Night Music

Chapter 5: The Art of Deception

Dean grabbed Sam's arm and pulled him into a recessed doorway.

"What'd you see?" Sam asked in a whisper.

"Check out those guys loading equipment into the van. Doesn't that skinny kid look like one of the fangs who accompanied Drasko?" They'd spent the past two hours combing the streets of lower Manhattan, using stills from the video feed provided by the Riffs' owner for reference. They struck pay dirt on their way back to Riffs.

Sam peered around the corner. "You're right, but I don't recognize the other. That's computer gear they're loading into the van. These could be the hackers the Bureau's been looking for."

Dean couldn't get a good view of the driver. The vamp they recognized went down the steps to the basement of the brownstone and locked the door. When he returned to the vehicle, it sped off.

The building was a brownstone with a high stoop. It appeared unoccupied with no lights showing through the windows of the upper floors.

"This is our lucky break," Sam said, starting forward. "Let's check it out."

Dean hung back for a moment, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. This was too neat. They were the Winchesters. They weren't supposed to get breaks like this.

There was no security alarm on the door to the basement. While Sam kept watch, Dean opened it with a few twists of his lock pick. Before entering they took out their machetes from their protective cases in case any fangs were looking for an express pass to Oblivion.

The apartment appeared to be a run-down office. Next to no furniture. What little there was looked like it had come from a second-hand office supplier. A battered metal file cabinet. An old metal desk.

Whoosh!

Before they could take a breath, the vamps were on them. Drasko made straight for Dean. Sam was entangled with a guy who looked like one of the other fangs in the photos.

Drasko pressed his hand onto Dean's forehead, paralyzing him in place before he could get in a swing of his machete. The fang's skin transformed into hot molten lava. Damn. Drasko was a pure-blood.

Dean felt like he'd been transported to Hell. The flames licked at him. Somehow, he still had his machete. He had to make this blow count. He probably wouldn't get another chance.

With a deafening howl, Drasko staggered back, the machete buried deep into his chest. A dense red column of smoke rose from him as his body disintegrated into powder.

"Sammy? You okay?" He could hear Sam's pants before he turned his head.

His brother stared at him in disbelief. "My fang turned to powder too. That's just like what happened to the vamps we killed in West Virginia."

"Huh. Guess those pure-bloods aren't as tough as we feared."

Sam nodded slowly. "I suppose. Pure-bloods must do something to run-of-the-mill fangs to make them disintegrate if they're killed. We've seen it happen twice now."

"Maybe an incentive to protect the pure-blood?" Dean shrugged. "You won't get any complaints out of me."

* * * * *

Crowley walked up to Dean and Sam and stared at their faces. They were standing upright, their eyes open, but for practical purposes, they were in a state of deep sleep. "Enjoy your nighty-night, boys." He turned to Jeremy. "A slick trick."

A smile crossed the pure-blood's face. "They were easier to put under than I anticipated." He strode over to Dean and blew gently on him.

Crowley awarded himself extra points. It was one of his most brilliant plans yet. Absolutely no need to restrict the size of his smirk. Like all genius maneuvers, it was deceptively simple. All that was required was one pure-blood capable of charming mortals to believe whatever the bloody hell Crowley dreamed up.