20Disclaimer: You see, Doctor, lately I've been suffering from delusions. Perhaps you might be able to help me…
A/N: I just realized that my favorite characters from two of my favorite fandoms (see category) spend a great deal of time in bars. If I was a normal person, I might be worried about this. However, since I am an author of fanfiction –and thus, not anything even remotely resembling normal– instead of being worried, I am besieged by plot-puppies and start writing stories about my neurosis. Who needs therapy? I've got my support group right here.
These one-shots are all unrelated, unless otherwise stated. And it will be. Stated. They will also probably not be precisely canon-concentric, just so you know. Updates will be sporadic.
Double Duty
Timeline: Near the beginning of Season 1 of Supernatural, pre-series of Cal Leandros.
Somewhere in South Carolina
Sam Winchester gave his brother a mournful look as Dean pulled the Impala into the parking lot of a drinking establishment bearing the lofty name of The Sud Bucket. He knew why Dean wanted to go out tonight –successful hunts weren't exactly sure things all the time, and one they came out of with no injuries or car damages was something to be celebrated– but that didn't mean he had to be thrilled about it.
But Sammy wasn't the only Winchester who knew how to pull the puppy-dog eyes, and Dean asked for so little from his family, that not giving it to him when he did ask made Sam feel horrible; and so, really, it was just better all round to surrender gracefully and let his big brother drag him out for a night at the local bar.
They entered The Sud Bucket together, and Dean immediately steered them towards the bar counter. Usually, they would grab a table somewhere, close to the back if they could. Less conspicuous, easy access to back doors, and all around more private. And if there was one thing the Winchesters liked, it was privacy.
But tonight, Dean didn't want privacy. He didn't want easy access to doors or inconspicuousness. What he wanted was easy access to the drinks and to chat with the locals. Hence, the counter. Bartenders know everything, or so the paraphrased saying goes. Local gossip, friendly conversation, good beer. Dean was ready to relax.
Unfortunately, Sam noticed, the bartender of this establishment didn't look like the type to strike up any "friendly conversation." His face showed a distinct disinterest in small talk. That was the second thing Sam noticed.
The first was the bartender's age. He looked way too young for the job he was doing.
He caught the sharp glance Dean tossed his way and nodded slightly to show that he'd seen too. They slid onto barstools side by side, Dean rapping the bar lightly with a fist.
"Whenever you've got time," he drawled. The bartender gave him a nod, finished pouring out a shot for someone, and came down the counter to stand by them.
"What can I get you?" he asked. Sam blinked. The guy, the kid, couldn't be older than eighteen, but his voice was a whisky-and-smoke filled husk that whispered across the hearing and slid into the brain. It was, Sam had to admit, sort of appropriate.
Dean flashed him a grin. "Two of your best."
Gray eyes fixed them both with a sort of dry resignation. "I'm not even sure we have a best," he muttered. "There's 'less-disgusting-than-the-last-one,' and possibly 'drinkable,' but I wouldn't say there's a best." While he'd been talking, he'd also been drawing a pair of mugs out from behind the counter and pouring out the golden liquid. Now, he slid them across the bar into the brothers' waiting hands.
Dean raised an eyebrow. "Not exactly a ringing endorsement for your place of employment." He gestured at the kid. "Aren't there rules against trash-talkin' the place?"
The bartender shrugged lazily. "Probably. But let's face it, who else is gonna take this sucky job? I'm one of the few they can get, especially people willing to work weird shifts. Jim can't afford to fire me." He tugged at the back of his head, releasing a fall chin-length black hair. Quickly, efficiently, he swept it back up in a ponytail, snapping the rubber band around it with ease born of long practice. He moved away to refill the shot glass.
Dean grinned at Sam. I like this guy, he mouthed. Sam stifled a snort. Dean would like him. Snarky, irreverent, wearing a t-shirt under his apron that said You Might Not Like It, But I Don't Care. Yeah, Dean knew a kindred mind when he met one.
Oddly enough, considering Sam's first impression of him, said mind was making his way back down the bar in their direction. He reached them and leaned casually on the counter, studying them carefully. Sam began to feel rather like he was being analyzed by an experienced eye, and resisted the urge to shift in his seat, feeling the cool weight of the gun in his jacket pressing against his ribs.
Dean broke the strange silence. "So," he said, cocking his head a little.
"What?" said the bartender, warily.
Dean's voice was casual, but he got right to the point. "You're a little young to be bartending, aren't you?"
Unruffled, the kid shrugged. "Got ID that says I'm not." Suddenly suspicious, he gave them another assessing look. "You two cops?"
"No," Sam assured him, not wanting to enter into another lie so late in the day. Besides, unlike some here, apparently, they didn't have the ID to back up such a claim. "Just concerned."
The bartender rolled his eyes. "Yeah, well, don't be. I'm an adult." He was still tense, ready at any moment to spring into action. Not that it'd do him much good. Even Dean had a few good inches on him, and he was skinny as a rail.
Dean ran an assessing eye of his own over the kid. "You're seventeen if you're a day," he pronounced after a moment.
"Eighteen," the bartender said sullenly. He looked defiant all of a sudden. "And it's not like I'd ever try drinking any of this swill, so I'm not technically underage for anything I'm doing here." It sounded like an old argument –one he'd had with someone else, obviously.
Dean had noticed that too. "So, who did you convince with that?" he drawled good-naturedly. "Somehow, I can't see too many parents letting that argument persuade them."
The kid snorted but relaxed a little. "You haven't met my parents," he said, a wry grin twisting at his lips. (Was it just Sam, or had he muttered, "Lucky you," under his breath as he reached for a towel and began swiping at the bar.)
Sam was so preoccupied with their new acquaintance, he didn't even notice Dean reaching for the little bowl of peanuts he'd been absentmindedly digging into. He jumped a little when his brother's hand bumped into his. "Dude, what teh crap are you-"
"Now, Sammy," Dean admonished cheekily. "You really need to learn to share."
Sam glared at him, more for the tone than the nickname, though Dean didn't know that. "It's Sam," he said huffily, not missing the way amused gray eyes were watching their playful tiff. Dean grinned at him.
"So," the bartender said casually, tone matching Dean's drawling way of saying the word exactly. "You two are brothers?"
Sam raised his eyebrows. Most people didn't come to precisely that conclusion when they saw him and Dean together. "Uh, yeah. How'd you know?"
Gray eyes rolled again, but softened. "I know that look."
Confused, Sam stared at him. "What look?"
Smirking a little, the bartender flicked a finger at Dean, reaching again for Sam's peanuts. "That look you're wearing. Half-tolerant, half-ohmylord-my-big-brother-is-driving-me-crazy."
Dean chortled. "Recognize it from little siblings?"
The kid smirked. "From the mirror," he corrected. Flipping the towel over his shoulder, freeing his hands, he stuck one out to them. "Cal," he said.
Grinning, Dean accepted the handshake. "Dean," he answered. "And my little brother, Sam."
Cal eyed them for a moment before shaking his head. "I'm sure there are lots of jokes I could make about the irony of that, but for the sake of your fragile older-brother-ego, I will restrain myself."
Sam laughed out loud as Dean sputtered a little. He was starting to like this kid too.
"Pleased to meet you," he said politely, shaking Cal's hand. "You're a little brother too then?"
Cal smiled a little. "Yeah."
"And your big bro is okay with you working in this dump?" Dean asked, suddenly back on track. Cal gave him a narrow-eyed glance before relaxing a little.
"You're all the same," he told Dean, pouring out another shot and some sort of dark liquid into a glass and then sliding them down the bar in opposite directions without even pausing. "Big brothers. Freaking out over poor little just-a-teenager Cal working in a bar. I can take care of myself," he grumbled.
Dean was smirking again. "I take it Big Brother doesn't exactly approve," he said. The dull roar of the room at their backs was punctuated by brief flares of voices raised above the din.
"Big Brother is probably right outside," Cal muttered. "He usually comes in around now, not because he'd ever put anything served in this place inside that immaculately kept 'temple' of his, but because he worries about me too much to stay home and sleep like a normal person." He sniffed.
Sam bit his lip to keep from laughing. He definitely knew that feeling, the one where your older brother was practically stalking you because he never left you alone for more than a few minutes. Lately, Dean seemed to think that if Sam was out of his sight for more than five seconds, he'd come back and find his brother a train wreck. He wasn't far off. Jess's loss still weighed heavily on Sam's mind, and even though Dean was doing his best to help, the only thing that could really heal the hurt was time. And even Dean couldn't control that (though Sam had no doubt he'd be willing to try).
Another altercation broke out behind them and Cal's attention was diverted briefly.
"I hate this crowd," he muttered, swiping at the counter viciously. "They always make a mess. And who gets to clean it up? Not Jim, that's for freakin' sure."
Now Dean and Sam were turning to look behind them. A big ox of a man was tossing back shots like they were water, and didn't look like he was planning on stopping any time soon, despite being too drunk to realize that the barmaid he was trying to sweet-talk was so not interested. He grabbed her arm and yanked her close to him, whatever he was saying lost to the din, but assuredly not something repeatable in polite company.
Dean was halfway out of his seat when the girl twisted around and yelled desperately, "Cal!"
"'Scuse me for a sec," the teenager said, hoisting himself onto the edge of the counter and then swinging over it. "Time to earn my other paycheck." He was in the crowd before either Winchester could respond, making a swift beeline for the barmaid and her captor.
Sam and Dean watched, concerned, as Cal reached for the jerk's arm. He was a lot smaller than the guy, and nowhere near as mean. What was he gonna…
Cal grabbed the man's arm, inserted himself in between him and the barmaid, and threw an elbow right into the florid, scruffy face.
Sam felt his mouth drop open.
"He's-" Dean started to say, only to be cut off by a calm, smooth voice from behind them.
"Strong? Fast? Enjoying himself far too much? Yes, all of those."
They turned again, this time to see that they were no longer alone at their end of the bar. The newcomer was tan-skinned, with long blonde hair pulled into a braid down his back. He was wearing a long, dark-colored coat. Sam looked up and caught his eyes.
Gray eyes, wary, but just a little bit amused. Cal's eyes, in a different face.
"You're the big brother then," Dean said. It wasn't a question.
Their new acquaintance inclined his head. "My name is Niko Leandros. And yes, Cal is my younger brother." He raised an eyebrow, clearly waiting for some reciprocating information.
Sam didn't disappoint. "Sam and Dean. He's my… we're brothers too."
The same assessing glance his brother employed swept over them, softening a bit. "Yes… I can see that." Not bothering to clarify how he could see that, he continued, "Thank you."
Confused, Dean asked, "Uh, for what?"
Niko made a small gesture in the direction of the rest of the bar, where Cal was currently using his knee to ensure Mr. Doesn't-Know-the-Meaning-of-No would never be able to carry on his family line, and indeed, looking quite pleased about it. "For being willing to help. It's unnecessary, of course, but not many people would even bother. So thank you."
Dean was opening his mouth to respond, but was cut off once more –this time by Cal slamming Drunk Dude facedown onto the bar next to them. He was talking.
"Whoa, hold on now. Didn't we already deja this vu? I could've sworn we've been in this situation before. But I must be mistaken. 'Cause you know, if we had been here before, I'm sure I would've said something like, 'Don't let me catch you feeling up the barmaids again, butthole.' Oh, wait a minute. I know I've said that before. Guess you're just hard of hearing. Sorry, pal," he jerked the man upright and shoved him towards the door. "I don't have a three-strike policy. I have a one-strike policy and lazy door watchers. Get out of here. If you really wanna drink here, come back when my shift is over." Using one combat-booted foot to kick open the door, he tossed the barely conscious man outside and then strode back to the bar.
Sam and Dean were staring at him. Cal grinned. "Sorry, 'bout that, guys. Had to do a little pest control." He hopped up and over the counter again. "Hi, Nik." He reached under the counter and pulled out a bottle and a small mug. The bottle was labeled "Niko's Nasty Healthy Stuff," and Cal poured some out into the mug and pushed it towards its owner.
His brother raised an eyebrow. "I don't like you playing bouncer," he said as a greeting, accepting the mug and taking a sip.
Cal rolled his eyes towards Sam expressively. "Geez, does yours have this much of an overprotective streak?"
Sam gave him a wryly commiserating grin. "You have no idea."
Setting down his… whatever it was, Niko rapped softly on the counter. "Your employer is heading our way," he murmured. Cal scowled.
"What now, Jim?" he asked, easy-going attitude disappearing faster than Dean's pie had earlier that afternoon. The bar owner frowned at him.
"I thought I told you to stop knocking the patrons around."
The look Cal gave him was lazy. "Yeah, well, you also told me not to let any of the girls get harassed. Jenny called for help. If you don't want me to do my job, just say the word. You don't pay me enough for it as it is, and I get enough complaining about it at home without you ragging at me too."
Jim's mouth twisted up a little, but Cal's defensive posture and the way Niko subtly drew Jim's attention to his presence convinced the older man to back off. "Just…" he hesitated. "Try not to permanently damage anyone, okay?" He turned on his heel and walked away.
"No promises," Cal muttered. Niko's lips twitched before he turned back to Sam and Dean.
"It was nice to meet you," he said pleasantly, standing and holding out his hand. They shook with him, again feeling like they were being measured somehow. Niko stepped back from the bar and shot his little brother a look. "Cal, your shift is almost done, and I'm afraid you're going to have to give your two weeks."
The Winchesters felt more than saw Cal stiffen. "Yeah?" he said casually. Too casually.
"Yes," Niko said softly. "Only it will be two days rather than two weeks. We need to move on."
Cal nodded, tight lipped, then glanced at the clock and started last call. In the ensuing movement for the bar by patrons who wanted one last drink, Niko Leandros slipped out the front door, but not before locking eyes with Sam briefly and giving him a nod that told him he might, just might have not been found wanting under that intense, watchful gray gaze.
Dean was giving Cal their phone number, "just in case he or his brother ever needed anything." Cal gave him a strange look, but took the number –scrawled on a napkin– any way. "What are you guys, some kind of… Brother Bodyguards? Making sure all your fellow sibling pairs are fighting fit?"
"Not exactly," Dean grinned. "Just… you ever hear of anything… weird? A death or a disappearance you just can't explain by normal means?"
Cal's gray eyes were sharp as they met his. "Yeah," he said slowly, stuffing the napkin into his jeans pocket. "I have."
"We help with that sort of thing," Sam piped in, letting his big brother's instincts run this one. "So if you ever need it…" he tapped the counter, much like Niko had earlier. "We're a phone call away."
The kid's mouth was twitching, just a little, and his eyes were amused again. "Thanks," he said. "Really."
Dean stood up then and prepared to leave. Sam hung back just a bit longer, prompting his brother to wait by the door. Sam said to Cal, "Look… you don't have to call only if you need help. I know what it's like to never settle down, to always be on the move. If you ever need to talk…"
Now Cal was full-on smirking. "Your brother calls you a girl, doesn't he?"
"Wha-" Sam sputtered. Cal laughed. "Thanks," he said again. "But seriously, dude." He gave Sam a wink that reminded him so much of Dean he just knew what was coming next. "No chick flick moments."
Ignoring the outraged spluttering behind him, Cal untied his apron and started for the door leading to the owner's office. "Hey, Jim! I gotta talk to you…"
Dean waited until they were outside in the Impala before he said anything.
"He sure had you pegged, Sammy."
Sam gave him a scathing look. "Remind you of anybody?"
Dean looked genuinely puzzled. "Uh, no? Should he?"
Sighing, but hiding a smile, Sam leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. "Never mind, bro. I'm sure it's just me."
A/N: Why is it set in South Carolina? Because I was in South Carolina, relaxing after a hard day of vacationing, when I started writing it. And was also reading Blackout when I started writing, and guess where Cal is when it starts? You guessed it! Good ol' SC.
If Cal seems a little more smooth and a little less spacey/psycho, it's probably due to a personal belief of mine that Cal-working-the-(human)-bar is a bit different than Cal-the-rest-of-the-time. Being a bartender has actually probably done wonders for his social skills (which, considering the state they're in now, says something rather terrifying about how they were previously). Basically, he's not the type to sit and listen to you spouting your woes or drowning your sorrows, but he can make small-talk with the patrons as good as anybody.
Bonus points for anyone who knows where the line "Didn't we already deja this vu?" comes from. ;)