"Plain Sight", Supernatural, PG, gen.

[gorgeousnerd]

Title: Plain Sight
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: PG, very mild.
Length: One-shot, about 3400 words.
Characters/Pairings: Sam, Dean, Ellen, some original characters.
Spoilers: Some seasons one and two spoilers, general plot spoilers for season three.

Summary: Ellen enlists Sam and Dean's help on a job and fails to mention where the job takes place.

Notes: This was written for lgbtfest 2008 with the following prompt: 766. Supernatural: any characters. How does the Hunter community view LGBT individuals? Is there a sub-community of queer Hunters? Thanks to rahnekat for her help with the fic, and thanks to such_heights for pointing out the fest in the first place!

The minute Sam and Dean stepped into the entryway, Sam knew that the bar they were about to go into was for hunters.

It wasn't just the gun holster the bouncer had on his hip, although that was a tip-off. Most of the bouncers he'd seen in bars weren't dressed in red plaid and jeans. And if that wasn't enough, the bouncer immediately closed the door behind them as they walked inside and didn't open the door into the rest of the bar.

Dean met Sam's eyes at that point, raised an eyebrow. Sam looked at the door that would lead into the bar, then back at Dean, and visibly let his shoulders relax. He saw Dean sag a little as well.

The bouncer held out two shot glasses full of clear liquid.

“I'm the designated driver,” Dean said, giving the bouncer his very best smirk.

The bouncer gave him a flat look. “Just water, smart guy.”

Sam took his glass and downed the liquid without pause. For a moment he remembered the one time water had scorched his throat, and not for the first time, he sent a silent thanks to Bobby for being on his toes that night.

As he handed the shot glass back to the bouncer, he saw Dean drink the holy water out of the corner of his eye. That's when he caught a glance of what was on the ceiling: a devil's trap. The handwriting was different than he was used to, but then, Bobby hadn't drawn this one.

“Have a good evening,” the bouncer said as he took Dean's shot glass back. He opened the door, and Sam felt the man's eyes on him as they walked into the bar.

If he hadn't figured out the bar's clientele before, what he saw inside would have told him exactly what he'd discovered before. A sign over the bar said “Cash only” -- a cluster of faulty credit cards had sunk more than one hunter bar, from what he'd heard –- and a man at a table to Sam's left was cleaning a bunch of guns. There were other, less obvious hints, too: a couple people on laptops, rosaries dangling on taps, that sort of thing.

Dean nudged him. “She's over there.”

Sam looked in the direction his brother indicated. There were booths to the back of the room, between the dance floor and the bar and behind a group of tables and chairs. Two of the booths were in darkness, shadowed due by the lack of overhead lighting from the dance space, one had a missing table and no seats and was sectioned off by yellow tape, and the one closest to the bar had a woman sitting in it.

The two crossed the room. Sam nearly tripped over a blonde waitress, and he didn't have to see Dean to know that he was checking her out. He apologized, then moved between the tables and the bar, and stopped in front of the booth with the woman.

She smiled up at them. “How you boys doing?”

In spite of himself, Sam felt a slight smile spread on his face. “Good to see you, Ellen.”

“Have a seat,” Ellen said, gesturing toward the bench.

Sam sat first and slid toward the middle.

“What's the job?” Dean asked as he lowered himself onto the corner, legs dangling to the side. Sam knew that it made it quicker to get out of a booth if necessary.

Before Ellen could answer, a man appeared to their side, holding a tray. He was wearing jeans and red flannel as well; maybe it was a uniform for this place.

“What're you folks having tonight?”

Ellen turned as if Dean hadn't said a word to her. “Jack.”

The waiter turned to Sam.

“Sierra Nevada, please.”

“Bud,” Dean said before the man could even blink, looking out toward the dance floor.

“Bud Light okay?”

Dean scowled, but nodded.

As soon as the man turned and walked back behind the bar, Dean leaned across the table toward Ellen. “What's going on?”

“I'm about to get to the job,” she hissed, eyes darting around the room. “I just don't want anyone hearing us.”

“Not about the job.” Dean pointed to the dance floor. “I thought this was a bar for hunters.”

“It is.”

Sam's head was buzzing like he'd had a few too many. “Dean...”

He trailed off as he looked at the dance floor. It was hard to see because of the lack of lighting, but that wasn't too unusual; the clubs he'd gone to occasionally with Jess had been pretty dark. But he hadn't thought about the fact that this wasn't a club. This was a hunters' bar, and lighting was key for seeing potential threats.

He stared harder into the gloom. The figures inside were pressed close, some were kissing, and nothing stood out. But Dean spotted something, and so he was going to spot it, too.

It was when he was about to give up that he noticed it. All the couples on the dance floor were the same gender.

Immediately, he leaned over toward his brother. “Dean?”

“Yeah?”

Sam hit his arm with the back of his hand. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“Wrong with me?” Dean had never looked so dumbstruck. “Why the hell'd you hit me?”

“The way you were talking...I thought there was a problem.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “She didn't tell us everything.”

“So what? Why should it matter?”

“Because...” Dean sucked in a breath. “I don't like surprises.”

Sam felt a little sick. “Right.”

Ellen flashed a quick smile at Sam, then leaned toward Dean. “Does this make a difference?”

“A difference?”

“I mean, are you still going to help?” Her face was as grim as a cemetery.

Dean looked as baffled as Sam had felt just moments earlier. “Why wouldn't I?”

“Good.” She leaned back. “I wasn't sure I should call you in the first place, way things are.”

“We were in the area,” Sam said. For once, it was better to assume that she was talking about Dean's deal. “Why'd you call?”

Before Ellen could answer, the waiter reappeared, carrying drinks on his tray. Despite himself, Sam found himself searching the man for...the word clues didn't seem right, but that's what he looked for even though he hated himself for doing it. Nothing seemed different. This guy could have been waiting tables in the Roadhouse before it burned down for all Sam knew.

The man set a normal glass in front of Ellen, a bottle in front of Dean, and a pilsner glass in front of Sam. Sam took his drink immediately and took a good gulp; he needed to calm his nerves.

“Thanks, Eric,” she said, holding up her glass.

The man nodded back. “No problem, Ellen. You need anything, just flag me down.”

“Will do.”

“You come here a lot?” Dean asked the minute the man was out of earshot, and Sam was slightly mollified to hear only curiosity in his voice.

Ellen nodded. “I've been in the area a couple of weeks.”

That was good to know. She hadn't bothered them over a flash of something that anyone else in the bar could have handled. Of course, that wasn't exactly soothing, but soothing was hard to come by in this line of work.

His line of thought brought up another question. “And this isn't something you could have gotten someone else to do?”

Ellen looked around the bar, then shook her head. “They've been trying, but it never works.”

“Never works?” Dean put down his bottle, and somehow, it seemed to cut through the rock music playing in the background. Or maybe that was just Sam being paranoid. “How long has...whatever been going on?”

“Two or three days. No one's too sure. I haven't been here for it.” Ellen tapped her fingers on her glass as she swallowed the last of her whiskey. “Bar closes at three, and most people are gone before that happens.”

Sam pulled out his cell phone and checked the time. It was half past one. “If it doesn't happen until after closing...”

“Sorry. Wasn't clear.” She took her hand off the glass and started tapping the table. “No one can get in or out after three.”

“Can't get out...can't physically get out?”

“Yeah. Doors are blocked, windows are stuck, the works. Nothing opens for an hour, and then...”

Sam frowned. “Then?”

“Someone's dead.”

Dean scratched at an eyebrow. “Any patterns?”

“Besides the trapped thing, no. One guy was under a sink in the bathroom, bleeding...another was suffocated in the room behind the bar. There might have been another, but no one wanted to talk about it.”

“Why did they talk to you in the first place?” Dean asked. “You been around enough to know people?”

Ellen shrugged. “I talk to the owner. He'd been to the Roadhouse a couple times.”

“And why are you here?”

Sam nudged Dean. Reno wasn't exactly within driving range of Ellen's usual turf, but that question was edging out of vital information and going into none of your damn business territory fast.

Ellen probably saw the move, but she answered anyway. “I want to open a new bar. Thought I'd ask some contacts for tips and get away for a while.”

“You queer?”

There was a pause. Sam bit his lip and sent a silent prayer that Ellen wouldn't stab Dean right here and now; the way she narrowed her eyes seemed to indicate a desire to murder.

But to Sam's immense surprise, Ellen laughed. “You are so much like your father sometimes it hurts.”

Dean chuckled under his breath. “Guess so.”

“To answer your question...” Her smile grew. “I guess I am queer.”

Dean gave her one of his more brilliant grins. “Great. Now, what's the plan?”

--

The plan was easy to follow: play pool and watch the crowd until closing. Ellen sweetened the deal by adding that the owner was providing all their drinks on the house. Even Dean knew not to drink too much while on the job, but that didn't stop the beers from coming.

As they kept an eye on the room, Ellen expanded on her earlier comments. No one wanted to talk about Dean's impending deadline much, and that's all Sam and Dean had been up to, so Sam for one was glad to hear her story. Even Dean seemed interested; now that he had a face to put to “them”, he'd relaxed quite a bit.

“I figured it right after...after Bill died. Jo was so small, and I was alone. Would have been hard for anyone, I figure. It was a few months after that Betty appeared.”

“Betty?” Dean asked as he lined up for a shot.

“She hunted, of course, mostly ghosts. Her daddy'd been killed by one about a decade before. She took to Jo right away, helped me around the bar.”

Dean snapped his cue forward, but the ball missed the stripe he'd been aiming for. Sam spotted how Ellen's eyes got tight, and he looked at the ground. “When'd she...?”

As Dean stepped away from his shot, she eased in. “Die? About two years after Bill. Ghost got lucky, as they do.”

Dean looked at Sam. “Sorry.”

“Her neck snapped, so it was quick. Could have been worse.”

Worse had happened to Jess, Dad, was happening to Dean. Hell, even Sam had died (it was still a little hard to admit to himself), and even though he'd been brought back, it was still a lot better than what his loved ones seemed to get. And even though she'd said it could have been worse, he suspected that Betty's death hurt Ellen a lot worse than she was letting on.

“There's something I can't figure, Ellen,” he said. Dwelling on the subject wasn't going to do anything but hurt, so it was time to change the subject. “Why a gay hunters' bar? There's so many gay bars...”

Ellen looked up at him from the table. “It's not obvious?”

“Not to me.”

“Fair enough. You're...well, you're an outsider.” Her cue glided, and she sunk her solid without any effort. She continued talking as she repositioned. “It's not like you tried to take a date into a hunters' bar...or a gun into a gay bar, for that matter.”

“I saw what happens.”

Sam looked at Dean. “You did?”

“Dad and I...we were on a hunt a few years back. We went into a bar in Arkansas so Dad could meet a hunter about the job. Woman came in, hanging on another one –- they spoke like Northerners, so they weren't local –- and it took about two seconds for the bartender to throw 'em out. He was screaming about trash, about their kind...”

“But you were in the South,” Sam said. “They aren't exactly progressive.”

Ellen shook her head. “Every hunters' bar is like that, no matter where it is. Women are already seen as not man enough if they hunt, and a man that hunts and likes other men...he's seen like a woman.”

Sam bounced the bottom of his pool cue on the floor. “So that's why you didn't tell us on the phone.”

“You know the bouncer?” She gestured toward the door. “He isn't just there to watch for demons. If a face isn't familiar, he asks them questions, feels them out.”

“But he didn't ask us questions,” Dean said, picking up his bottle from the side of the table.

“Because we were two guys,” Sam said. He bit his lip to keep from smiling.

“Oh. Oh.” Dean rolled his eyes. “Not again.”

--

Nothing suspicious happened before three, and as Ellen had mentioned, most of the crowd had come and gone before then. Not that there had been much of a crowd to speak of; if it had peaked at two dozen, Sam would have been surprised. By the end, they'd tired of pool and drinking and had occupied a table for a half-hour or so, and the music had turned off a little while before.

Only the bartenders, the two servers, and two or three drinkers besides Sam, Dean, and Ellen were around when the clocks stopped.

Sam's phone was on the table. It was more subtle than Dean's EMF detector and nearly as effective at picking up interference. His main screen had the time in large numbers because it made it a lot easier to check from a distance, so he'd been keeping a close eye on it.

His phone had said seven after three for at least five minutes before he turned to his brother.

“Dean,” he said. “What time do you have?”

“Uh...” He pulled out his phone, squinted at the display. “3:07.”

“Ellen?”

She pulled her coat back far enough to expose her watch. She pressed a button, and the digital buttons glowed green. “Yeah, 3:07.”

Sam unfolded his legs and stood, and Dean followed his lead. Sam walked over to a table where a man was typing on a laptop, and he could hear Dean's footsteps going in the opposite direction.

“Excuse me, what time is it?”

The man looked at the laptop. “Seven after.”

Sam looked around the room. “Does anyone in here have an analog watch?”

“Analog?” the blonde waitress asked, her hand pushing a wet cloth over a table.

“Non-digital.”

She pulled a pocket watch out of her jean pocket. It was small, but the silver caught the light and reflected it in a circle on the ceiling. “Yeah.”

“What time do you have?”

She clicked open the watch. The front seemed to have an engraving on it, but he couldn't really tell with the light. “3:14.”

Sam looked back at Dean, who was standing by the door. “Anything?”

Dean shook his head. “Jammed.”

Sam turned back to the waitress. “Where'd you get that?”

“The watch?” She closed it. “It was my aunt's.”

“What happened to her?”

The waitress jammed the watch back into her pocket with a frown. “None of your business.”

“Please.”

She sighed. “She was a hunter. Demon got her.”

“Can I see it?”

“No.”

Sam looked over his shoulder at the table. Ellen was already pushing up from her seat and walking toward them.

“Honey,” she said as she got closer. “What's your name?”

The waitress looked Ellen up and down. Maybe it was because they looked around the same age, but the waitress didn't seem very happy. “Vicky. Vicky Norton.”

Ellen's eyes grew wide. “Was your aunt Nicole?”

“Yeah.” The tension left Vicky's face. “You knew her?”

“Met her a couple of times. Hell of a hunter.”

Vicky looked at Sam, then Ellen. “You with her?”

“Yeah,” Sam said quietly. “We're trying to stop the murders. Your watch might be connected.”

She nodded for a minute, then pulled the watch out of her pocket. “If it'll help.”

--

The doors were open by quarter to four.

No one wanted to wait to see if a ghost was going to appear or make a big deal about the watch. Dean doused it with the holy water he kept in his flask, then Ellen took the watch to the furnace in the back room. It melted completely in about a half-hour – since it was March, the furnace wasn't as hot as it could have been and needed to warm up – and no one had problems leaving after that.

Vicky had left the minute the doors were open. She didn't talk to anyone when she walked out.

Now that things were resolved, Ellen was going home, so she made her good-byes to the bartender, and the three went outside. It was still pretty chilly even though it was officially spring, but Sam didn't shiver in the slightest. He also took a deep breath; there was nothing like early morning air after being trapped indoors by an unseen force.

“I've gotta say, I thought there'd be more of a fight.” Dean said as they approached the Impala.

Sam laughed. “Thought there'd be more of a fight, or wanted more of a fight?”

“I'm not picky.”

Ellen sighed. “That girl was in a lot of pain. I'm glad it was simple.”

“Maybe it was easy,” Dean said, leaning against the side of his car. “But it's never simple.”

Ellen walked over and stuck out her hand. “Right.”

Dean rolled his eyes, then pulled her into a hug. “Have a safe trip back.”

“Thanks.” Ellen pulled back.

“Bye,” Sam said, stepping forward.

“Don't be strangers,” Ellen told them as she hugged Sam. “Especially you, Dean. I want to see you at least one more time before.”

“Count on it,” Dean said. “Call me if you hear anything.”

“Will do.”

Sam turned to Dean as Ellen walked toward a truck at the other end of the lot. “Now what?”

Dean grinned. “Now there's a poker table with my name on it.”