Chapter Text
The Sun was rising on the maddeningly bare Interstate 80 route. The Impala hummed with warmth in the late September air as it sped over miles of the dark asphalt. Dean rested one hand on top of the steering wheel, not so much steering as he was letting Baby take him where they needed to go. He felt the familiar vibration of the seat as he urged the gas forwards. Forget Led Zeppelin's self-titled 1969 album, this was true music to Dean’s ears. At least someone on this trip didn’t hate his guts.
Sam and he had fought yesterday about stopping for the night. Obviously, there was no need to stop. It was a straight shot from Lincoln to Chicago, barely 500 miles. Stopping would mean losing a full day in the great Windy City. They had done all-nighters their whole life, if Sam wanted to get some beauty rest, he would be much more comfortable at their destination.
“Frankly Dean, I don't give a fuck what you do.” And that had been the end of it, Sam crossed his arms and faced the window, remaining sound asleep for the last 7 hours of the journey. Dean didn’t mind, gave him time to hear Baby’s engine breathe, man was she so beautiful. The quiet was nice, it meant nothing was trying to kill them… yet.
Dean readjusted, blinking the dryness away from his eyes. He was looking forward to the hot black diner coffee once they made it where they were headed. And he wouldn’t complain if there was pie on that menu as well.
The sun was peaking more in the distance, illuminating the flat yellowing planes of Illinois. Sam had the map in the glove compartment, they had to be getting close. Dean looked over at Sam, whose face was pressed up against the glass. His mouth was open and his neck seemed to recede back into his neck. That had to be uncomfortable. He was undoubtedly going to wake up with a wicked crick in his neck and be even more cranky than normal– if that was even possible.
Dean stretched his shoulders, pushing both arms against the steering wheel, the resistance giving his muscles a well needed wake up.
“Sam,” Dean said as he smacked his brother’s elbow with the back of his hand, eyes still glued to the road. This act caused the crumpled figure next to him to groan. “Hey,” another smack, “wake up sleeping beauty. We are almost here.”
“Wha–” Sam rubbed the dryness out of his eyes, “Yeah.” He agreed, without knowing what he was agreeing to. Brain and mouth had not yet been reconnected.
“Look at that map would ya?” Dean gestured, “Me and dad went to a diner once over off I 60. We ‘otta get some fuel before our day today.”
Sam inflated his lungs deeply as he bent forwards and dug through the overflowing glove compartment. He fished out the frankly abused map and folded it out. They hashed out the directions to where the dinner most likely was located.
After a second of silence Sam turned, “So what is this deal with Chicago again?”
“Well it has a giant bean-”
“The case, I mean.”
Dean smirked to himself as he recollected, “Well, when we were kids, I got stuck with one of dad’s old friends, the type who will talk even the wall’s ear off. He told me about how the Chicago fire was actually the doing of an old curse in the area.”
“Sounds like a looney history professor I used to have.”
“Yeah, that's what I thought, and I didn’t think anything of it until for the past few months when we have been doing our case hunting, I keep seeing weird things again happening near Chicago. Not weird enough to be our type of thing, but still weird.”
“As the professor foretold,” Sam lowered his voice in a reverent manner.
“Yes, but he wasn’t a professor.” Dean ignored the sarcasm coming from the ‘shut your pie-hole’ side of the car. “There have been inconsistent cattle mutilations, many murder suicides, a rise in unexplained disapearences, and get this–” he paused for dramatic effect, “last week there was a patient uprising at a mental hospital.”
“You know those things don't point to anything specific–”
“All the patients there were claiming that the city was going to burn and their only request was to be moved to a different hospital. All like 100 of them or something, same goal, same revelation.”
“Okay, that is strange…”
“So that got me researching the claims that the old man had told me. Sure enough, in 1871 before the Great Chicago Fire, there were reports of cattle mutilations, murder suicides, and group psychosis causing many to leave the city.” He paused for dramatic affect. “And that is not even taking into account that they perfectly line up to the timeline of the fire which originally started on October 8th. Which means–”
“--which means we have only,” Sam checked his watch, “2 days to find out what caused it last time and stop it.”
“Exactly.” Dean leaned back, looking more smug than he usually does. His impeccable research job was well worth the time.
“But, I mean, we don’t know of anything that has this M.O. If what the professor–”
“--not a professor–”
“--said was true, then we are looking for a curse which takes like… 135 years to reload its mojo.”
“That's why we are headed there. To find out what this curse is and stop it before it burns the city again.”
Dean nudged the gas down gently with his boot and Baby soared faster down the highway as Chicago rose up from the morning horizon in front of them.
—------
The Beef was a shithole as usual. They had over 10 orders posted on the line and Manny was nowhere to be seen. Carmen flinched as the oil splashed and sent needles all over his hands and face, from the scalding pan into his skin.
“Cousin! I need you back here!” Carmen turned the handle 45 degrees and the oil once again flew at his susceptible skin. “Goddamit. COUSIN!”
“Yes, I heard you the first hundred times–what the fuck?” Ricky stepped back to balance himself as an apron was aggressively thrown at his head. “What is this?” He held up the apron.
“That's for you– PLATING THE VEG–” He shouted over his shoulder and resuming his conversation. “We need our dishes washed and you are the next best option. WHERE IS THE ONION SAUCE?”
“Respectfully, cousin,” Ricky followed Carmen on his rampage through the kitchen, trying to locate his sauce, “you need me out there. I can't do my job–”
“--your job is to help us, if we need dishes– you do the dishes.” Carmen spun around. “Fuck, WHERE IS MY SAUCE?” he turned to Sydney.
“It's on top of the prep station, Chef.” Sydney slid behind the two of them announcing her movement, “Behind, behind!”
“It’s fucking what??” Carmen spun around, finding himself face first where Ricky was standing.
“Cousin, I’m going to get back out on the floor.” Ricky pointed towards the door to the register.
“Ricky, I swear to God, you better not fuck me right now.” Carmen’s face was turning red.
“I wouldn't dream of it.” Ricky put both hands up in defiance as he left the kitchen. Carmen ran his hands through his hair.
“Behind, Jeff.” Tina carried the pan of chicken legs behind him. Carmen froze, looking around at the controlled chaos which was the norm in this kitchen.
Why did you leave me this, Mikey?
“You okay, chef?” It was Sydney, she was chopping the steak, tongs in one hand, the steak knife in the other. She skillfully maneuvered the meat as she evenly sliced the perfectly pink meat. Thank God at least someone was competent in this godforsaken restaurant. After he didn't respond, she stole a glance up from her station, shaking her head. Typical asshole behavior from Carmen as usual.
“Jeff, you good?” Tina shouted over after he still didn't respond.
“Yes, Chef.” Carmen wiped his hands off on his apron and spun around to get his pot of white sauce from on top of the shelf. “WHOEVER PUT MY SAUCE UP HERE I SWEAR TO CHRIST–”