Work Text:
Boston
New Year's Eve
It's the music that catches Sam's notice. He's on his way back to the car, having spent the last hour and a half going over an abandoned warehouse for signs of demonic presence without much to show for it. Whatever caused the freak lightning storm that brought him here, it left no sulfur behind, and no bodies. No missing persons, either, unless both he and the police have missed something. He's not ready to give up on the lead yet, but it's time to consider causes other than demons.
The wind's beginning to pick up, and Sam digs his hands deeper into the pockets of his coat. He should do something about warmer gear. He's been so focused on the signs, following any lead no matter how small, he's ignored things like food and sleep and proper clothing. It'll catch up with him eventually and, if the smell of snow on the wind is anything to go by, sooner rather than later. It's just, compared to the mess that he and Dean and Cas made by screwing with the balance of power in both Heaven and Hell, the day-to-day details of survival tend to pale.
Sam's crossing an empty lot when the warm strains of blues guitar catch his attention. He shifts direction, following the sound almost without meaning to. He's hungry, and tired, and he could really use a beer and some human contact. He's gone a block or more following the sound before he sees the bar: its old, scarred wooden door, warm lights at the windows, and a small neon sign that says simply, Joe's.
The place is doing decent business—better than the neighborhood deserves. A wave of conversation and good spirits washes over Sam along with the music as he steps inside. At the opposite end of a good-sized, narrow room, a small stage rules the house; five musicians are going to town on a John Lee Hooker classic, led by a silver-haired guy on guitar whose voice crawls inside Sam the second he walks in the door.
Sam takes a seat at the bar. He draws a few glances, but he's used to that; the days when he could have passed for normal are long gone. It's not until he catches the eye of the guy pouring drinks that he realizes maybe it wasn't chance that brought him here. Maybe he's been heading toward this bar for a while now.
"What'll you have?"
Sam blinks, resonating like a struck bell. Since the Trials scrubbed the demon blood out of him, he thought he might never know this kind of prickling certainty again, but apparently that was wishful thinking.
The guy is charisma on legs. He's also got the hairs standing up on the back of Sam's neck and his palm itching for a weapon. Aside from all that, he reminds Sam of someone, and it takes him a second to realize it's his dad. It's partly the eyes, dark and compelling, with that underlying danger that sets off all Sam's alarm bells. The guy's voice is deep, his expression friendly enough, but Sam gets the distinct impression that his relaxed pose could change in an instant if the situation required it.
"Beer," Sam gets out. "Whatever's on draft."
Even if he did still have the knack of passing for normal, this guy would probably see right through him.
The bartender nods and pulls him a beer without comment. Sam forces himself not to stare, though it isn't easy. He's relieved when the guy moves off to take care of other customers.
The music is better than anything Sam's heard in forever. He tries to keep his attention on that, though his awareness of the bartender never really goes away. It's electric under his skin—a little like when there's a demon in the room, only different. His skin's not exactly crawling. More like humming.
It intensifies when the guy moves back down to his end of the bar.
"He's good, isn't he?"
Sam's no expert, but it doesn't take one to appreciate music like this. "Amazing, actually."
The bartender's eyes warm at that; Sam's said the right thing. "Get you anything else?" He eyes Sam a little too closely. "Food's not bad, if you're hungry."
Sam can't remember the last time he ate anything. As if in response to the thought, his stomach rumbles a complaint. "Sure," he says. "What's good?"
"Do you trust me?" the other man asks. He smiles when he says it, and the expression seems genuine. Sam hears the trace of an accent he can't quite identify.
"Why not?" Sam plays along. He figures if nothing else, the guy's in good shape—he probably knows decent food.
He's not just in good shape, Sam realizes, watching out of the corner of one eye as the man moves, serving drinks, clearing glasses, and helping the barback bring in a new tray of dishware. He moves like a fighter. Sam's seen that effortless economy of motion before.
Sam slips a hand into his pocket, fingertips brushing over his phone. Even now, in spite of everything, his instinct is to call Dean. But to say what? The guy seems nice enough, and whatever vibe he's giving off, it's not exactly evil. Even if it was, what's Dean going to do from two thousand miles away? Tell Sam he's finally losing it? He might not be wrong.
Food trumps Sam's paranoia when, a little while later, the bartender brings him a grilled steak salad bigger than his head. Sam eats all of it without stopping, and only realizes as he scarfs the last bite that the guy's watching him, amused.
"Guess I needed that," Sam admits.
"Guess so."
"Thanks."
The band wraps up their last number, then, and the bar patrons give them the love they deserve. "Excuse me," the bartender says. Sam watches him cross the room to the stage. The silver-haired singer greets him like an old friend. Sam sees then what he missed—the older guy has prosthetic legs.
While the band packs up and the bartender helps his friend, Sam slips a flask of holy water out of his coat and pours some into what's left of his beer. Can't hurt to be sure.
He steals another glance toward the stage, and sees that the silver-haired guy is standing near the door now, and a young woman has joined him and the bartender. As if sensing his look, both the bartender and the singer suddenly glance his way; Sam feels the keen attention of the older guy, and it's too late to pretend he wasn't watching them. He raises his glass and nods, making the best of it.
Silver-hair says something to the bartender with a shake of his head, and they both stare at Sam a moment more. Then he's forgotten as they say their good-byes. Sam watches the bartender clap the older guy on the shoulder, then hug him. A few moments later, the blues singer leaves with the young woman, and the bartender heads back Sam's direction.
It's several minutes before Sam gets his chance. He waits, eyes down as if lost in thought. It's not entirely an act. Watching the two old friends embrace reminded him of Dean and Bobby, the last time they were all together at Bobby's place.
At last the bartender approaches his end of the bar. Sam times it well; he waits until the guy reaches for a glass beside him, then fumbles his own glass and knocks it over, spilling beer and holy water across the bar and the other man's hand. "Shit! I'm sorry." He's on his feet, ready to go for the knife if he has to... but nothing happens. There's no sizzling of skin, no smell of brimstone. Whatever the guy is, he's definitely not a demon.
Sam grabs a handful of napkins and helps him clean up the spill. "Sorry about that. I'm not usually this clumsy."
"It happens. No big deal." He doesn't sound put out, so Sam takes his chance.
"I'm Sam, by the way."
"Duncan," he says, and Sam likes the sound of it. It's not that common a name. Then Duncan goes on, "Last name's MacLeod—most people call me Mac."
"Mac," Sam echoes, though the guy doesn't seem like much of a 'Mac.' "Nice to meet you." When they've got the mess cleaned up, Duncan brings him another beer and Sam says the first thing he can think of, nodding toward the door the singer left by. "You two been friends a long time?"
"More than twenty years."
Sam gives him a curious look. He doesn't look old enough. Good genes, maybe. But more importantly, if the guy knows the neighborhood, maybe he's seen something. "How long you lived in Boston?" he asks then, same as anyone might, making small talk.
"Not long. Moved here a few years back, when Joe did."
"You two must be close, then."
Duncan smiles. "Home is where you make it, and who you make it with."
Sam nods. There'd been a time when he'd thought that would be him and Dean, taking care of Bobby. And later, he'd thought maybe he and Dean had finally found a place they could call home.
He forces himself back into interview mode, but before he can ask anything else, the door opens and icy air gusts in as a small group leaves. "Getting worse out there," Duncan says. "Better make sure everyone has a plan to get home."
While Duncan does that, Sam pays his check. He should go, too, look for someplace to sleep that isn't the back of the car, but that suddenly feels like it will take a lot more energy than he has. If he walks out that door, he might just keep walking until they find him frozen to death and buried in some alley somewhere.
He doesn't leave. Instead, he nurses his beer, trying not to wonder where Dean is right now. What he's doing. Who he might be with.
MacLeod returns, breaks his train of thought. "What about you? Should you think about heading out?"
"I don't have far to go," Sam says. It's not exactly a lie.
Duncan leans closer, his voice pitched for Sam's ears only. "Listen, maybe this is none of my business, but I've seen that look before. I know what it feels like. Is there anything I can do?"
It catches Sam off guard. There's that trace of an accent again, and more kindness than he'd expect from a stranger he just met. Despite the warning bells this guy sets off, Sam has to force himself to keep his guard up. "I'm good," he manages, and finishes his beer. "Appreciate it, though."
"Sometimes it helps to talk to somebody."
Sam smiles a little. "You'd need a couple of lifetimes."
The look Duncan gives him is sympathetic and knowing. "That bad, huh?"
"You could say that."
Duncan considers him, and comes to a decision. "Well, I'm not gonna kick you out, not looking like that. Have a drink with me, then, come on." He turns the bar over to the other bartender and gets out a bottle of good Scotch.
Sam's both wary of the offer and glad for the excuse to ask him a few more questions. He follows Duncan to a table, taking the chair opposite as the other man pours them each a drink.
"Why're you being so nice to me?" he asks. "I could be some kind of serial killer for all you know."
"I've been told I have a weakness for strays."
"Ouch." Sam leans back in the wooden chair, studying the man across from him. "What about you? Don't you have to get home?"
Duncan hooks a thumb over his right shoulder. "My place is about a hundred feet that way. Makes things easy."
Sam wonders if he's supposed to take that as a hint. It's been a while since anyone hit on him, and even longer since he's been hit on by a guy, but he does remember how it works, and he's pretty sure that's not what this is. Well, mostly sure.
He takes a sip of the whisky to cover his momentary discomfiture, and has to suppress a cough. He makes a face of respect.
"Good?" Duncan asks. He must know it is.
"Been a while," Sam admits.
"I know what you mean."
Sam huffs a laugh. "Really? You work in a bar."
"Just helping out. Mostly, I teach." At Sam's expression, Duncan's mouth curves upward. "Don't look so surprised."
"No, I wasn't. I mean—that's cool." This guy puts him off his game easier than anyone Sam's met in a long time. "What do you teach?"
"History, usually. Philosophy every other semester. Kung fu and a little aikido on the side."
"That explains it."
"What's that?"
Sam blushes. He didn't mean to say that out loud. "Most bartenders don't give away the good stuff," he covers.
"You must not hang out in the right bars."
"Guess not." It makes him think of Ellen, though, and Jo. Jeez, everything's getting to him tonight. If he's not careful, he's gonna be drunk-dialing Dean before the night is out, and that way lies more heartbreak and hurt than either of them deserves.
"Sorry," Duncan says then.
"For what?"
"I'm doing a lousy job of cheering you up."
"Is that what this is?"
"Let's just say I've been where you are, and you seem like you could use a friend."
Sam smiles despite himself. "Not really looking for friends."
"No, I can see that."
This would be a good time for Sam to get the hell out of here before he digs himself in deeper, but for some reason, he cares what this guy thinks of him. It's a feeling he barely recognizes.
"Now it's my turn to be sorry. You're not exactly catching me at my best."
"Yeah, well. Like I said. Been there."
He does sound like he knows what he's talking about. Sam notices Duncan's hands for the first time. They're brown and broad and square, hard and blunt-fingered, but the skin is smooth. Still, they look like they're no stranger to hard work, or to violence. That frisson of subliminal awareness touches him again, and this time it's something halfway between a warning and attraction. It scares him a little.
Duncan says, "You don't really have a place to stay tonight, do you?"
"Is it that obvious?"
The other man shrugs. "I know the neighborhood. So, what's your plan, then?"
Sam gives him the shadow of a smile. "Sleep in the car?"
"You do that a lot?"
"It's not so bad."
"Night like tonight? I hope you've got subzero gear."
Sam echoes Duncan's shrug.
"Why are you here, Sam? What is it you want?"
At that, Sam looks up. Between one minute and the next, all Duncan's relaxed, easygoing charm has vanished, and he's deadly serious. Sam realizes that if he thought he could fool this man about anything, he was deeply mistaken. Worse, something in his eyes makes Sam want to tell the truth.
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."
"Try me."
Sam lets out a breath and glances around, but the place has cleared out and there's nobody else is in earshot. "Something happened night before last, a few blocks from here. The news called it a freak lightning storm. I guess you could say I... look into strange phenomena like that."
Duncan's heavy brows draw together. "Is this for one of those television programs? Paranormal Investigators or what have you?"
"No, nothing like that. No reality shows, I promise."
"So if you're not a TV producer, who are you?"
"Just someone who believes these kinds of things aren't random. Sometimes they can be dangerous. And if it's what I think it is, you should be careful."
"That's a little vague. Care to elaborate?"
At least he's not laughing Sam off, but Sam isn't sure that's a good thing. "Maybe another time." He pulls out his notepad and scribbles his number on a page, then tears it out and lays it on the table. "Tell you what. You see anything weird, anything out of the ordinary, you give me a call, okay?"
"I'll keep it in mind."
Sam lifts his glass in a half-salute. "Listen, thanks for this. But I should go." He starts to rise.
Without warning, Duncan's hand closes on Sam's wrist and turns it over. His grip is warm and rough, steely in its hold. Sam could break free if he chose—but surprise catches him off guard. It's the first time anyone's touched him in months, and that's part of it, but it's more than that. The fine hairs are standing up all over his body. The ring of swords clashing seems to resonate in his bones, and he has the strangest feeling deep in his chest, like he can hear drums, and the far off echo of bagpipes.
He forces himself to stay perfectly still, cataloguing the weapons he's got on him and their possible targets. "You're not a demon," he says in a low voice, certain of that much. "Not an angel, either. What are you? Demigod? Warlock? Some kind of Fae?"
Duncan studies him, intent, as if his dark eyes can see straight into Sam. At last he lets go of Sam's wrist, a shift in his expression that says he's satisfied himself of what he wanted to know. "None of the above. But I dreamed about you, and that means something." He frowns. "What do you know about demons?"
Sam can't quite suppress a laugh. "More than I want to. I could ask you the same thing." He considers the other man, at least one piece falling into place. "That happen often? Your dreams coming true?"
"No. Not often."
"But they do come true."
"Sometimes." Duncan's expression is dark, but he's no longer acting like Sam is a threat. It's as if he read Sam's intent when he touched him—and maybe he did. Psychic, then, or some variation of it. That would explain the feeling Sam's had since he first laid eyes on the man. "Forgive me," Duncan says then, with a gesture toward Sam's wrist, where Sam can still feel the heat of his grip. "I needed to know."
"Some trick. I wish I could do that."
Duncan's expression is wry. "Doesn't always work. You're... louder than most."
Sam can believe that. "I should go," he says again, and gets to his feet, feeling the whisky but steady enough. Duncan stands, too. "I meant what I said. Call me if you see anything."
But Duncan shakes his head. "You're wasting your time. Whoever you are, whatever you're looking for, you won't find it here."
Sam looks at him keenly. "So you do know. What happened the other night."
"It's been dealt with."
Hunter, then. Sam is surprised—he wouldn't have pegged this man for a hunter. But it does explain certain things. He's caught off guard by the pang of disappointment he feels; a part of him was hoping for an excuse to come back here.
He pushes the feeling down, knowing when he's overstayed a welcome. "Goodnight, then," he says. "Thanks for the drink."
He's at the door when Duncan stops him, voice low and laden with intensity. "Sam, wait." Sam stops and looks back. "It's late, and it's miserable out. You'll be lucky if you make it two blocks."
Sam turns to look at him. At first, he isn't sure he heard right, but Duncan looks less sure of himself than he has all night, and his expression is sincere. A weakness for strays, he said. That must have been the truth.
"You offering?" Sam asks, disbelieving.
Duncan sighs. "Looks like it."
"You don't even know me."
"Yeah, well. I'm starting to think maybe I should." Duncan spreads his hands. "Look, it's not much, but the couch is comfortable, and you look like you could use a good night's sleep. Breakfast in the morning if you play your cards right."
It's dangerous, and Dean would tell him not to trust the guy, but Sam's used to danger and there's more going on here than meets the eye. He wants to get to the bottom of that feeling.
"If you're sure," he says.
Duncan closes the distance between them. "I'm sure," he replies. Then he says, "Got a better option?"
This is how Sam Winchester ends up following a near-stranger home on a winter's night like a lost puppy. As Duncan said, it isn't far; his place is a converted warehouse loft half a block from the bar. Sam wraps his thin coat tightly around himself, the icy wind finding every vulnerable spot before they've gone fifty feet. Even warmed by the whisky, he'd have to be an idiot to sleep in the car in this.
Duncan lets them in by an alley door, snow gusting in after them. He leads the way up two flights of stairs, then unlocks the door and gestures Sam inside.
It's a nice place. Comfortable. While Duncan goes to turn on lights and adjust the heat, Sam stands inside the door and looks around, taking in his surroundings. Clean, stainless steel, brick, and wood. A few pieces of art and antique weaponry adorn the warm but subdued interior. The furniture is a combination of modern leather and more antiques, and though there's nothing ostentatious about the place, Sam knows enough to recognize that these are the furnishings of a man who doesn't have to worry about money. If he's a hunter, he's not like any hunter Sam's ever met.
A pair of exquisite swords on the wall catch his attention, and he's drawn to them without conscious intent. After a moment, he realizes Duncan is standing nearby, watching him.
"I've had those a while," he says mildly. "You know swords?"
"Not really," Sam admits. "My brother does." Dean would go nuts for the pair on the wall. For a second, Sam can see it in his mind's eye: how Dean would look holding one of the exquisite Japanese blades. The way his face would light up at the feel of it in his hand.
"Mm," Duncan says. Then, after a moment, he adds, "Something tells me you're no stranger to them, though."
Sam's face warms. "I've had a lot of training," he says. "Nothing formal."
"Maybe you should try it sometime."
Sam glances at his host. He imagines Duncan is a good teacher. He seems like he would be. Though he can't be much older than Sam is, Sam can imagine calling him sensei all too easily.
The thought stirs him more than it should, and it's worse when he meets Duncan's eyes. It touches on things long buried—a need for guidance, for direction, that he wasn't aware ran so deep in him. For so long he's been struggling on his own, and he never even dared to hope there might be someplace to turn.
Sam's instincts kick hard, but the messages they're sending are all tangled up with the sudden fierce loneliness that makes him more vulnerable to this stranger than he should be. He fights the urge to swallow.
"Listen, maybe this wasn't such a good idea."
"Relax," Duncan says. "I won't bite." He nods toward a doorway across the room. "Bathroom's that way, if you want a shower. I'll find you something to put on."
It's not the most comforting idea. What Duncan would do if he knew Sam's last name, or how many weapons Sam carries on his person? But Duncan has already moved toward the bedroom, suiting actions to words, and a hot shower does sound like heaven. Sam can't remember the last time he had a real shower someplace that didn't leave him feeling less clean when he came out than when he went in.
It's better even than he could have imagined. Duncan is obviously a man who loves his creature comforts, because the bathroom is huge, the water pressure everything a man could hope for. Sam can't help thinking of Dean again, wondering whether he's someplace safe tonight—someplace warm. He would love this guy, Sam thinks. Teaches martial arts and history, moonlights in a bar, collects antique swords, and knows the value of good water pressure. Then again, the whole psychic thing might be a deal-breaker, not to mention what Dean would say about Sam trusting the guy enough to sleep at his place on three hours' acquaintance.
Sam still isn't sure he won't regret it, but he can't help the way it makes him feel, knowing that someone like Duncan—someone with family, and a home, someone with pretty much exactly the life that Sam always wanted—could look into his soul and see something worth trusting. His own abilities have never worked that way, but he does have good instincts, and everything in him says that Duncan MacLeod is exactly what he seems: a good man, an honorable man, who carries the weight of as many secrets as Sam does. I dreamed about you, and that means something, he'd said. If anyone understands that particular brand of weirdness, it's Sam. And it's not something he can turn his back on.
"Hope you know what you're doing," he mutters to himself as he dries off and puts on the loose, comfortable gi pants and T-shirt Duncan gave him. He wraps up his knives and his gun in his own clothes, tucking them into a careful bundle under his arm.
Duncan's flat doesn't exactly have a bedroom as such. The bed is divided off from the living area by a screen, and other than the bathroom, there are no other rooms in the place. He does have a wide, deep leather couch, though, and Sam sees when he emerges from the bathroom that Duncan's made it up with pillows and sheets.
It's warm in the loft now, the snow coming down thick at the windows, and Sam is suddenly tired enough to fall asleep where he stands. Duncan crosses toward him from the kitchen, a glass of water in his hand.
"Thought maybe you could use this," he says. He's changed into loose clothing, too, his dark coloring striking against the white fabric.
"Thanks," Sam says. Their fingers don't touch, but Sam feels the charge of Duncan's nearness just the same. There's an intensity in Duncan's eyes that says Sam's not the only one who feels it, but Duncan doesn't linger in his space. He moves away and goes to a chest against the far wall, pulling out a thick blanket. Sam thinks again of Duncan's comment about strays—he isn't the first to sleep on this couch, he thinks.
"Seriously, thank you," he says, though it feels inadequate.
"Seriously, it's no trouble," Duncan says, laying the blanket on the couch. His lips quirk. "Hope you don't snore."
"A little late to be asking me that, don't you think?"
"Good point." Duncan straightens up. "You need anything else?"
"No, I'm good."
Duncan shuts off the lamp beside the couch, and the loft is suddenly plunged into shadow.
Awkward, Sam thinks. It's been so long since he met someone—so long since he's even pretended at normal social interaction. But this is something else. It's attraction, yes. He can admit that much, even if it's been fifteen years since he's kissed a guy who wasn't his own brother. But it's more than that.
Sam can see the other man by his white clothing, but it's still a shock to his system when Duncan stops beside him and lays a hand on his shoulder. "Sleep on it, my friend. Something tells me there are bigger forces at work here than you or I."
Sam's relieved to hear him say it. It's not just him, then. "Maybe so," he says. "But listen, I—" He breaks off. What can he say? I'm bad news? Stay away for your own good? Duncan had a chance to do that, and he didn't. "I wasn't kidding when I said this might be a bad idea."
"Yeah, it might." Sam can't tell if he smiles, but there's humor in Duncan's voice when he says, "Wouldn't be the first time." He claps Sam on the shoulder once, then moves away toward his own bed.
Sam nods, though his heart's beating too fast. "Just promise me something," he says, before he can stop himself.
Duncan half-turns. "What's that?"
Sam tries to make it into a joke, but he's deadly serious when he says, "Promise me that whatever you are, you're not something I'm going to have to kill."
Duncan laughs at that. It's a deep, throaty sound, and it makes Sam think it's a shame he isn't a man who laughs very often. His teeth are a white flash in the dark.
~ end ~