enter the service elevator, the duffel bag of shotguns slung over his shoulder. The next portion of his plan could very well be the stupidest thing Dean had ever tried, but there was no knowing for sure unless he did it.

  The elevator’s dial pushed up to the forty-seventh floor. He’d have to hoof it from there. Exiting the elevator, Dean quickly found the roof-access stairwell and made his way back out into sunlight.

  “That you, Johnny?” a voice demanded from across the roof. Most likely the person Dean was looking for.

  “It’s, uh, Tony. Johnny’s... sick,” Dean said, hoping thatwould at least prevent the man from calling Security. There was a long pause and Dean took the opportunity to unzip the duffel, readying himself for a fight.