Supernatural: War of the Sons by Rebecca Dessertine, David Reed Read Free Book Online Page B

Dean said with a smile as they shook hands. “You won’t regret it.”
    “I’m sure I won’t. Go see Mable in uniforms. She’ll set you up. I have paperwork for you to fill out, but we can do that later. I expect you’ll make about twenty dollars in tips—”
    Dean nodded. “Not bad.”
    “—a week,” Ernest finished.
    He shuffled them out the door.
    “Go up these stairs and all the way to the end of the hall. And Sam. Might I suggest you get a haircut? This isn’t Amsterdam.”
    For Dean, it was the perfect end to a perfect interview.
    “Sorry Sammy, guess you’re too European to work this town. Maybe try again in the 1970s.”
    Sam shrugged. “I’m going to the public library to see what I can find. Besides, I think you’re better cut out for this part of the plan. You know, the mindless labor.”
    Dean nodded proudly and disappeared into a door marked “Uniforms.”
    Sam’s immediate concern was to find someone in the city who could translate the scrolls. Without Bobby as a resource, and with all of their lore books sitting in the Impala’s trunk back in 2010, it would be nearly impossible for Sam to do the translating himself. Not that I’m entirely sure what language they’ll be written in . Thinking things through, he realized that they were going to need some heavy-duty artillery—it was unlikely the scrolls’ owner would hand them over without a fight. Anyway, Sam felt naked without a firearm.
    While Sam was contemplating that dilemma, Dean appeared in the doorway wearing a burgundy wool bellhop jacket with golden rope tassels hanging from the sides and gleaming brass buttons down the front. A petit fez perched on his head, with a braided, golden chinstrap pinching his scowling face.
    Sam smirked.
    Dean stepped past him.
    “ Don’t say anything.”
    That afternoon, Dean found himself lugging a seemingly endless stream of leather suitcases up to various different guests’ rooms. He quickly bonded with Rick, the African-American elevator operator, and they were soon discussing baseball as Dean rode between floors.
    After a particularly heavy set of bags, Dean was not-so-attentively leaning against the lobby’s centerpiece—a large, statuesque clock trimmed in gold leaf—when a girl who looked to be in her mid-twenties approached the front desk. She was wearing a royal blue suit with a pencil skirt, and a pillbox hat that matched her canary-yellow shoes. A cabbie brought a suitcase in and dropped it at her feet. She tipped him elegantly and he bowed his head before heading back outside.
    “Ms. Julia Wilder checking in, please,” she said to the receptionist. Her brunette hair was pulled back, and Dean noticed with surprise a long scar on the side of her neck.
    The young woman turned her head toward Dean, looking him up and down. Her glare was so intense that Dean felt as though she’d just given him the third degree without even speaking a word. She turned her head back to the front desk and demurely pulled her hair over the scar. Dean kept staring, transfixed by her lithe but strong legs and her serious demeanor. She’s hot , he thought. Maybe I won’t have to track down Marilyn after all.
    Dean sidled up to her, completely forgetting he was supposed to be working.
    “Hi,” he said giving her the full-on hundred-watt Dean Winchester smile.
    The girl ignored him. Had she known more about Dean, she wouldn’t have bothered.
    “You here for business or pleasure?” he asked. “Or just to see the big clock?”
    She looked at him. “May I help you?”
    “No. But I could help you,” Dean whispered. “Maybe I could buy you a drink?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “You here with your husband?” Dean probed.
    “I’m not here to socialize. I’m here for an auction.”
    “Dead Sea Scrolls?” Dean asked without thinking.
    She squinted at him.
    “No,” she said.
    “Excuse me, boy,” interjected the desk clerk. “Are you going to get the lady’s bags?” He eyed Dean with