Fic: (Supernatural) A Dirty Job

[skinscript]

Title: A Dirty Job (Sequel to Clean Living)
Author: Infie
Rating: PG
Summary: Dean gets some bad news and heads back to Murphy's bar
Note: I mentioned when I stopped writing that I had part of this done, and that I am not planning on finishing it. Now, people who know me know that I have a bitch of a time not finishing a fic, so who knows - I may come back to it. But don't count on it.

A Dirty Job

by Infie

---

It was a beautiful night in a perfectly classy bar. Sam looked around the interior of the Blue River Cafe with amusement and more than a little mockery.

"I still can't believe you chose here, Dean. Seriously," he waved a hand at their surroundings. "Where's the smoke? The dim lighting? The beer stains?" He paused meaningfully. "The under-dressed women?" A tall blonde in a clinging ice-blue silk tun
ic walked by, her hips swinging in the ageless feminine sway that caught the attention of every man within ten feet. Sam swallowed hard. "Ah," he said. "There she is."

Dean's eyes followed her with an appreciation easily as great as that in his brother'
s, and absently racked the balls for another game of 8-Ball. "I just felt like something a bit brighter today," he said easily. "We got our vampire," Sam lifted his beer in salute, "we got a hotel room... a nice one. Showers. Sleep." He ran a hand over his head. "Haircut. Seems only right to spend some time in a half-decent bar." He grinned widely. "And they still have pool tables. What else do we need?" He raised his hand and caught the attention of the server outside the glass dividing the pool tables from the main bar.

"Someone to hustle?" Sam shrugged at Dean's eye-roll. "I'm not complaining, man, just curious." Out of habit he leafed through the Dallas newspaper strewn on the bar table as Dean lined up his cue. Finding nothing interesting, he shoved it aside to watch Dean break. The two and six went down under the authoritative crack of the cue striking the balls.

"It is a shame there's no one's money to take though." Dean stretched, missed the seven. He wandered over to the bar tabl
e, popping a peanut in his mouth and crunching it cheerfully as he took his turn idly flipping through the paper. Six pages in, his hand froze.

"I'm sure if we wait long enough someone will come along." Sam sank the eleven and nine in short order. "And by the look of the cars out front, these boys can afford to lose." He flicked a glance at Dean, expecting a smile. It took a moment for the utter stillness of Dean's body to register. Sam stood abruptly. "What's wrong?"

Dean's hand clenched on the newspaper, balling it in his fist. "We need to go," he stated flatly. Sam immediately set his cue on the table and dropped forty bucks beside it, gesturing for the server with one hand and reaching for the laptop with the other.

"Dean, what's wrong?"

Dean spun on his heel and headed for the door, slapping the newspaper into Sam's chest as he passed. Sam looked down at the page, shrugged, and followed his brother out the door.

---

The Impala peeled out of the cramped parking lot in a scream of protesting rubber. Sam wedged himself between the console and the door with practised ease. "I don' t see it," he said. "Which one were you
looking at?"

"Top left."

"' Bar Owner Killed in Robbery' ?" Sam was incredulous. "How is that something for us?"

Dean' s jaw tightened. "Read the rest."

Sam muttered quickly through the rest of the article, casting a cautious eye at the speedometer. "... bar owner Kaitlyn Murphy was found dead at the scene. There are no suspects at this time." He looked at Dean in confusion. "I'm still lost, dude."

"Murphy." Dean flexed his fingers against the wheel. "The woman who helped us a few months ago. Her name' s Murphy."

Sam' s brows drew together as he worked through the implications. "You mean where I slept on the couch?" He very carefully did not mention where Dean had slept, or any of his other deductions about that night. Other than being rudely
awakened by Dean kicking his feet on the way out the door, he didn' t remember much. But the foulness of Dean' s mood for the following weeks and the single-mindedness
with which he had pursued the demon had told its own story. Regardless of the specifics, *something* had happened, and that something had affected Dean a lot more deeply than usual. Based on his current reaction, this Murphy had meant something positive to Dean.

The way they had booked out of there, Sam hadn' t been sure.

"You think it' s her?"

"I don' t know. I am," his fingers clenched again, "going to be finding out."

Sam set the paper aside, settled more deeply into the seat. "Ok then," he said.

---

They pulled up outside a small bar. Crime scene tape still fluttered from the doorway, loudly proclaiming 'Police Line Do Not Cross' . Dean barely gave it a glance before brushing it aside and passing through the door. Sam followed more slowly, his eyes never leaving Dean' s form.

Dean surveyed the room dispassionately, the only outward sign of his anxiety the restless tapping of his fingers against his leg. He walked slowly around the room, seeing it in his mind as it had been that night. Smoke-filled, dimly lit, the fe
w patrons almost universally involved deeply in their beers. Sam had fallen asleep, slouched in the corner of that booth, right there. The jukebox had been playing slow-dancing music. He took a long step to his right, turning a lit
tle to align himself properly... and he had been standing right here, not dancing with Lily, when Murphy intervened. He took a deep breath and could almost smell the sunny clean scent of her hair.
He could almost see her, there behind the bar, all golden hair and welcoming smile.

He blinked, but the vision didn' t fade.

"Murphy!" He reached the bar in three long strides, stretched his hand to touch her on the shoulder. "You' re ok! Man, you had me worried..."

The woman who turned around had blonde hair and dark eyes and the same pixie face as Murphy, but she most definitely... wasn' t. This woman eyed him with outright hostility, her face drawn in lines of rage and grief.

"Oh, Damn." He dropped onto one of the barstools, buried his face in his hands, scrubbing hard. "Damn. Damn, damn."

"Who are you?" demanded the woman. "What the hell do you think you' re doing, walking into a crime scene? And how the hell did you know my sister?"

Oh, great. Murphy' s sister. And, she was a cop. Dean pressed his eyes harder against his fingers.

Sam stepped forward, drawing his Federal Marshal ID from his back pocket. He noted how she tenses at his movement, narrowed his eyes at her. "We' re Federal Marshals," he told her authoritatively. "YOU are?"

---

End

Comments

[x5vale.livejournal.com]

Very very well done, I like how in your fics the characters are so real.

I'm not good to leave reviews, but trust me, I enjoy reading good stuff!