kunju (innie_darling) wrote,

NaNo: 19

Same issue as the last snippet - there are spoilers for "Fresh Blood" here. After this snippet, there shouldn't be any more spoilers for any episodes.

Sam doesn't want anyone connecting Sarah with him and making trouble for her somewhere down the road, and anyway he needs some time to himself, just to think about what he needs to say, so he gets out of the car and swings his duffel high on his shoulder while they're stopped at a light near the Met. He remembers Jess promising him that they'd go there one day, but now he's glad they never made it, because California belonged to Jess, but New York seems like it's Sarah's, and his head is all jumbled up from everything that's happened.

He gets out of the car and just nods at Sarah, who stares back and then pulls away when the light turns green, something sad and resigned in her eyes.


Sarah had tucked a fat wad of cash in the side pocket of his duffel bag, and he ducks into a convenient alcove to distribute it so that it will stay with him even if his bag doesn't. There's a bitter wind knifing through his clothes, freezing his gloveless hands and making the bills flutter dangerously, but on the plus side, no one is interested in hanging around to see how much he's got or even to glance sideways at him as they march along the sidewalk, faces staring straight down to make headway against the wind.

He walks until he finds the lit globes that stand above the subway stations, guarding the entrances, and heads down into the muggy warmth of the station. The plastic covering the route map is stained and covered in graffiti, but the YOU ARE HERE symbol still shows up brightly against the multicolored paper, and he traces the route he'll need with careful fingers, unconcerned about what he must look like to the homeless man sitting on one of the wooden benches just inside the turnstiles. He buys an unlimited ride pass with Jeff Bentley's MasterCard and swipes it to let himself through the middle turnstile.

Standing on the platform, he takes stock of what he's got and what he'll need. Gloves, definitely, a scarf maybe. He can get away without a warmer coat since he wears so many layers anyway. A hat is a must, if only because he can imagine Dean's taunts about looking like the world's tallest five-year-old, and he hasn't heard Dean's voice, even in his head, for way too long.

The train comes thundering down the track, heralded by a blast of frigid air, and he standing inside the yellow line, much too close, and the rush of the train as it roars its way past him makes his heart skip and his stomach drop. He wonders if that's how the Impala makes Dean feel, if that's what Dean's awed, delighted smiles meant every time he shared one across the broad front seat.


It's coming back to him more quickly than he'd counted on, the navigation of the New York streets not a problem. Once his feet hit the sidewalk of the right block, he just knows, even though there's construction going on at the corner, scaffolding and temporary sidewalks creating new patterns that invalidate the ones in his memory. Still, the buildings look pretty much the same, cheap little mini-marts and delis, nail salons and Chinese take-out places. There's even the same miserable looking chocolate-colored mutt tied up outside one of the convenience stores that had been there a few years ago, and he shakes his head at the kind of asshole who'd leave a dog outside in the middle of a New York January; figures it would be one of Guitierrez's friends or neighbors.

There's no proper sign for Guitierrez's store, not one that states its business outright anyway, but there's a paper taped up in the front window saying "A. Guitierrez, Proprietor." He remembers that from a couple of years ago too.

The bell dings loud and cheerful when Sam pushes the door open, and Guitierrez comes out from the back of the store with a wide smile that vanishes when he sees who it is. The guy's eyes get impossibly big. "No! I ... I gave it up, man! Went straight after you guys came by, okay?"

This might even be a little fun. Sam leans his forearms against the glass of the biggest display case - nearly barren, just a few cheap knives with the Virgin Mary picked out in bright enamel and paint on the handles spread artfully across some draped velvet - and nods thoughtfully. "You went straight, huh? Thought you said back then that you hadn't been doing anything wrong."

"I didn't do nothing, man." Guitierrez is already sweating, and his skin has a sick-looking yellow tint. "Ever since you and your brother came by, I stopped selling ... special equipment." He gestures at the empty display cases.

Only Gordon had ever really dealt with Guitierrez, but from what Sam remembered about Gordon, Guitierrez's stuff must have been good as well as cheap and easily obtained. "Come on, you don't have anything in the back?" he wheedles, pretending he doesn't see the fear come rushing back to the man's face, replacing the expression of false innocence he'd pasted on. "Not even for an old friend?" Sam drops his voice to a whisper. "An old friend willing to pay cash?"

Now it's just a matter of playing Guitierrez's greed against his fear. "For - for you, maybe, I could see if I still have something. From my private collection."

But most hunters were monogamous, specializing in one kind of evil, and everything Guitierrez has, Sam realizes, would be good against a vampire; he has no idea what he needs to go up against the fae. "A knife would be good," he finally says, watching Guitierrez nearly deflate with relief; "but some information would be better."

"What do you need?"

"Fae. What do I need to hunt them?"

Guitierrez relaxes all the way, at last telling the whole truth. "That I can't help you with. I don't carry those things."

"Give me a name," Sam demands.

"There is no one who sells what you want," Guitierrez says with calm finality. "Fighting the fae is not like hunting anything else; it's not weapons you need."

"I still need a name." An expert, if there aren't any sellers.

"There's a bar, down in Hell's Kitchen. Mary Kelly's. Word is, the bartender there knows all kinds of things. Joe Connor."

Joke on her Sam hears before it resolves into a name. Joe Connor, who works in a bar named for one of the most famous murder victims in the world. That sounds about right.

Tags: fic, nano 2007, supernatural, supernatural_fic_my

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