that’s what he would see in their eyes: The moment when they accepted there was nothing more to do. He knew Dean didn’t want his pity and Sam was determined to never show his brother that emotion. Sam would fight Dean’s fate until the last second… and even that wasn’t quite right. That implied giving up at some point in time and he wouldn’t do that. Not while he lived.
Silently, they entered the maternity center. Forming a central island, a horseshoe-shaped reception desk was currently unoccupied. Marble walls to the left and right of the desk were mirror images of each other; both had glass-enclosed directories above sixty-gallon aquariums, each of which contained about a dozen exotic fish drifting aimlessly in languid silence. Branching off from both walls were identical banks of elevators, with a third set directly behind reception leading to the circular tower’s birthing facilities. Along the far wall, someone had parked two wheelchairs on either side of the aquarium. Indistinct background music, set at an almost subliminally low volume and piped in through hidden speakers, provided a calming white noise.
Chloe had given them the address to the maternity center along with the office number of her OB/GYN, Dr. Vanessa Hartwell. Dean confirmed the office number via the directory—designated as “North”—mounted on the near wall.
“321,” Dean said, referring to Hartwell’s office number. “Like a countdown to delivery.”
“Human childbirth traditionally takes much longer,” Castiel said as they waited for the elevator.
“Wishful thinking,” Dean said.
The elevator door opened and a distracted middle-aged woman in a jade-green smock emerged, almost running into them before stopping, startled. In lieu of a name badge, the letters LMC were stitched across the breast pocket in the same cursive style as those featured on the building’s exterior. “Oh my! Can I help you, gentlemen?”
She glanced quickly to either side of them, as if looking for the expectant mother who warranted a three-man guard detail. Finding none, she seemed perplexed.
“FBI,” Dean said, flashing the ID. “Here to see a patient of Dr. Hartwell.”
“This is a bit unusual,” the receptionist said. “Is she expecting you?”
“The patient or the doctor?”
“Well, either.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then,” she said, still flustered. “But, um, you may need to wait until the end of the appointment. You know the way?”
“North 321,” Sam said, nodding, as he caught the closing elevator door to hold it open. “Thank you.”
“Okay, then,” she repeated, forcing a smile as she nodded and nervously swiped her palms against the base of her smock. Backing away, she smiled again as she returned to the horseshoe reception desk and placed her hand on the telephone receiver. Sam guessed Dr. Hartwell would know they were on their way up.
After they boarded the elevator and Sam pressed the button for the third floor, Dean switched topics. “Not seeing a connection between our victims. Recent west coast transplant husband and a townie teen vandal.”
“They’re both male,” Castiel offered, stating the obvious.
“Narrows down the pool of potential victims to fifty percent of the population.”
“Place of employment,” Castiel suggested.
Sam shook his head. “Holcomb hadn’t started his new job.”
“He frequented the home improvement center.”
“Right,” Dean said, catching on. “Maybe Aidan worked there.”
“Based upon their relationship,” Castiel said, “Chloe would know.”
“Probably a long shot,” Sam said.
“Hunters don’t get many layups,” Dean said as the elevator stopped with a chime a moment before the doors opened. Sam wondered if Dean was referring to his own predicament, but decided he was reading too much into his brother’s words. He had to stop walking on eggshells around Dean.
They exited the elevator, where a sign at eye level directed them to the left down a wide
Silently, they entered the maternity center. Forming a central island, a horseshoe-shaped reception desk was currently unoccupied. Marble walls to the left and right of the desk were mirror images of each other; both had glass-enclosed directories above sixty-gallon aquariums, each of which contained about a dozen exotic fish drifting aimlessly in languid silence. Branching off from both walls were identical banks of elevators, with a third set directly behind reception leading to the circular tower’s birthing facilities. Along the far wall, someone had parked two wheelchairs on either side of the aquarium. Indistinct background music, set at an almost subliminally low volume and piped in through hidden speakers, provided a calming white noise.
Chloe had given them the address to the maternity center along with the office number of her OB/GYN, Dr. Vanessa Hartwell. Dean confirmed the office number via the directory—designated as “North”—mounted on the near wall.
“321,” Dean said, referring to Hartwell’s office number. “Like a countdown to delivery.”
“Human childbirth traditionally takes much longer,” Castiel said as they waited for the elevator.
“Wishful thinking,” Dean said.
The elevator door opened and a distracted middle-aged woman in a jade-green smock emerged, almost running into them before stopping, startled. In lieu of a name badge, the letters LMC were stitched across the breast pocket in the same cursive style as those featured on the building’s exterior. “Oh my! Can I help you, gentlemen?”
She glanced quickly to either side of them, as if looking for the expectant mother who warranted a three-man guard detail. Finding none, she seemed perplexed.
“FBI,” Dean said, flashing the ID. “Here to see a patient of Dr. Hartwell.”
“This is a bit unusual,” the receptionist said. “Is she expecting you?”
“The patient or the doctor?”
“Well, either.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, then,” she said, still flustered. “But, um, you may need to wait until the end of the appointment. You know the way?”
“North 321,” Sam said, nodding, as he caught the closing elevator door to hold it open. “Thank you.”
“Okay, then,” she repeated, forcing a smile as she nodded and nervously swiped her palms against the base of her smock. Backing away, she smiled again as she returned to the horseshoe reception desk and placed her hand on the telephone receiver. Sam guessed Dr. Hartwell would know they were on their way up.
After they boarded the elevator and Sam pressed the button for the third floor, Dean switched topics. “Not seeing a connection between our victims. Recent west coast transplant husband and a townie teen vandal.”
“They’re both male,” Castiel offered, stating the obvious.
“Narrows down the pool of potential victims to fifty percent of the population.”
“Place of employment,” Castiel suggested.
Sam shook his head. “Holcomb hadn’t started his new job.”
“He frequented the home improvement center.”
“Right,” Dean said, catching on. “Maybe Aidan worked there.”
“Based upon their relationship,” Castiel said, “Chloe would know.”
“Probably a long shot,” Sam said.
“Hunters don’t get many layups,” Dean said as the elevator stopped with a chime a moment before the doors opened. Sam wondered if Dean was referring to his own predicament, but decided he was reading too much into his brother’s words. He had to stop walking on eggshells around Dean.
They exited the elevator, where a sign at eye level directed them to the left down a wide
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