Nevermore (11 page)

Both bartenders were helping people, so he squeezed between a couple who were making out on the bar stools on one side and two frat-boy-looking types on the other. He stared at the dark Nevermore

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wood of the bar, which looked like half the universe had scratched something into it over the years.

The girl got the two frat boys a couple of froofy drinks that made Dean instantly dismiss the two from his worldview. Then she came over to him. In fact, the “girl” looked to be in her late thirties, but she was quite hot. Her brown hair was tied back into a ponytail, letting her nicely round face show off on its own. She had very small eyes—Dean

couldn’t make out their color in the dim light of the bar—and very full lips that he gave an eight out of ten on his personal kissability scale—maybe 8.5.

Like the other

bartender—who was a tall, lanky

guy in his fifties—she wore a black T-shirt with a drawing of the outside of the bar in red. Unlike the other bartender—who wore it as a muscle shirt and really, really, really shouldn’t have—she wore hers nice and tight, and had the curves to make it work
real
well.

“ ’Nother beer?” She spoke with a fairly thick accent, which he figured to be local. All he knew from New York accents was how they talked on
NYPD Blue,
and she sounded sort of like that.

“Yeah, another Brooklyn.” One of the points in the Park in Rear’s favor was that they had Brooklyn lager on tap. Dean had last had it during a job in Pitts-burgh, and he found that he’d missed it—besides, it was fitting to finally drink it in its hometown.

But the urge to switch to tequila was strong.

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She grabbed a fresh glass and started pouring the beer into it expertly—holding the glass at the right

angle—without even looking. “I ain’t seen y’round here before.”

Never one to pass up an opening, he said, “My first time. The name’s Dean.”

“Jennifer.” With her accent, the last syllable was more “fuh” than “fer.” “And I’m impressed.

We don’t get too many newbies, y’know?”

“We’re friends of Manfred’s, actually—from out of town.”

“Got it.” She finished pouring the beer with one hand, grabbed a napkin with the other, placed it on the old wooden bar, and gently set the glass down on the napkin. “Like I said, not too many new guys.”

“Mostly just regulars, huh?”

Jennifer nodded. “Nice t’see a new face.” Dean took a sip of his beer and said, “Well, it’s even nicer to see yours.”

“That’s fi ve bucks for the beer.” Nodding, Dean said, “Right,” and handed her a ten. She went over to the cash register, giving him the opportunity to note that her jeans were even tighter than the shirt, and while she was perhaps wider in the hips than he generally preferred, on her it worked. She rang him up and gave him fi ve ones.

He left four of them on the bar. “Thanks.” She tilted her head. “Thank
you
. ’Specially since you only tipped Harry a buck.”

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“You’re more fun to look at than Harry.” Jennifer made a noise like a pipe bursting.

“Damn well hope so.”

Scottso fi nally finished “Freebird,” and then Manfred said, “We’re gonna take a short break.”

“Thank God,” Dean muttered as Van Morrison’s “Brown-Eyed Girl” started playing on the bar’s PA system.

One of Jennifer’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t like the band?”

“Uhm—well, the guitarist is good.”

“Yeah, Aldo knows his stuff.”

He was actually telling the truth there—the

guitarist was the one bright spot. Called upon to re-create riffs by the likes of Eric Clapton, Jimmy Paige, Gregg Allman, and Ritchie Blackmore, he managed it brilliantly. His solos had been the only enjoyable part of an otherwise dismal musical experience.
It’s too bad he’s stuck with these
other losers.

Frowning at him, Jennifer said, “Thought you said you were a frienda Manfred’s.”
Dammit.
“Well, yeah, but—let’s just say he used to sing better.”

The bursting pipe again. “Manfred’s been singin’

at this bar for long as I been here, and he never could sing worth a damn. And that’s ten years.” Dean laughed, relieved. “I guess. I was trying to be nice.”

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“ ’Sides, you couldn’ta heard him ten years ago, you were what, twelve?”

Defensively, Dean said, “Seventeen, actually.” Putting on his most sincere tone, he added, “Which can’t be older than you were at the time, so what the hell were you doin’ hangin’ out in bars?”

“Very cute, Dean, but I got food in my freezer older than you. Now I ’preciate the tips and the compliments, but you wanna hit on someone, there’s about a dozen girls come in here that might actually getcha somewhere.”

“Nah.” Dean took another sip of his beer. “Anybody comin’ in here’s gonna probably like the music, and that’s just something I

can’t deal with.

You, at least, I know aren’t here by choice.” This time she laughed.

“Well, it’s about damn time. I was startin’ to think your smile muscles didn’t work.”

“Show me a bartender that smiles, I’ll show you a crappy bartender.” And then she smirked. “Or a bartender who’s being hit on by a cute kid.” Dean held up his glass as if to toast. “Thank you.”

“And honestly, I don’t even hear the music anymore. I been doin’ this too long.”

“In that case, Jennifer, I envy you.” Again he held up the glass, this time actually sipping more of the beer.

She shook her head. “You ain’t like mosta Nevermore

107

Manfred’s friends, I’ll give you that. For one thing, you ain’t got enough hair.”

Thinking of Ash, Dean had to smile. “Yeah, I can see that.”

“ ’Scuse me, I gotta help somebody. You need anythin’, just ask, okay?”

Dean hadn’t even noticed the person who’d walked up to the bar. Jennifer went to take his order, which was apparently for an entire table.

“Yeah, no problem.” He’d fl irted with bartenders in the past, and he knew that you could only do it a little at a time or they couldn’t do their jobs. Bartenders lived off their tips, so he knew better than to do the long-form version of his methodology.

Instead, he’d go for the gradual effect. When he finished this beer, he’d go back, ask for another, and find out what music she
did
like.

True, she was older than his usual, but she was also pretty and smart, and didn’t seem at all interested in anything beyond taking his compliments—

and tip money. Dean decided to take that as a challenge.
Food in her freezer, my ass.

Besides, he needed something to distract him from the music.

His plan in motion, Dean worked his way back to the table in the back where he and Sam had been sitting. The Park in Rear had a lot of nooks and crannies. When you walked in the front door, the bar was against the wall on your right. Right 108 SUPERNATURAL

in front of you were a bunch of small bar tables and chairs, and then to the left was a raised section with tall tables and bar stools at them. All the way at the back was the stage, with a small dance fl oor in front of it.

There were support pillars all around, on which people had scratched even more than they had on the bar, and they made it easy to hide in corners.

However, the bar’s PA system was such that one could not escape from the music on the stage—

even if you had done as he and Sam had, and chosen the table in the corner of the raised section, the farthest spot from the stage that was still in the bar proper.

Sam was nursing a light

beer—
freakin’

lightweight
—and studying the scratches in the table.

“You know,” he said as Dean approached, “somebody actually scratched the words ‘Kilroy was here’?

I didn’t think anybody did that in real life.”

“I think I’m startin’ to figure out who the spirit is,” Dean said as he sat in the stool opposite his brother.

“Really?” Sam sat up straight.

“It’s the ghost of the DJ they named themselves after. He’s haunting Manfred in a desperate attempt to get them to stop desecrating his good name.”

Sam chuckled. “C’mon, Dean, they’re not
that
bad. I mean, they’re not that good, but they’re a Nevermore

109

cover band in a dive in Westchester County. Whadja expect?”

“Dude, did you
hear
what they did to ‘Cocaine’?” Showing his total lack of appreciation of the finer things in life, Sam said, “What ever. I assume you took so long ’cause you were hitting on the bartender.” He grinned. “He didn’t strike me as your type.”

“Funny boy,” Dean said tightly as he sipped his beer. “Nah, I got the girl this time. Her name’s Jennifer, and she has good taste in music. Or at least doesn’t like this music.” He looked over at the stage, where several women

were practically throwing

themselves at all five band members for no good reason that Dean could see, and added, “Which is more than I can say for most of the female popula-tion of this bar.”

Minutes later Manfred walked over, with a very short girl hanging all over him. She was wearing a sweatshirt that said iona college. “Hey there, fellas, you havin’ a good time?”

“We’re having a blast,” Sam said quickly. “This is a great place.”

“Yeah, I love this joint.”

The girl nudged Manfred in the ribs. “Freddie, intro
duce
me.”

“Oh, sorry, baby. Sam, Dean, this here’s Gina.”

“Ja
nine,
” she said with a roll of her eyes. “
God
.

You
always
get that wrong.” 110 SUPERNATURAL

Dean Winchester had spent most of his life pretending to be other people in order to hunt more effectively, and also had spent a lot of that time cul-tivating a pretty damn good poker face, and even with all that, it took all of his considerable will-power not to scream.

Sam, thank God, saved him by speaking before he said something that would force them to look for a hotel. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Thanks! Isn’t the band just
awe
some?” In a tight voice, Dean said, “That wasn’t the fi rst word that came to mind, but it’ll do, yeah.”

“Hey, listen, fellas,” Manfred said, “we got one more set, then we head over to this place in Yonkers for a few drinks and a smoke or two—

th’owner lets us light up, ’long as we stay in the back, and it just ain’t right smokin’ a cigarette standin’ outside.”

Dean was very grateful he was only talking about cigarettes. He didn’t think he could take these guys high.

“Anyways, you’re welcome t’join us.”

“You should
come,
” Janine said, “it’ll be
fun
.”

“You’ll be there?” Dean asked.

Janine let out a long sigh and rolled her eyes again. “Probably
not
. My stupid
mother
.”

“Don’t make funna your mother, baby, she’s the best cousin I got.”

Dean’s eyes went wide. “Cousin?” He let out a Never

111

more

relieved breath, since the idea that this young woman—who couldn’t have been older than Sam—

was hugging Manfred for sexual reasons fi lled him with a slightly queasy feeling. But he could live with simple familial affection.

“Yup. My uncle Freddie’s the
best
.” She extricated herself from Manfred and said, “I gotta go pee. It was
so
great meeting you guys.” With that, she fl ounced off to the restrooms in the back.

Manfred smiled his almost-toothy grin. “She’s a pistol, that kid. Hate when she calls me ‘Uncle Freddie,’ though—makes me feel old.”

He patted Dean on the shoulder, forcing Dean to resist the urge to punch him.
Remember the record
collection.

“I’m glad you fellas are havin’ fun.” Then Manfred looked up and saw someone. “Hey, Aldo, come over here!”

Dean winced for a second, then realized that it was the guitarist Manfred had yelled for. Aldo—

who had hair as long as Manfred’s, but styled a little more carefully, and also still all dark brown—

came over with a big smile under a rather large nose. “Hey, what’s up?”

“Aldo, these are the friends’a Ash’s I was tellin’

y’about. Sam and Dean Winchester. These guys’re a coupla pistols.”

Grinning, Aldo said, “Thought Winchesters was rifl es.”

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Dean gave that a sympathy chuckle. “Thanks.

And congrats, you’re the one thousandth person to make that joke.”

“Haw haw haw!” Dean almost recoiled from the powerful sound of Aldo’s guffaw. Next to him, Sam actually jumped in his chair. “That’s a good one.”

“Uh, thanks. Hey, listen,” Dean said, grateful for the ability to say this to the one member of the band for whom it wouldn’t be a lie, “you sounded fantastic tonight. You really nailed those licks.”

“Well, thank you very kindly, Sam.”

“Uh, I’m Dean, he’s Sam.”

“Right, s’what I said, Dean. So you guys know Ash, huh?”

“Yeah, he—”

“That is one

crazy-ass sumbitch,” Aldo said,

shaking his head. “Wouldn’t know to look at him he went to no MIT, now wouldja?”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, we thought that was a little weird, too. Can’t imagine he fit in all that well there.”

“Hell, I can’t see him fi ttin’ in nowhere, Dean.”

“I’m Sam.”

“Right, s’what I said, Sam. Anyhow, look, I’d love to chat, but I got somethin’ to take care of, know what I mean?” He actually waggled his eyebrows.

“Long as you stay away from Janine,” Manfred said sternly.

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“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Aldo said, putting his hand in front of Manfred’s face and then walking to the bar, where he started talking with an older woman.

“Listen, I gotta go drain the lizard, m’self. You fellas need anythin’ at all, lemme know.” Before Dean could even consider a response, Manfred went off to the bathroom.

“So,” Sam said after a second, “what ever’s going on here, it’s staying hidden real well. I’m not picking up any EMF in the bar, and I’ve checked the walls and pillars and stuff. Nothing’s jumping out at me as being any kind of symbol or sigil.” Chuckling, Dean said, “You sure ‘Kilroy was here’ wasn’t a summoning?”