Season Three

Episode Sixteen: One Way Ticket

By irismay42 & Kittsbud

Part Two

Amtrak 66
Approaching Alexandria, VA

“What the hell are you doing in my room, boy?”

Dean spun toward the door at the sound of the very deep – and very pissed – voice, Jay Stringer’s massive frame completely filling the doorway like some really angry man-mountain. He burst into the tiny compartment, almost seeming to fill the entire space with his bulk, dark eyes flashing as he loomed over Dean in a way even Sammy had never managed to perfect.

Dean took a precautionary step back, calves hitting the narrow cot behind him – which no way was this guy ever going to fit into – hands raised in a gesture of surrender. “Hold on there, pal –” he managed to bark, even as Stringer got even more into his personal space. “This ain’t what it looks like.” Jeez, if Sam made Dean look small, this guy made him look like a freakin’ midget.

“Oh, and what does it look like?” Stringer demanded. “’Cause it looks to me like you’re a goddamn trophy hunter. Or a goddamn thief. Or both. Either way, I’m calling the cops.”

The big cornerback managed to loom in an even more menacing fashion until Dean figured getting the crap beaten out of him by a guy the size of Giants Stadium probably wasn’t in anyone’s best interests – most especially his own – and finally yanked out his .45, pointing it right between the massive athlete’s eyes.

“Back up there, Kong,” Dean insisted, Stringer’s eyes widening in alarm as he mirrored Dean’s earlier defensive pose, hands raised as he retreated a step.

“Whoa –”

“Too late to call five-oh, dude,” Dean advised a little breathlessly, finally thinking to pull out his fake NYPD badge. “We’re already here.”

The look of fearful surprise on the cornerback’s face immediately morphed right back to outraged anger. “Then let me rephrase my earlier question,” he snarled. “What the hell are you doing in my room Detective?”

Dean hesitated before stepping aside to reveal the open baggage he’d been searching through – and the mound of ritualistic paraphernalia he’d so far uncovered. “You wanna tell me what you’re doing with this stuff first?” He carefully picked up the bloodied knife between thumb and forefinger, still holding it using Stringer’s sock, showing the big football player the mutilated photograph before nudging the skull with the toe of his boot. “This don’t look like your everyday vacation wear to me.”

Stringer blanched, taking another step back and thudding into the little compartment’s thin wall. He soundlessly opened and closed his mouth a couple of times before shaking his head in disbelief. “I swear to God, I’ve never seen any of that weird-ass crap before in my life!” he protested. “Somebody must have put it here –”

“Uh-huh,” Dean returned skeptically. “Must’ve been the Easter Bunny.”

“I swear!” Stringer again protested his innocence.

“And I suppose you have no idea who this chick is, either?” Dean waved the cut-up photograph under Stringer’s nose. “You’re just really into handicrafts, right?”

Stringer shook his head hopelessly. “Man, I’ve no idea! I’ve no idea who that girl is – or who put this – this stuff in here…”

Suddenly Stringer didn’t seem quite so super-sized, and Dean raised a challenging eyebrow. “Why should I believe you?”

The cornerback seemed to wilt all of a sudden, crumpling in on himself like wadded paper as he sank heavily down onto the cot, springs protesting plaintively.

Dean skidded out of his way, anxious not to be crushed by a couple of hundred pounds of collapsing football player.

“Yeah, why should you believe me?” Stringer muttered, mostly, Dean figured, to himself. He ran weary fingers over his scalp, finally scratching at the back of his neck and sighing heavily. “It’s not like every damn thing in my life hasn’t been screwed all to hell lately.”

His head drooped down between his massive shoulders, which started to shake ever-so-slightly.

You gotta be kiddin’ me, Dean silently despaired. Man tears…? Maybe I should go get Sammy…

“Look, I’m sorry,” Stringer managed to splutter out between hitched breaths, wiping a massive hand over the saltwater leaking down his cheeks. “I’m sorry to be such a – a bitch about all this. It’s been a bad couple of weeks.”

Dean glanced out into the corridor beyond the little compartment, silently willing Sam to appear as if by magic out of thin air. He was so much better at this emo crap than Dean. He shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. “We all get weeks like that, man,” he agreed, suddenly thinking about poisoned bullets and fire demons and heartless bitches with black eyes.

“Yeah,” Stringer agreed, voice trembling slightly. “Guess I’m just feeling my age. Lost a sweet endorsement deal last week – I been the face of AirLite Sports Shoes for five years, then along comes Calvin Townsend, the NFL’s latest young ‘rising star’ –” he made a disgusted face, “– and suddenly they don’t want to know me.”

“That’s – harsh.” Dean actually surprised himself by the level of genuine sympathy in his voice. “I guess things happen for a reason…”

“Like the coach just now telling me I’m more than not gonna need surgery on my busted knee?” Stringer finally looked back up at Dean through teary eyes. “Or my girl deciding we should maybe ‘take a break’ for a while?”

Dean blew out a breath. “Jeez, you weren’t kiddin’ were you?”

Stringer shrugged. “And now some sick freak’s trying to frame me as a devil worshipper. Just perfect. Well bring it on, man, bring it on. I got broad shoulders, right?”

Dean considered the width of Stringer’s still-shaking shoulders before slowly putting away the .45. Yeah okay. Maybe Stringer just slipped down the suspect list. “You have any idea who’d want to frame you?”

Stringer looked back up at him, a tiny flicker of hope in his dark eyes. “None,” he admitted. “You – you believe me?”

Dean sighed. “I think maybe you’re not that good of an actor,” he admitted. “Who knew you were travelling tonight?”

Stringer thought about that one. “My manager, my coach… My mom – that’s where I’m going – to visit her. She lives in Boston…”

Wayyyy down the suspect list…

“…And that’s about it. Although I’m pretty much up and down this route every couple of weeks. One of Amtrak’s frequent flyers.”

Dean nodded. “Okay,” he said, trying to go for reassuring. “Well if you think of anything, give me a holler.” He smirked lopsidedly. “And don’t leave town, big guy.”

Stringer smiled weakly at Dean’s attempt to lighten the mood. “Count on it. And could you do something with this crap?” He gestured to the pile of Satanic garbage littering the floor. “It’s freaking me the hell out…”

* * * *

Okay, so this was kinda weird, Sam decided, gingerly examining the contents of Kim Robinson’s single meager suitcase; not the lingerie or the expensive perfume or the ridiculously fashionable make-up nestled in the little vanity case. Sam supposed those things were all standard issue travelling accessories for many a successful businesswoman.

No, the weird part was the case itself. And the lack of any others. In Sam’s admittedly limited experience, didn’t women going away on a weekend trip usually take about twenty hefty suitcases with them?

As he stood with his hands on his hips surveying the young woman’s tiny room, Sam couldn’t seem to get past the sheer lack of luggage she wasn’t travelling with. She didn’t even seem to have a laptop. On a business trip. Sure, he’d seen her tapping away on a top-of-the-range Blackberry earlier, but still, no laptop on a business trip? And there was certainly nothing else in the room, not even an old-fashioned diary. If Kim Robinson was planning on getting some work done, then Sam couldn’t see how.

He poked around the room some more, already knowing he wasn’t going to be finding anything else. So if she wasn’t really travelling on business, what was the real purpose of the woman’s journey? Murder, maybe?

He laughed at himself, suddenly imagining himself as Angela Lansbury in a nice tweed two-piece. Yeah, that was one image he could have done without today.

It was all Dean’s fault, of course. He’d gotten Sam so twisted up in his own recent misogyny and paranoia that his little brother was actually buying into the whole “all women are evil, demon-worshipping skanks” thing. Of course, he couldn’t really blame Dean. Not after Mia. But that didn’t mean Kim automatically had to be the bad guy in this scenario just because she was a girl.

Still… There was something not quite right about all this…

He turned to leave with a disgruntled sigh, no bloody knife or black candles to point the finger at an easy suspect. Figured this wasn’t going to be a simple job…

Just as he began to push open the cabin door, he heard the sound of voices outside. Arguing. A man and a woman. And they were headed his way.

He quickly pulled the door toward him, keeping it open just a crack so he could see what was going on in the corridor.

“Get away from me you disgusting creep!”

Crap. That was Kim’s voice. And she was headed this way. To her room. In which Sam was currently standing. Crap.

He peered out through the crack between the door and the doorjamb, trying to assess whether he had any hope of escaping undetected.

Kim was trying to make her way along the corridor, no doubt looking to escape into the privacy of her room, but the big fat guy Sam and Dean had seen earlier in the snack car was blocking her path. Detective Wozniak, Sam remembered, shuddering as the horrible gelatinous mass of a New Jersey police officer leaned right into Kim, trapping her against the wall of the train as he forced himself into her personal space, an evil leer on his flabby lips.

“Get away from me!” Kim repeated, pushing ineffectually at the cop’s ample chest as she tried but failed to squeeze out from under him.

“I know what you’ve been up to,” the cop breathed into her ear undaunted. “I know your dirty little secret. The reason you’re on this train.”

Kim paled visibly, looking for an instant completely stricken. Or was that completely guilty? Sam shook his head. Shut up, Dean… But then again, maybe the cop knew something? Maybe Kim Robinson really was the Service 66 Slayer. Maybe Dean had been right all along…

And maybe Paris Hilton was a natural blonde.

“Get away from me!” Kim was thumping at the police officer’s chest now, kicking at his shins with her pointy stiletto shoes.

“Now now,” Wozniak crooned, breathing into her face. “Don’t get your panties in a knot. Maybe we can come to some kind of arrangement?” His eyebrows rose suggestively. “Y’know – I scratch your back, you – uh – scratch something of mine…?”

Sam winced and felt a little sick to his stomach at the way Wozniak was slobbering all over the poor girl. He had one thick hand wrapped around one of her wrists while the other had slid behind her, touching parts of her Sam was pretty damn sure the girl didn’t want the disgusting old pervert touching.

“No,” she begged feebly. “Please…don’t…”

It was only when the cop’s thick fingers started to fumble with the buttons on Kim’s blouse that Sam realized just how far the disgusting tub of grease was intending to go.

Okay, enough, Sam decided, making to burst out into the corridor and deck Wozniak where he was standing, hell with the consequences of Kim finding out he’d been snooping around in her room.

He never even made it through the door; that eager young kid from the snack car was suddenly right there in the corridor, one skinny arm locked around the cop’s thick neck in a seemingly unbreakable choke hold, despite his only being half Wozniak’s size.

“Touch her again and I’ll be on the phone to your lieutenant before you can say ‘sexual harassment suit!’” the kid growled, tightening his grip mercilessly.

Wozniak raised his hands in supplication. “Okay, okay, ya got me, kid!” he burst out. The kid – Luke, Sam remembered – released him with a growl and the cop just turned and sneered at him. “You can’t prove a thing, son,” he goaded, the tone of his voice having altered drastically now he was free, his thumbs stuck in his belt as he rocked on his heels. “I’m goddamn fireproof.”

Luke sneered right on back, pulling out his camera phone and waving it lazily in Wozniak’s face. “Got it all on the phone, Detective,” he informed him. “You try anything else and it’ll be on YouTube before you even step foot off this train.”

Wozniak’s several chins shook, his cheeks turning an uncomfortable shade of scarlet. “You think you can blackmail me, you little runt…?” he demanded, taking a step toward the attendant.

“You think you can blackmail her?” Luke shot back.

Wozniak sent a glance in Kim’s direction before turning back to Luke, lip curling into a snarl. “You may think you’ve won something here, boy,” he growled, “but I got friends you don’t wanna be pissin’ off, you feel me?”

“Hopefully not,” Luke replied. “Ever.”

Wozniak gritted his teeth before averting his eyes away from the young attendant and sloping off back down the corridor, studiously not looking back.

Luke turned to Kim, gingerly reaching out to ghost a hand over her shoulder. “Are – are you okay?” he asked awkwardly, and Sam began to suspect the young man hadn’t been completely honest with them back in the snack car. From the way he was shyly looking up at her through lowered eyelashes, it seemed as if Luke might have something of a crush on Ms. Robinson.

Kim nodded slightly, rearranging the clothing Wozniak had rumpled. “I’m – yes. I’m fine. Thank you.” She took his hand and squeezed it slightly and Luke seemed reluctant to let her go.

“Would you like me to walk you back to your room?” he asked.

No! Sam screamed silently. Dammit, you don’t want to go to your room!

“No,” Kim said, almost as if she’d heard him. “To be honest, I think I could use a drink. A double. Maybe even a triple. And – and I really don’t want to be alone right now.”

Luke nodded. “I understand,” he said. “I’ll take you back to the lounge.”

That’s it, you keep on walking. Sam gulped in a relieved breath as the couple headed back in the direction from which Kim had approached. Go on, be a gentleman, kid…

He silently pushed the door closed and waited a couple more minutes before deciding it ought to be safe for him to make good his escape.

Sticking his head out into the corridor, he glanced briefly in the direction Kim and Luke had disappeared, out of the corner of his eye certain he caught a dark shape lingering at the far end of the sleeper car. But when he looked again there was no one there, and, shrugging, he made to head off in the opposite direction, hopefully to find Dean and some actual clues as to what the hell was going on on this train.

But instead of finding Dean, he found only Detective Wozniak, slamming straight into the bulky detective as he made to leave Kim’s room.

Wozniak eyed him suspiciously, glancing beyond him into the room he had just vacated. “Better watch where you’re stumblin’, kid,” he suggested. “You been actin’ kinda suspicious this whole trip.” He moved closer to Sam, trying to intimidate him by getting on eye level with him, but failing miserably. “I got my eye on you…”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You gonna try and feel me up now, too?” he asked innocently.

Wozniak’s eyes flashed, heat creeping up into his cheeks. “You know who you’re dealin’ with, boy?” he demanded, lifting the edge of his jacket to reveal a New Jersey Police Department detective’s badge hooked onto a belt that looked as if it was holding back an avalanche of blubber. “I heard you tell that conductor kid you and your friend are NYPD,” he added, again getting up on his tiptoes to try and get in Sam’s face. “Kid, if you’re NYPD, I’m Ugly Betty…”

“Well you got the ‘ugly’ part right.” Suddenly Dean was standing right behind the guy, and Wozniak turned slightly in surprise. “And what you like to call yourself when you’re off duty is nobody’s business but your own,” the older brother added with a wolfish grin. “Betty.”

Wozniak’s lip curled up in affronted anger, but, realizing he was outnumbered, he backed off a little from Sam, retreating until he was at least an arm’s length away from both of them.

“You boys got smart mouths,” he told them. “Could get you into trouble one of these days.”

Dean nodded. “Yeah, that’s what my dad’s always telling me.”

Wozniak raised his chin slightly. “Should have a little more respect for your elders. You would think you’d have learned that over at the – er – what precinct did you boys say you were from again?”

“We didn’t,” Sam replied shortly.

“15th squad,” Dean supplied helpfully, still grinning infuriatingly.

Wozniak raised a skeptical eyebrow. “15th, huh?” he echoed. “And what’s your lieutenant’s name?”

“Fancy,” Dean replied instantly. “Lieutenant Fancy.”

Sam tried to remember where he’d heard that name before as Dean continued to smile amiably at the New Jersey cop.

Wozniak frowned. “Wasn’t that the name of the guy in NYPD Blue?” he asked.

Dean’s grin never even faltered. “Yeah. How’s that for a weirdo coincidence huh?”

Wozniak nodded, clearly not convinced. “You boys don’t wanna mess with me,” he ground out. “I’m not some hick just fell off the apple cart.” Sam frowned at the odd metaphor. The cop took a step back toward them, one finger stabbing first in the direction of Sam’s chest and then Dean’s. “This is my case, you hear me? Anyone’s gonna find this Satanist nutjob it’s gonna be me! Are we clear on that?”

Sam glanced at Dean before nodding. “Crystal,” he replied.

Wozniak puffed out his chest self-importantly. “Well all right then,” he agreed. “Just so’s we understand one another. ’Cause you boys really don’t wanna be messin’ with a man like me.”

“Yeah, we get that,” Dean observed.

“’Cause I got connections. Big connections. In Jersey and –” he glanced unaccountably down at his feet, “– down south. I got friends. I got friends who could make you guys disappear so fast the boys at the 15th would think you’d been abducted by freakin’ aliens…”

Dean nodded. “Luciano Ferinacci, right?” he hazarded. Wozniak looked somewhat taken aback, his mouth falling open slightly. “Yeah, we heard you’re tight with that asswipe.”

Wozniak raised himself up to his full, admittedly unimpressive, height. “Boy, you don’t wanna go talkin’ about Mr. Ferinacci like that! You need to learn some damn respect –”

“Betty,” Dean said, patting Wozniak on the shoulder. “Your boss is about as scary as the Olsen twins. Put together.”

Wozniak fairly growled. “There are things you don’t know about him –” he began.

“Yeah, like he’s probably buried more bodies under Hell Gate Bridge than the Butcher and the Service 66 Slayer combined, right?”

“Don’t mess with Ferinacci,” Wozniak hissed through clenched teeth. “This Slayer asshole shouldn’t be taking his name in vain –” He stopped suddenly, as if only then realizing he’d spoken out of turn.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “I guess that’s the risk you take, killing in someone else’s name,” he said slowly. “If someone was killing in – say – Lucifer’s name, it figures Lucifer might not be too thrilled about it if he’d not authorized it. Hypothetically speaking, or course.”

Wozniak just stared at them, mouth hanging open a little. “Hypothetically speaking,” he agreed, squinting a little uncertainly at Sam.

Sam nodded. “Like I said.”

Wozniak straightened, raising his chin a little as he tried to regain his composure. He pointed at each of them again, narrowing his eyes. “I’m watching you two.”

Dean smiled at him. “Oh, Betty, we’re so very scared…”

Amtrak 66
Union Station, Washington DC

Dean was pretty sure he was annoying the hell out of Sam.

He’d been fidgety and unsettled ever since their run in with Wozniak, and although he hadn’t been lying when he’d implied he wasn’t afraid of the portly police officer, being in a confined space with no real means of escape and a dirty cop on the payroll of Lucifer himself wasn’t doing anything for his sense of inner calm.

Sam heaved an annoyed grunt as he attempted to concentrate on his laptop as Dean accidentally elbowed him in the ribs for the third time in an hour.

“Dean, will you sit still?” the younger brother snapped, sounding like an annoyed soccer mom losing patience with a particularly squirmy rugrat. “Just relax for a second! Take a breath!”

“Sam, we’re stuck on a train with the ghost of a serial killing devil worshipper and a cop working for Lucifer who – oh yeah – is out to tear us apart and drag our asses down into Hell. I think I’m allowed to be a little tense.”

“Dean –”

“And why the hell are we still stuck in this station? We’ve been here hours –”

“We’ve been here forty-five minutes,” Sam corrected him. “And we’ll be here another fifty while they get the train ready for the electrified section of the track. So chill.” He attempted to refocus his attention on the research displayed on his laptop. “If you want to make yourself useful, try and keep an eye on the people getting on the train here.”

Dean’s forehead crinkled into a frown. “I thought you said the Slayer most likely got on at the beginning of the journey?”

“Well right now I’m not ruling anything out,” Sam replied, studiously not looking up from the laptop. “So concentrate. Keep an eye on the new passengers.” He smirked lopsidedly. “And if you’re a really good boy, maybe I’ll buy you some M&Ms.”

Dean grimaced at him. “Bite me, junior.”

Despite his dismissive tone, Dean did, however, turn his attention to the passengers boarding at DC, spending the next fifty minutes either staring at them or occasionally following them to their seats or sleeping compartments. He stopped doing that after he bumped into Wozniak while following a petite redhead with a Chihuahua tucked under her arm down to the sleeper cars, exchanging a nod and a casual “Betty,” with him, before heading right on back to Sam.

“Anything?” his brother asked, barely looking up from the laptop as Dean collapsed into the seat next to him.

“Nada,” Dean confirmed, shaking his head in exasperation. “You?”

“Less,” Sam returned. “I checked out Stringer’s story and he seems to be on the up and up,” he continued with a weary sigh. “Although Wozniak’s got more reprimands in his jacket than you got in your whole high school experience –”

Dean grinned. “Impressive.”

“Everything Warwick told us about Ed Fraser and Elliot Butcher would seem to be accurate. And there’s not a whole lot else to tell about that part of the story, Warwick pretty much gave us everything.” Sam sighed again. “And you know what? We’re no closer to finding out the identity of the Service 66 Slayer than we were when we boarded this train.”

Dean leaned his elbow on the table in front of him and cupped his chin in his palm. “Where’s Hercule Poirot when you need him, huh?”

Sam blinked at him in disbelief. “Hercule Poirot?” he echoed. “You know the guy’s first name too?” He grinned broadly, as if he’d just discovered Dean’s dirtiest secret. “Something tells me you might have paid more attention to Murder On The Orient Express than you originally let on.”

Dean scowled at him, affronted. “Believe it or not, Sam, I may have cracked a book once or twice that wasn’t Playboy or Maxim-related.”

Sam raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh yeah? I thought you said you saw the movie?”

Dean shrugged. “So what if I did read it?” he mumbled into his hand. “Was supposed to read it. In tenth grade.”

Sam snorted. “I knew it! Miss Grainger! I knew there had to be a woman involved. She was that English teacher you had the hots for, right? That was tenth grade!”

“Shut up, Miss Marple,” Dean returned. “I don’t see you unmasking our culprit here, you’re so smart.”

Sam shook his head. “We still got –” he glanced at his wristwatch, “– just over five hours until we get to Hell Gate Bridge…”

“That makes me feel so much better, Sammy.”

At the sound of a shrill whistle from the platform, Dean’s attention was drawn back to the last straggle of passengers who had boarded the train before it began to move slowly out of the station.

Of particular note was a young man who was obviously trying really hard for the “incognito” look, dark glasses covering his eyes, ball cap pulled low over his forehead, collar of his expensive-looking leather jacket turned up to his chin. Unfortunately, his dress and demeanor just screamed “look at me!” as he squeezed his way into the car past an harassed-looking young woman whose toddler couldn’t decide whether he needed to use the bathroom or not.

Dean watched the guy make his way down the aisle toward him, taking in his eight hundred dollar sneakers and his designer jeans with the designer rips in the knees before glancing down at the holes in his own jeans and reflecting that at least he got them doing an honest (ish) day’s (night’s) work. He doubted this guy had done an honest day’s work in his life, what with his boyish good looks, expensive-looking haircut and manicured hands.

The young man had no luggage and kept glancing around furtively, as if he expected to be pounced on at any minute. By whom, Dean had no idea. But he had to snigger at the guy.

“What kind of asshat wears shades inside, huh?” he muttered, more to himself than Sam.

“Huh?” Sam only half looked up, before turning his attention back to his computer.

The kid lowered himself into a seat a few tables away as he caught sight of a couple of teenage girls approaching from the opposite direction. Hurriedly, he pulled his cap even lower over his eyes and his blond-highlighted hair and sank his chin deeper into his collar.

But the first girl obviously wasn’t fooled, stopping dead in her tracks with her mouth hanging open.

“Jenna, what the hell…?” the girl behind her began to protest as she stumbled right into her, before noticing the look of abject shock on her friend’s face and following the direction of her enthralled gaze. “Oh. My. God…”

“Carter?” the first girl – Jenna – breathed heavily. “Carter Craig Addison!” Her voice had turned into an ecstatic squeak in the space of three words. “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod!!”

The second girl virtually shoved her friend out of the way, almost tripping over her feet in her haste to make it to the young man’s table. “Carter – oh my God! We’re your biggest fans! Seriously. In the whole world. Ever!”

The young man smiled awkwardly, pulling his hat down a little further.

“Sasha and Brittany are never going to believe this!” Jenna squealed.

“Jenna, shut up!” the second girl stage whispered.

“You shut up, Kendra!” Jenna elbowed her friend out of the way again, producing a Sharpie as if from thin air and shoving it and her train ticket in the young man’s face. “Can we get your autograph, Carter?”

“Uh, sure,” the guy said, bronzed cheeks coloring a little. “You like the show, huh?”

Jenna collapsed into fits of high pitched almost hysterical giggles. “Oh my God, like yes, like wow, like yes, like you’re sooooooo…” She trailed off, clutching her hands to her chest, and sighing deeply. “…wow!”

“Uh – thanks,” the guy said, as Kendra produced her cellphone and snapped a picture while he signed her friend’s ticket.

She then proceeded to unbutton her blouse and shamelessly lean over him so that her assets were on full display. “Can you sign these?” she asked, Dean’s eyes nearly popping out on stalks as the young man smiled a little uncomfortably and signed the girl’s lacy pink bra as if it was something he was asked to do every day.

“Thanks, Carter,” Kendra whispered in a voice that was clearly a sixteen-year-old’s idea of sultry, taking a second to straighten up and not even pretending to button up her blouse. “Any time you wanna see some more, we’re just down the hall…”

Carter laughed a little hollowly. “That’s – nice,” he managed. “Well it was nice to meet you girls. Real – nice.”

Jenna giggled, and Kendra elbowed her in the ribs. “Thanks again, Carter!”

The two girls reluctantly moved away from the young guy’s table, Jenna breathing, “Oh my God, he’s sooooooooooooo gorgeous!” as she passed where Dean was sitting, almost tripping over his feet as she did so.

“Hey,” Dean said, managing to catch her eye as she almost fell into his lap. “Who’s that guy you two were just drooling over?”

Jenna frowned at him, while Kendra looked little short of scandalized. “You’ve never heard of Carter Craig Addison?” she scoffed. “Oh my God, what planet are you from?”

The girls stalked away without even a second glance at Dean, lovelorn gazes still turning back to linger longingly in the direction of the guy in the ball cap and shades.

Dean frowned. “Who the hell is Carter Craig Addison?”

Sam had already opened up a web browser and was busy typing the name into IMDb. “He’s an actor in some teen show,” he replied. “One Creek High. It’s not exactly CSI – barely gets two million viewers.” He snorted derisively. “Hardly surprising – it’s shown on that crappy little network no one watches – you know, the one with the godawful green color scheme and the wall to wall reality shows and –”

“Uh. Superboy.” Dean shuddered. “Jeez, they should get sued for misrepresentation or somethin’ – that guy’s older than I am!”

Dean’s focus slid away from the moodily-lit headshot displayed on Sam’s laptop as Kim Robinson casually wandered past his shoulder, sitting herself down two rows over from the actor kid and pulling out her pink Blackberry.

She certainly seemed a lot calmer than Dean would have expected her to be after getting groped by Wozniak earlier, Sam’s description of the incident causing to Dean to imagine all manner of untimely deaths befalling the oily little cop.

Sam elbowed him in the ribs suddenly, before nodding in the direction of the far end of the car, where Luke, the attendant who had saved Ms. Robinson from Detective Wozniak’s unwelcome attentions earlier, stood watching her earnestly.

A tiny smile flickered on the young woman’s lips as she prodded at her Blackberry, no one else seeming to exist in the car right then as Kim continued typing something into her cell. She never once looked up, never made eye contact with anyone, but her smile widened as the actor kid’s phone suddenly started to belt out some rock song Dean wasn’t familiar with.

“You can see we should be together now…”

Sam nodded his approval, attention returning to the research on his computer. “Powderfinger,” he muttered. “Awesome.”

Dean glanced sideways at him before returning his attention to Carter, who had pulled out his cellphone and was eagerly reading something displayed there. A tiny grin flickered on his perfect lips as he began tapping something into the little phone. When he was done, he glanced up, eyes for a second seeming to skitter in Kim’s direction before returning to his cell.

Kim barely stifled a giggle as Stevie Wonder’s unmistakable voice emanated from her Blackberry. “Here I am baby – signed, sealed, delivered, I’m yours…”

Carter stood, barely concealing the grin plastered across his face, still not removing his shades or his ball cap as he made his way back down the aisle and into the restroom at the opposite end of the car.

Kim barely waited five seconds before following him.

Dean’s grin almost matched Carter’s, although he had to admit, he kinda felt bad for Luke, whose shoulders slumped as he looked down at his feet with a sigh before turning around and exiting the car.

“Solved the mystery of Career Girl,” Dean announced smugly, Sam for a second diverting his attention away from his laptop to look at his brother.

“Oh yeah?”

Dean nodded. “She’s banging Pretty Boy in the restrooms, dude.”

Sam’s focus shot to the empty seat where Carter had just been sitting, taking in Kim’s now vacant position before lighting on the “engaged” sign above the toilet at the end of the car. “No. Way.”

Dean’s grin widened. “Yes way. Maybe we ought to go – y’know – warn them about Amtrak safety code violations…”

Sam rolled his eyes. “You are such a pervert.”

“Takes one to know one, man. I’m not the one with the addiction to the Skin Channel.”

Sam grimaced. “Shut up.” He sighed. “We ought to talk to them though.”

Dean nodded. “See? And you call me a pervert…”

“Let’s just give ’em a – a couple of minutes…”

Dean glanced at his watch. “Think we should time them?”

“Dean!”

“All right, Doris, keep your pantyhose on!” He sniggered. “Which is more than she’s doing…”

They waited patiently for a few minutes until the “engaged” light winked out above the restroom and Kim emerged, her hair a little mussed up and her lipstick slightly smeared.

She seemed a little surprised to see them both standing right outside the door, but smiled up at them, if a little nervously, cheeks flushed and her blouse askew. “Excuse me,” she mumbled, head down as neither of them moved aside to let her pass.

Carter emerged right behind Kim, at first startled, then annoyed, then finally chagrined as the boys pulled out their fake NYPD badges.

Kim moaned despondently. “Not again…”

“You’re not in any trouble,” Sam assured the couple hurriedly. “But we do need to speak with you –” he cast he gaze around the fairly busy train car. “Maybe we could go somewhere a little more private?”

Kim’s nod was reluctant. “Sure, I guess. My room’s this way.”

Dean had to bite his lip to avoid blurting out, “Yeah, we know,” instead going for the equally unsubtle, “You got a room but you go for a quickie in the bathroom?”

Sam flashed him a “Shut up!” glare over his shoulder and Dean merely shrugged, stepping into line behind his brother and following him through a few sleeper cars until they reached Kim’s room.

The young woman ushered them inside, glancing about herself warily. Probably keeping an eye out for Wozniak, Dean figured.

“So if we’re not in trouble…?” Carter finally removed his shades and ball cap as he turned, and Dean couldn’t help wondering whether he’d kept them on the whole time he’d been in the bathroom with Kim. Rearranging his insanely expensive haircut, the actor blinked incredibly blue eyes at them expectantly.

Sam smiled reassuringly. “We’re just speaking to everyone riding the train tonight, Mr. Addison,” he said.

The kid barely smothered a smug grin. “You know who I am?”

Sam glanced briefly at Dean. “Yes sir.”

Addison nodded. “Then this has to do with the Service 66 Slayer?” he sounded hopeful. “Not with –” he exchanged a glance with Kim, “– us?”

“No sir,” Sam confirmed, again going for reassuring.

“Unless either one of you is the Slayer,” Dean added, expression so mock-serious they both paled visibly. He grinned awkwardly. “I’m kidding,” he assured them, before his face sobered considerably. “You’re not, are you?”

“No!” Carter and Kim both burst out at the same time, shaking their heads vigorously.

“Then…” Sam began slowly. “This is a pre-arranged – uh – meeting?”

Kim sighed. “We have to be careful. You know, of the press?”

Sam nodded. “So how do you two know each other?”

“We met at a network party in LA,” Carter explained. “Kim works for one of the network affiliates in New York –”

“Advertizing,” Kim put in. “I have a client in Richmond who insists on a ‘face to face’ every couple of weeks. If Carter’s not filming, I arrange my meeting for a Friday, catch the Service 66 back home, and he flies out from LA where his show’s filmed to meet up with me in DC.”

“We meet on the train and we…” Carter trailed off.

“Liaise?” Dean offered, carefully schooling his features.

Carter nodded. “Yeah. Exactly.”

“So why all the secrecy?” Sam asked.

Carter shrugged. “I’m kind of an international face, y’know? The network makes a fortune in overseas sales and merchandizing, and our main focus is the fourteen to eighteen-year-old female demographic – and I kinda have this clean-cut image to live up to…”

“Sucks to be you,” Dean muttered.

“Plus,” Carter continued as if he hadn’t heard him, “I make a lot of money out of sponsorship and endorsements, and if the truth were to come out, I could lose a whole slew of advertizing contracts.”

“The truth that you’re dating an advertizing executive?” Sam queried.

Carter shook his head. “The truth that I’m dating a married advertizing executive.”

“Oh,” Sam muttered.

“Awkward,” Dean agreed.

“I’ve been separated from my husband for over a year,” Kim explained. “We’re in the middle of a big messy divorce. Y’know, Barry’s quite a bit older than me, and he’s kind of a studio bigshot back in LA. If he found out…” She glanced at Carter, threading her fingers through his and squeezing his hand. “Well, he could hurt Carter’s career. He’s a little on the vindictive side.”

“Not to mention Kim would get ripped to shreds in the tabloids – y’know, gold-digging child bride or whatever,” Carter added.

“Mr. Addison, Ms. Robinson,” Sam said seriously. “Let me assure you we’re here to investigate the Slayer, not to indulge tabloid gossip.”

“Then you’ll be discreet?” Carter asked hesitantly.

“Oh, totally,” Dean agreed, smiling broadly. “Discreet’s our middle name.”

Kim seemed to take her first breath in several minutes. “That’s a relief,” she said, glancing over Dean’s shoulder out into the corridor. “One of your colleagues earlier…He didn’t seem so sympathetic –”

“Detective Wozniak?” Dean hazarded. “Guy’s a sleazeball. Don’t you worry, ma’am, we’ll take care of him.”

Sam raised a questioning eyebrow. “We will?” he whispered under his breath.

“Sure we will,” Dean insisted. He flashed a big smile in Carter’s direction, reaching behind Sam to pull his laptop out of the messenger bag his brother had slung over his shoulder.

“Hey –” Sam started to protest.

“Mr. Addison, I just bought my niece this new laptop,” Dean continued to smile brightly at Carter, holding Sam’s laptop out toward him. “And she just loves your show. Think I could get your autograph on this baby? She’d just be so thrilled…”

Sam positively glared at him, jaw clenched.

Carter seemed a little taken aback, but smiled indulgently. “Uh – sure,” he said, fishing in his jeans pocket and pulling out the Sharpie one of the groupies had handed him earlier. “What’s your niece’s name?”

Dean’s grin widened. “Sammy…”

Amtrak 66
Baltimore Penn Station

A whole lot more passengers boarded the train at Baltimore than either Dean or Sam had been expecting, the two of them wandering up and down the aisles of each car, trying to scope out the new faces and run a quick threat assessment on each.

So far, no one was really giving off that “possessed serial killer” vibe, and Dean met back up with Sam near the door to the lounge car, shoulders slumped in frustration.

“Dude, this is ridiculous,” he hissed. “Unless we catch the guy hip-deep in blood or actually trying to toss someone off the bridge, there’s no way we’re gonna be able to make him before he ganks his next victim.”

“He’s got to be somewhere on this train, Dean,” Sam assured him. “The Butcher always got on the train at the beginning of the route to give him time to scope out his next victim. The Slayer doesn’t show any signs of having broken that pattern.”

“So we’re checking out the people getting on here for – what – kicks?”

Sam seemed about to answer when his attention shifted to the open doorway. Dean followed his line of sight to where an attractive guy in his late twenties, maybe early thirties was boarding the train.

He obviously took pride in his appearance, dark hair cut neatly around his ears, smooth olive skin recently shaved, seriously rocking the “smart casual” vibe in jeans and a leather jacket that even Dean couldn’t help but admire. He was around Dean’s height, body lean and muscular, although Dean was pretty sure he could take him in a fair fight.

As he moved on into the train, Dean noticed a bulge in the line of his jacket right where a shoulder holster would fit, and he figured the fight might not be quite so fair if the guy was packing concealed heat.

“What about Secret Agent guy over there?” Dean nodded toward the man before glancing back at Sam who shrugged.

“Yeah, maybe,” the younger brother commented. “Although, like I said, Dean, I really think the Slayer’s been onboard this train at least as long as we have.”

Dean shrugged. “Beats sitting watching you typing on your laptop for another four hours, dude.”

Dean soon came to regret that pronouncement after five minutes spent following the guy around and another thirty sat watching him lounging in his seat listening to his iPod. So maybe the guy wasn’t a secret agent; didn’t mean he wasn’t the Slayer. But Dean had to admit that Sam – as usual – was probably right when he said the psycho serial killer had most likely been on the train at least since Richmond.

Dean sighed heavily, figuring maybe he’d watch the guy for another five minutes. However, he was so bored out of his mind that after less than sixty seconds he gave up and headed off to find Sam again.

Even watching Sam researching was more interesting than watching Secret Agent iPod Guy nodding his head in time to music Dean couldn’t even hear.

Of course, he was wrong about that too.

When he finally found Sam again he was leaning against the bar of the snack car, enthusiastically indulging Warwick, who was regaling him with copious anecdotes about the “good old days” when Service 66 went by the far more glamorous name of “The Night Owl.” Of course, even the good old days had the odd bump in the tracks – like the crash near Chester, Pennsylvania back in January 1988, and another at Boston Back Bay station in December 1990. Then the route became known as “The Twilight Shoreliner,” which even Dean had to admit had a certain something, although that name didn’t last long, the route again changing its moniker to “The Federal” in 2003.

“Rebranding,” Warwick commented with a huff and a shrug of his shoulders. “Now we’re plain old Service 66…difficult to capture the imagination with a name like that.”

“It obviously captured the Slayer’s imagination,” Sam commented.

“That kind of imagination we could do without,” Warwick sighed.

As riveting as the conversation was, Dean’s attention soon began to drift. Glancing up, he caught sight of Wozniak skulking in the shadows between cars, but the slimy detective quickly dodged out of Dean’s line of sight the second they made eye contact.

Dean heaved a heavy sigh. This was turning into one hell of a long night, especially when the most exciting thing he could think of to occupy his time was trailing a middle-aged cop who looked like the last time he’d exercised was on the monkey bars in kindergarten. Not exactly a challenge to a seasoned hunter like Dean Winchester.

Still. Anything was better than another half hour of Trainspotting With Sammy…

Amtrak 66
Leaving 30th Street Station, Philadelphia, PA

God, I must be bored to be trailing this old duffer around the train, Dean figured, actually having considered returning to his mind-numbing stakeout of Secret Agent iPod Guy at one point during the thirty minutes Wozniak just spent in the bathroom.

But then, Dean also figured, if Wozniak really was one of Lucifer’s minions, it stood to reason he might have a little insider info on this Slayer creep, what with him murdering in the Devil’s name and everything. Okay, so Sam had been wrong about the crooked cop having anything useful on Career Girl and Pretty Boy, but that didn’t mean he might not have the goods on someone who actually mattered to their investigation.

Of course, a whole mess of people just got on at Philly – even if it was the middle of the night – and even though Sam was sure none of them was likely to be the Slayer, their presence did make it a hell of a lot harder for Dean to keep track of his quarry; it was almost as if Wozniak was trying to give him the slip.

“Hey.”

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin as a large heavy hand landed with a thump on his shoulder, spinning around as his fingers automatically reached for the .45 at the small of his back.

“Jeez, Sammy!” he burst out, his heart just about pounding out of his chest. “Sneak up on a guy why don’tcha?”

Sam grinned broadly at him. “You’re getting rusty in your old age, big brother,” he said.

“It’s not rust and it’s not old age, junior,” Dean scowled. “It’s boredom. Mind-numbing, brain-melting boredom. Please tell me you got something more exciting for me to do than following this creep of a cop around the train?”

Sam frowned. “What creep of a cop?”

“Wozniak,” Dean returned, glancing back in the direction he’d just seen the flabby detective headed, only to be confronted by a woman with three unruly toddlers, an Asian guy with a suitcase almost as big as he was, and an inexplicable nun blocking the aisle in front of him. “Aw, man!” he burst out, realizing the cop was nowhere to be seen. “Now look what you did!”

“What?” Sam burst out defensively. “I didn’t do anything!”

Dean slapped him on the arm anyway. “Well stop screwing around doing nothin’ and help me find Wozniak!”

“What for? I don’t think he’s our Slayer, Dean.”

“Maybe not,” Dean agreed, “but the guy’s up to something. I don’t know what. I just –”

“Feel a tremor in the Force?” Sam offered. “Spidey-Senses tingling?”

“Shut up, Chewie,” Dean snapped. “The guy knows something. Or he’s involved somehow.”

Sam shrugged. “Then why’d you lose sight of him?”

Dean clenched his jaw. “You know you were born a smartass, right? Second you popped out, Dad said, ‘He’s gonna be a real smartass. Let’s call him Smartass,’ but for some reason Mom wanted to call you Sammy. Go figure.”

Sam actually grinned at that. “Boy, you’re really grumpy when you don’t get your beauty sleep.”

Dean shook his head and began to stride away from his brother. “Help me find Wozniak, Smartass,” he growled, trying to ignore the guttering overhead lights as he made his way down the aisle, which had miraculously cleared of nuns, rugrats and giant suitcases.

“Looks like maybe there’s a problem with the power,” Sam muttered from behind him. “The lights have been all over the place since DC.”

“What’s so special about DC?”

“The train switches to the electrified section of the track. I told you that.”

“That makes a difference?”

“Shouldn’t do, no.”

“Man,” Dean blew out a breath. “I hate that. Makes me think a demon’s about to jump out on our asses.”

They were headed down through the sleeper cars toward the rear of the train, the number of passengers beginning to thin out until the corridors were mercifully empty. But as they neared the luggage car, which was one of the last compartments on the train, there was still no sign of Wozniak.

The lights began to flicker wildly, Dean swearing as they were suddenly plunged into complete darkness and his foot hit something big and immobile on the floor in front of him.

“What in freakin’ hell –”

Sam ran into the back of him just as the lights came back up, both boys suddenly finding themselves gazing down at the motionless body of Detective Sherman Wozniak, sightless eyes staring up out of a slightly surprised-looking face, his throat cut from ear to ear, blood oozing down the front of his hideous sports coat and pooling in a crimson puddle on the floor of the luggage car.

“Aw, maaaaan! Betty!” Dean moaned. “I take my eyes off the big slug for ten freakin’ seconds and the Slayer comes out and salts his ass!”

Sam turned his head sideways slightly, bending to examine the wound a little more closely. “I dunno, Dean,” he said. “Maybe this wasn’t the Slayer; it doesn’t look so satanic to me.”

Dean frowned. “Just another everyday human whackjob?”

“Maybe,” Sam agreed. “So far the Slayer’s stuck to the Butcher’s original pattern – and he only killed in New York once he was over Hell Gate Bridge, right?” He scratched his head thoughtfully, eyes not straying from the dead cop at their feet. “Why change his M.O. now?”

“Like I said, man, maybe there’s nothing supernatural about this gig at all,” Dean offered. “Maybe it’s just your garden variety whacko copycat who gets his jollies reading true crime magazines and don’t give a rat’s ass about pattern…”

“Or maybe the Slayer was forced to break pattern,” Sam theorized. “Maybe Wozniak found out something he shouldn’t have and the Slayer needed to shut him up…”

“And maybe you two need to hold it right there.”

Dean tensed at the unmistakable sensation of a gun barrel jamming into the back of his neck. Hard. “Dude, I know what this looks like –” Twice in one night…

“Oh, I don’t think you do,” a flinty voice barked, cold steel pressing harder into Dean’s flesh. “Because you know what? This looks to me like being caught red-handed. This looks to me like it’s time to make that appointment with the needle. This looks to me like Dean and Sam Winchester – you’re under arrest…”

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The Winchester Chronicles