Title: Open, Shut
Summary: A street prophet foresees a deadly disaster and goes to the only people who would believe him:the Winchesters and Bobby Singer. It 's an open and shut case except the only solution is-how do you empty a town of four thousand people? Post-Family Remains.
First off, thanks to all who read, alerted, favorite-d, and especially all who reviewed my last fic, Crossing. Here's a new offering for me, on the drama/action/adventure side this time, called Open Shut. For those who have read my work before, I previewed Open, Shut in Steps Behind, but after working on it so long it is finally done and posted here :) There's a prologue and 7 parts, and each part should be posted weekly (unless I get excited and post days and sometimes even hours apart, which I have been known to do haha). I hope you enjoy, and let me know what you think. Thank you for your time, and thanks and luv to Mish, who did the beta for me. All flaws left are entirely mine :)
Anyway, c&c's are always welcome, and without further ado, Open Shut:
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The very, very first time Paul Reade came under the radar of local law enforcement was when he was arrested a couple of years back for a misdemeanor relating to disrupting the peace, drunken disorderly, indecent exposure and solicitation. He had won the lottery a few days prior, life was fucking grand, and why shouldn't he have a good time? When the cops picked him up, all he was wearing was a loopy smile and a vomit-wrecked pair of Italian shoes.
"That was all he was wearing?" The rookie, a kid named Jennings, asked his partner, Garcia, a fifteen-year veteran officer in the sleepy town, as the two cops dragged a stinking, inebriated, semi-conscious Paul Reade between them.
"You betcha," Garcia grunted, "The only person who could have trumped that pair of shoes was his Big City lawyer, who got him out on a shit-fine and coupla hours of community service."
"I read that's where he met his wife," Jennings said, as the two men settled the drunk on a cot in one of the town's few, seldom-used prison cells.
"Second wife," Garcia corrected, wiping his hands on his trousers after locking up the rusted, dusty cell. There weren't very many criminals in the town, and the prison was ill-kept.
"He met wife number two while pretending to pick up trash at the park," he added, "Wife number one had gone and divorced him and got fifty percent of the winnings, see. Wife number two he lost a few months after marrying her, when she tried to kill him unsuccessfully to get to his money. That sprightly broad went to jail. And then the son-of-a-bitch went up and won the fucking lottery again, like it was so easy."
"You sure?" Jennings asked, skeptically, as he looked from the bleary drunk to Garcia, "I mean, a guy doesn't win the lottery twice and end up on the damn streets talking about the end of the world. He's lost his marbles, man. And where'd all the damn money go?"
Garcia just shrugged, "Makes you start to wonder, though, about that Curse thing."
Jennings snorted, "That lottery curse? You really are an old man, Garcia. Maybe he just spent it all." He turned to the man in question, "Didn't 'ya, Reade? You spent all your money?"
"Yeah, 'cos your mother wouldn't put out 'til I paid her," Reade slurred.
"You take that back, you sonofa--"
"Relax, kid," Garcia said, placing a hand on the younger man's shoulder, "You can't see a man down-on-his-luck at the end of his string, here? Pick your fights, he ain't worth it."
"Damn straight," Jennings said, glaring at Reade.
"Hey," Reade said, "Don't I get a phone call or something?"
"Too bad you got nobody to call," Jennings snapped, still irritated.
"You really need it, Paul?" Garcia asked Reade, "'Cos you settle down some and we're letting you out anyways. 'Sides, you sure you wanna do this now? You're still kinda out-of-it."
"I think I need to be just a little bit out-of-it to make this call," Reade said with a low chuckle at an incomprehensible, personal joke.
Garcia sighed, and unlocked the cell again. "Fine. Jennings, help him out."
Jennings rolled back his eyes but did as he was told. He assisted the swaying man to a phone booth, leaning him against the wall, where he sagged as he dialed.
"Bobby Singer?" Reade said to the person on the other line, "This here's Paul Reade, remember me, the lottery guy? A bunch of yer dumb-ass hunting buddies tried to take my head off a few years ago 'til you talked some sense into 'em... yeah, hard to forget, I know, that's me... didja get my thank-you gift? ... I told you there's lotsa things a man can do with quarter-of-a-million dollars..."
Jennings tapped on his watch, telling Reade wordlessly to hurry it along.
"Listen, I think I got a job right up yer alley," Reade said, "I think the world's gonna end, but no one believes me."
Jennings rolled back his eyes thinking, Damned waste of time. The person on the other line must have been just as skeptical, because Reade was making quick defenses.
"I'm not saying it 'cos I'm drunk," Reade snapped, "I'm drunk 'cos I'm sayin' it, see, 'cos it's really gonna happen. Please. No one believes me. I thought maybe you... you could look into it, at least. Please, Singer. Look into it at least."
S U P E R N A T U R A L