Monachopsis

Chapter XXXVI: Just A Little Game of Bar Charade

S1:E19-Provenance

"He is shameless, isn't he?" I asked Sam, leaning closer so I could be heard over the loud bar music. 

Dean was at the bar, wooing two pretty women out of their phone numbers. He was all charming humor and dashing smiles, cockiness dialed up to eleven in case there was even the slightest chance he might get laid. And, judging by the starstruck expressions on those poor girls faces, I'd guess his chances were a little higher than 'slight'.

Sam glanced up from the newspapers he was scouring, shook his head good-naturedly, then went back to his work. While Dean had been working on getting us drinks (and girls, apparently), Sam and I had taken to thumbing through the local papers for possible cases. 

"How about this one?" I lifted the paper I was reading and pointed at the article. "'Florida Man Claims Wife's Vengeful Spirit Is Behind His Unattractiveness'. Could be interesting."

Sam raised an eyebrow. I slumped. I knew I was grasping at straws, but I was itching for some action. The jobs we'd picked up since the shtriga in Fitchburg were few and far between, not to mention boring. Ghosts can pack a punch, but the ones we had worked were nothing more than old, tired spectures who had grown just a little too tired of wandering the In-Between.

I tossed the page onto the top of the stack with a dull thwack and sighed. I rested my head on my hand and glanced woefully at Sam. My brother simply handed me another bundle of pages and continued splitting his attention between the papers and our father's open hunting journal. I had a split-second thought to run to the car and pull out Mom's old hunting journal, but I dismissed it. There was nothing new in that raggedy thing that I hadn't read about already.

And it was blood-stained. I hated touching it.

Sam picked up one last newspaper. The Hudson Valley Beacon. It was standard, with a front page headline in big bold letters: PROPOSED DEVELOPMENT PLAN CREATES A POLITICAL STAMPEDE. Seemed a little dramatic to me, but I guess I wouldn't know too much about politics. They give me hives.

But Sam only glanced at the paper before lifting a hand and beckoning to Dean from where he was still schmoozing the girls at the bar. When Dean tried to ignore him, Sam waved to him again, more insistently this time. 

Dean frowned, but muttered something to the girl he was talking too and grabbed three drinks from the bar. I snatched the paper from Sam's hands, trying to find what he'd seen, but he swiped it back just as quick. I hissed as the paper cut my fingers and pouted, but dropped it in favor of the Neosporin I started to lather on my hand.

Dean set all three glasses on the table and let out a breath.

"Okay," Sam started right away. "So, I think I got something."

"Yeah, me too." Dean glanced over his shoulder at the babes still leaning against the bar. "I think we need to take a shore leave for just a little bit. What do you think, huh? I'm so in the door with this one here."

"So what are we today, Dean?" Sam asked. "Are we rock stars? Are we Army Rangers?"

"We're L.A. TV scouts looking for people with special skills." I almost spit out my drink. I cupped my hand over my mouth, trying my best to save my dignity, but my shoulders shook with repressed laughter. Dean snorted, "But, hey, its not that far off, right? By the way, she's got a friend over there. I can probably hook you up. What do you think?"

Sam shook his head. "Dean, uh, no thanks. I can get my own dates."

"Yeah, you can, but you don't."

Sam put down the paper. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing." Dean gestured to the newspaper. "What do you got?"

I sipped my beer while Sam read from the article. "Mark and Ann Telesca of New Paltz, New York, were both found dead in their home just a few days ago. Throats were slit, there were no prints, no murder weapon, all--Dean?"

Dean turned back around, looking not at all ashamed to have been caught sneaking looks at the girls at the bar. I rolled my eyes.

"Women don't like creepers, you know," I told him.

"Jealous I'm the only decent catch in the joint?" he snarked back.

I gave him my best pretty-girl smile. "Jealous? Of that frat boy mug? Don't insult me. We both know Sam got the good-look gene and you just use too much hair gel."

Dean smirked, but before he could voice his witty comeback, Sam cleared his throat. "Guys, later. Listen up."

I sighed, but settled back in my seat. Dean winked at me over his drink, to which I responded with another eye roll.

"No prints, no murder weapons," Sam picked up, "all doors and windows were locked from the inside."

"Could just be a garden-variety murder," Dean said.

I shrugged, "Or a mysterious-but-not-really-supernatural serial killer."

Dean pointed at me. "Neither of which, you know, are really our department."

Sam shook his head. "No, Dad says different." He spun John's journal around so that the two of us could read it.

"What do you mean?" Dean asked.

Sam tapped on the open page. "Look. Dad noted three murders in the same area of upstate New York. First one, right here. 1912. The second one in 1945, and the third in 1970. The same M.O. as the Telescas--the throats were slit, the houses were locked from the insides. So much time passed between the murders that nobody checked the pattern except for Dad. He always kept his eyes peeled for another one."

He was right, of course. Next to a cut out and pasted map of upstate New York was a list of names and years, along with descriptions of the murders and their similarities. John Winchester was nothing if not thorough.

"And now we got one," Dean said.

"With so much time between each murder, there's no way a single person could be alive long enough to keep them up," I noted, nodding.

"Exactly," said Sam.

Dean said, "Alright. I'm with you. It's worth checking out. We can't pick this up till first thing, though, right?"

Sam looked up from the journal, looking confused. "Yeah."

"Good." He turned to me. "Last chance. Her friend's hot. Might just be the babe you need tonight."

I waved him off. "Bye Dean."

He smiled crookedly, but pushed away from the table. I watched him saunter back over to the girls at the bar, charming smile back in place. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but I knew well enough the tall tale he was spinning.

I snorted, and snatched John's journal, reading over the pages again. "'Special skills' my ass."