Supernatural: War of the Sons (6 page)

She coyly lilted back. “No, thank
you
.”

Dean pulled open the door of the deli and looked back to smile smugly at Sam.

“Looks like Betty Draper has a thing for me.”

“You’re gonna wanna run, Dean,” Sam said with an equally smug look.

Dean looked at him questioningly. Then they heard a woman’s voice yelling after them.

“Stop those men!”

They looked back at the waitress, who was holding the very modern ten dollar bill Dean had just put down.

Without a second thought, Sam bolted down the street with Dean a step behind him. They dodged through stalled traffic at the intersection, nearly causing a pile-up when the light turned green.

Moments later they were casually sauntering east on 54
^th
Street.

“To the Waldorf?” Dean asked.

“Guess so,” Sam replied. He took out his BlackBerry, intending to Google the hotel’s location. Instead, he stared at the mess of jumbled pixels on the phone’s LCD. Not only would it have no signal in the fifties, the phone’s hardware had been damaged.
Either time travel does a job on electronics, or it broke in the fall
, he sumised. He quickly put it back in his pocket, not wanting to draw any more attention to them with his anachronistic device.

“Hey, what time is it?” Dean asked.

“I don’t know, my phone’s useless,” Sam answered.

“Yeah, mine too. Won’t turn on.”

Sam shielded his eyes and looked up at the sun.

“Maybe an hour till sunset,” he said. “On second thought, let’s find a place to crash first. I don’t know if it was the time travel or the dine-and-dash, but—”

“But little Sammy could use a nap?” Dean quipped.

“Take a look in the mirror,” Sam replied. “The bags under your eyes have bags under their eyes.”

“And whose fault is that? You think maybe all of your shenanigans are finally taking their toll on me?”

The brothers continued to bicker until they passed a block of pre-war apartments called the Villard Houses. A sign in front advertised a ‘vacency,’ which Sam figured was close enough, and they strolled into the building and up to apartment 3E.

An old woman answered the door, and directed them to take a look at the apartment across the hall. It had clearly once been part of a larger penthouse, but had been walled off into a smaller dwelling with a half kitchen, bedroom and adjoining living room. After years of living in dilapidated motels and the backseat of the Impala, the boys weren’t picky. With literally no money to their names—at least any they could actually use—Dean asked the landlady if he could give her the rent at the end of the week. She agreed; she just needed their names. They offered up two aliases. Sam was so tired that he couldn’t even place which band they said they came from.

Unfortunately for the Winchesters, the one thing the apartment didn’t have was a bed.

“Couldn’t we have just stayed at the Waldorf?” Dean said grumpily.

“You think they’d let us pay at the end of the week, genius?” Sam replied. Before Dean could respond, Sam went to the bathroom. He climbed into the claw-footed bathtub and rolled his coat underneath his head. It wasn’t nearly big enough for him, but he didn’t care.

Within a minute, he was asleep.

Barney Doyle’s back was killing him. Most boys his age were learning to drive, dating girls, and having fun, but that wasn’t a possibility for Barney. His mother had been taken ill, forcing the fifteen year-old to find a job and take responsibility for her care.

There weren’t any grown men left in the Doyle’s Breezy Point, Queens house—just Barney and his mother. His father had passed away three years before, so when his uncle James had said that there was an opening for another security guard at the Waldorf Astoria, Barney’s mother believed it was a sign from Heaven. She was Catholic, of course, and she took her brother’s news as an answer to her prayers.

Although he normally hated his job, Barney had been looking forward to today. He and his uncle had taken one of the hotel’s trucks and were on their way over to Red Hook to pick up a box that had been shipped over from Israel, or someplace equally exotic.

Barney hadn’t paid much attention while he was still in school, so he wasn’t quite sure where Israel even was. He knew that it was a new country, and was somehow controversial, especially with his mother. Barney wished he had been better about his studies, not that it mattered now. He was stuck in this job and as far as he could see you didn’t need much learning to be a security guard.

When James and Barney arrived at the Red Hook Docks, a worker signaled for them to park at dock thirty-six. The truck bumped its way over the pier. They waited. The diesel engine was spewing exhaust almost directly into the cab, but Barney didn’t mind. This was a nice change from the boredom of the hotel.

A large burly guy in a white T-shirt banged his fist on the front of the truck.

“You guys from the Waldorf?”

James pulled his heft out of the truck to answer the guy face-to-face.

“Sure are.”

“Sign here,” the burly guy said as he shoved a clipboard at James. He signed without reading the form.

Handing it back, he asked, “Where is it?”

The burly guy motioned behind him.

“Carton five. Says it’s extremely fragile.” he replied, then walked away.

Barney leapt out of the truck to help his uncle with the carton. It was about four feet by two feet wide, made of fresh pine. The pungent tar smell tickled Barney’s nose as he bent down to inspect the roughly hewn container.

“Stop dicking around and help me get it into the truck,” James growled as he attempted to get his short arms around the base. Barney complied, hastily grabbing hold of his end. “Lift up your side more,” his uncle said.

“I
am
lifting,” Barney replied, watching as his uncle struggled to negotiate the carton over his stomach. His side was already much higher than James’s on account of his height, plus he wasn’t nearly as tubby.

Holding the container awkwardly between them, they managed to crab walk around to the back of the truck and the closed back doors.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Why didn’t you open the doors beforehand?” James demanded, breathing heavily.

“’Cause you didn’t tell me to,” Barney said, staring at his uncle.

“Well, put your side down first and open the door.”

Barney squatted, holding his side of the carton. As he got it to knee height, his uncle’s grip faltered. The shift in weight distribution caused Barney to lose his hold, and the corner of the wooden crate hit the ground with a heavy thud.

Barney looked up in shock as his uncle swore at the top of his lungs. As he made the sign of the cross over his chest, James simultaneously cursed Barney to Hell.

Barney blushed a deep scarlet. “It’s fine, Uncle James. Let’s check it. I’m sure it’s fine.”

They pried a corner of the carton up, and Barney saw that the contents were packed densely with hay. James pushed Barney out of the way and with one hand pulled the rest of the top off. Stuffing his pudgy hand into the hay, he revealed a clay pot. It was tall, burnt orange in color, with a good bit of dirt on it. James wiped away more of the hay, and revealed three more jars.

As James inspected the first jar, its cover slid off the top and onto the ground, landing with a heavy
crack
. A strange, putrid smell emanated from the urn, which reminded Barney of the stench when the pilot light on their gas oven went out.

When his uncle opened his mouth, Barney readied himself, sure that his uncle was going to berate him, despite the accident being his fault. However, before James could start yelling, the oddest thing happened—he choked. It was as if he was vomiting in reverse, with oily bursts of black smoke flying into his mouth and down his throat.

Barney gaped as his uncle reached out toward him, and then everything went dark.

Sam and Dean sat on a hard fake leather couch outside the Waldorf’s general manager’s office. The rickety side table next to Dean was piled with magazines. He slid one off the top and showed it to Sam.

“Yum. Eva Marie Saint.” Dean leered at the picture of the young starlet with her blonde hair swept back, very nicely filling out a blue sweater. “From TV stardom to the movie
Waterfront
,” Dean said, reading off the cover.

“She’s an old woman.” Sam said, rolling his eyes at his brother’s incredible capacity for horniness.

“Not now she isn’t.” Dean almost jumped in excitement. “Marilyn, I want to
meet
Marilyn, do you think she stays here?”

“We didn’t travel over five decades back in time so you could sleep with a couple of starlets,” Sam replied.

Dean furrowed his brow. “It wasn’t my idea to travel here, period. Besides, these women are icons, Sam. Completely different. If we have any free time after we nick the War Scroll, I’m going to find Marilyn.”

“Okay, Dean.” Sam shook his head.

“Sam and Dean Winchester?”

Dean flinched at the sound of his own name before quickly remembering that Sam had given it to the receptionist when they applied. Apparently, being this far removed from their own time meant that caution could be thrown out the window.

The man who had spoken wore a three-piece suit and was holding open a door that lead into an interior office.

“I’m Ernest Harold, General Support Manager at the Waldorf. Please come in.” The man graciously swept his hand toward his office.

Sam and Dean settled into a couple of leather chairs on one side of the man’s very messy desk.

“Terribly sorry about the clutter,” Mr. Harold said, shuffling some papers around. “I have 200 employees to oversee and I can’t seem to manage all the paperwork. As you know, this is a prestigious establishment, with a rich history of providing impeccable accommodations to the most discerning travelers, statesmen and royalty throughout the world.”

“And Marilyn Monroe,” Dean offered.

Mr. Harold frowned. “The privacy of our clients is of the utmost importance in this position. You will work closely with people that you see on the silver screen every day. We do not allow any... fraternizing with the hotel’s guests.”

“Of course not.” Sam leaned forward. “We completely understand. My brother is a fan, but he’s a very
reserved
fan. Aren’t you, Dean?”

Dean smiled tightly. “Yes. Haven’t fraternized in months, myself.”

“Of course. So, tell me a little about yourselves,” Mr. Harold said, leaning back in his chair. “Whatever you would like to share.”

This struck Dean as sort of funny
—What could they possibly share with this over-stuffy dope?
He decided to be straightforward.

“Sir. Mr. Harold—Ernest. My brother and I are new in town. And, frankly, we don’t have any money. But we are hard-working, strong, and charming. We can do anything you need us to.”

The dude seemed to be impressed.

“You remind me of someone,” he said, peering at Dean. “Have you been to the pictures and seen
On the Waterfront
yet?”

Dean leaned back, smiling. “Classic Brando.”

“Classic? He’s a very new actor. At least, I believe he is.” Ernest looked confused.

Dean stuttered hastily. “I meant to say a new, classic-
looking
actor.”

“Ahh, you’re right. I do love a good picture.” Ernest swept his hair out of his eyes, then turned his attention to Sam. “And you.”

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do, sir,” Sam said.

“Well, you both are fine fellows.” Ernest got up and moved around his desk. “But I have only one position available. Congratulations, Mr. Winchester.” He stuck his hand out toward Dean.

“Thank you, sir,” Dean said with a smile as they shook hands. “You won’t regret it.”

“I’m sure I won’t. Go see Mable in uniforms. She’ll set you up. I have paperwork for you to fill out, but we can do that later. I expect you’ll make about twenty dollars in tips—”

Dean nodded. “Not bad.”

“—a week,” Ernest finished.

He shuffled them out the door.

“Go up these stairs and all the way to the end of the hall. And Sam. Might I suggest you get a haircut? This isn’t Amsterdam.”

For Dean, it was the perfect end to a perfect interview.

“Sorry Sammy, guess you’re too European to work this town. Maybe try again in the 1970s.”

Sam shrugged. “I’m going to the public library to see what I can find. Besides, I think you’re better cut out for this part of the plan. You know, the mindless labor.”

Dean nodded proudly and disappeared into a door marked “Uniforms.”

Sam’s immediate concern was to find someone in the city who could translate the scrolls. Without Bobby as a resource, and with all of their lore books sitting in the Impala’s trunk back in 2010, it would be nearly impossible for Sam to do the translating himself.
Not that I’m entirely sure what language they’ll be written in
. Thinking things through, he realized that they were going to need some heavy-duty artillery—it was unlikely the scrolls’ owner would hand them over without a fight. Anyway, Sam felt naked without a firearm.