Monachopsis

Chapter XXXVIII: Estate Sales Are For Leeches

I could not have felt more out of my element if you had thrown me in the ocean. The rows of polished sports and luxury cars in front of the estate house should have been enough of a warning. If not that, it should have been the valet, or the 8 foot iron wrought gate we drove passed on our way in. 

Our poor, dusty, road-beaten Impala looked so sad compared to the sparkling corvettes next to it. But, of course, I couldn't say that out loud. Dean didn't need that ego blow.

I stayed close to Sam and Dean as we milled around, trying our best to seem like we belonged despite the lack of etiquette or designer clothes. It didn't deter the obvious looks we received from the rich folk stalking about, sipping champagne and conversing over the different pieces set up on displays and tables.

"Silent auctions, estate sales--it's like a garage sale for W.A.S.P.s, if you ask me," Dean grumbled. He quickly snatched a petite four from a tray and proceeded to stuff half the sandwich into his mouth.

I gasped and jabbed my elbow into his ribs. "Can you at least pretend to not be a caveman? It's bad enough this place gives me hives. I don't need you embarrassing yourself."

"Can I help you, gentlemen? Miss?" I hadn't noticed when the man had approached us. He was dressed to the nines, wearing a suit and bow tie with neatly groomed hair and a stern face. He looked almost disgusted.

Dean, of course, was oblivious."I'd like some champagne, please."

I sighed, slamming the heel of my hand against my forehead. Well, I thought. At least he said please.

"He's not a waiter," Sam hissed. He was right, of course. The man's face was way too offended by Dean's remark to have been staff.

Sam turned to the man. "I'm Sam Connors." He held out his hand, but the stiff man simply glanced at it like it was a sewer rat. I was liking this man less and less and he'd only said a couple of words to us. Sam dropped his hand. "This is my brother Dean, and my sister Gray."

I nodded, but didn't extend my hand. 

"We are art dealers with Connors Limited."

The man gave us a dubious smile. "You're art dealers?"

I gave him an apologetic smile. "I know, not the best first impression. I told my brothers that we should've picked up our formal attire from the cleaners, but we're just coming from a conference down in Boston, and once they heard about the showing, they just couldn't get here fast enough. These two are suckers for estate sales."

Sam managed a nervous smile. "That's right."

"I'm Daniel Blake," said the man. "This is my auction house. Now, gentlemen, miss, this is a private showing, and I don't remember seeing you on the guest list."

The blatant condescending in Mr. Blake's voice had my anger building. Who the hell did he think he was? Irrational hatred for every single rich hoopla in this joint was growing in me like a weed. I grit my teeth and glared at him, half ready to give him a piece of mind right there and then.

"We're there, Chuckles," Dean said, grinning arrogantly. I could tell he didn't care too much for the way Mr. Blake was acting either. "You just need to take another look."

Sam looked appalled. He gaped at Dean, but before he could properly scold him, Dean spun around.

"Oh, finally." I plucked two flutes of champagne from the tray passing by. He sipped from his, and offered the other to me.

"My lady," he mocked. I gave him a tight smile, trying to scream at him with my eyes that his attitude wasn't helping.

But he ignored me, turning back to Mr. Blake and sniffing teasingly at his glass before turning away. He threw his arm around my shoulders, squeezing my shoulder a little too tightly in order to spin me around.