FIVE

Barney Doyle’s back was killing him. Most boys his age were learning to drive, dating girls, and having fun, but that wasn’t a possibility for Barney. His mother had been taken ill, forcing the fifteen year-old to find a job and take responsibility for her care.

There weren’t any grown men left in the Doyle’s Breezy Point, Queens house—just Barney and his mother. His father had passed away three years before, so when his uncle James had said that there was an opening for another security guard at the Waldorf Astoria, Barney’s mother believed it was a sign from Heaven. She was Catholic, of course, and she took her brother’s news as an answer to her prayers.

Although he normally hated his job, Barney had been looking forward to today. He and his uncle had taken one of the hotel’s trucks and were on their way over to Red Hook to pick up a box that had been shipped over from Israel, or someplace equally exotic.

Barney hadn’t paid much attention while he was still in school, so he wasn’t quite sure where Israel even was. He knew that it was a new country, and was somehow controversial, especially with his mother. Barney wished he had been better about his studies, not that it mattered now. He was stuck in this job and as far as he could see you didn’t need much learning to be a security guard.

When James and Barney arrived at the Red Hook Docks, a worker signaled for them to park at dock thirty-six. The truck bumped its way over the pier. They waited. The diesel engine was spewing exhaust almost directly into the cab, but Barney didn’t mind. This was a nice change from the boredom of the hotel.

A large burly guy in a white T-shirt banged his fist on the front of the truck.

“You guys from the Waldorf?”

James pulled his heft out of the truck to answer the guy face-to-face.

“Sure are.”

“Sign here,” the burly guy said as he shoved a clipboard at James. He signed without reading the form.

Handing it back, he asked, “Where is it?”

The burly guy motioned behind him.

“Carton five. Says it’s extremely fragile.” he replied, then walked away.

Barney leapt out of the truck to help his uncle with the carton. It was about four feet by two feet wide, made of fresh pine. The pungent tar smell tickled Barney’s nose as he bent down to inspect the roughly hewn container.

“Stop dicking around and help me get it into the truck,” James growled as he attempted to get his short arms around the base. Barney complied, hastily grabbing hold of his end. “Lift up your side more,” his uncle said.

“I am lifting,” Barney replied, watching as his uncle struggled to negotiate the carton over his stomach. His side was already much higher than James’s on account of his height, plus he wasn’t nearly as tubby.

Holding the container awkwardly between them, they managed to crab walk around to the back of the truck and the closed back doors.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Why didn’t you open the doors beforehand?” James demanded, breathing heavily.

“’Cause you didn’t tell me to,” Barney said, staring at his uncle.

“Well, put your side down first and open the door.”

Barney squatted, holding his side of the carton. As he got it to knee height, his uncle’s grip faltered. The shift in weight distribution caused Barney to lose his hold, and the corner of the wooden crate hit the ground with a heavy thud.

Barney looked up in shock as his uncle swore at the top of his lungs. As he made the sign of the cross over his chest, James simultaneously cursed Barney to Hell.

Barney blushed a deep scarlet. “It’s fine, Uncle James. Let’s check it. I’m sure it’s fine.”

They pried a corner of the carton up, and Barney saw that the contents were packed densely with hay. James pushed Barney out of the way and with one hand pulled the rest of the top off. Stuffing his pudgy hand into the hay, he revealed a clay pot. It was tall, burnt orange in color, with a good bit of dirt on it. James wiped away more of the hay, and revealed three more jars.

As James inspected the first jar, its cover slid off the top and onto the ground, landing with a heavy crack. A strange, putrid smell emanated from the urn, which reminded Barney of the stench when the pilot light on their gas oven went out.

When his uncle opened his mouth, Barney readied himself, sure that his uncle was going to berate him, despite the accident being his fault. However, before James could start yelling, the oddest thing happened—he choked. It was as if he was vomiting in reverse, with oily bursts of black smoke flying into his mouth and down his throat.

Barney gaped as his uncle reached out toward him, and then everything went dark.

Sam and Dean sat on a hard fake leather couch outside the Waldorf’s general manager’s office. The rickety side table next to Dean was piled with magazines. He slid one off the top and showed it to Sam.

“Yum. Eva Marie Saint.” Dean leered at the picture of the young starlet with her blonde hair swept back, very nicely filling out a blue sweater. “From TV stardom to the movie Waterfront,” Dean said, reading off the cover.

“She’s an old woman.” Sam said, rolling his eyes at his brother’s incredible capacity for horniness.

“Not now she isn’t.” Dean almost jumped in excitement. “Marilyn, I want to meet Marilyn, do you think she stays here?”

“We didn’t travel over five decades back in time so you could sleep with a couple of starlets,” Sam replied.

Dean furrowed his brow. “It wasn’t my idea to travel here, period. Besides, these women are icons, Sam. Completely different. If we have any free time after we nick the War Scroll, I’m going to find Marilyn.”

“Okay, Dean.” Sam shook his head.

“Sam and Dean Winchester?”

Dean flinched at the sound of his own name before quickly remembering that Sam had given it to the receptionist when they applied. Apparently, being this far removed from their own time meant that caution could be thrown out the window.

The man who had spoken wore a three-piece suit and was holding open a door that lead into an interior office.

“I’m Ernest Harold, General Support Manager at the Waldorf. Please come in.” The man graciously swept his hand toward his office.

Sam and Dean settled into a couple of leather chairs on one side of the man’s very messy desk.

“Terribly sorry about the clutter,” Mr. Harold said, shuffling some papers around. “I have 200 employees to oversee and I can’t seem to manage all the paperwork. As you know, this is a prestigious establishment, with a rich history of providing impeccable accommodations to the most discerning travelers, statesmen and royalty throughout the world.”

“And Marilyn Monroe,” Dean offered.

Mr. Harold frowned. “The privacy of our clients is of the utmost importance in this position. You will work closely with people that you see on the silver screen every day. We do not allow any... fraternizing with the hotel’s guests.”

“Of course not.” Sam leaned forward. “We completely understand. My brother is a fan, but he’s a very reserved fan. Aren’t you, Dean?”

Dean smiled tightly. “Yes. Haven’t fraternized in months, myself.”

“Of course. So, tell me a little about yourselves,” Mr. Harold said, leaning back in his chair. “Whatever you would like to share.”

This struck Dean as sort of funny—What could they possibly share with this over-stuffy dope? He decided to be straightforward.

“Sir. Mr. Harold—Ernest. My brother and I are new in town. And, frankly, we don’t have any money. But we are hard-working, strong, and charming. We can do anything you need us to.”

The dude seemed to be impressed.

“You remind me of someone,” he said, peering at Dean. “Have you been to the pictures and seen On the Waterfront yet?”

Dean leaned back, smiling. “Classic Brando.”

“Classic? He’s a very new actor. At least, I believe he is.” Ernest looked confused.

Dean stuttered hastily. “I meant to say a new, classic-looking actor.”

“Ahh, you’re right. I do love a good picture.” Ernest swept his hair out of his eyes, then turned his attention to Sam. “And you.”

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do, sir,” Sam said.

“Well, you both are fine fellows.” Ernest got up and moved around his desk. “But I have only one position available. Congratulations, Mr. Winchester.” He stuck his hand out toward Dean.

“Thank you, sir,” 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 venom.

“Of course.” Dean bent down, but before he could grab the suitcase, Stevie, a smelly kid from New Jersey who wore his bellhop pants a little too tight in Dean’s opinion, swiped the bag and placed it on a cart. He wheeled away, Ms. Wilder striding behind him.

Dean stood by the reception desk shell-shocked, though still alert enough to salute when Ms. Wilder turned to take one last look at him before entering the elevator. It was rare for a woman to truly grab his attention as she had. Of course, he’d faked interest plenty of times; it used to be a hobby of his while he and Sam were in between cases. Dean would bet himself just how many minutes it would take him to convince the bartender, waitress, or lonely female patron into his bed. Dean’s belt notches were many. But this girl... this girl seemed special.

Not far away, Sam sat in the main branch of the New York Public Library. Rows of shelves lined every inch of the room; thousands upon thousands of books, and not an Internet connection in sight. Sam didn’t mind doing the research, but Google had become his crutch, and he felt handicapped without it.

First he pulled a series of books on archeological digs, but found very little information. After trawling through the card catalog, he decided to look at the archived New York newspapers. The scrolls, Sam remembered, had been first discovered in 1947, so there must be at least one article somewhere that could lead them to a contact. After fruitlessly pouring over several months’ worth of broadsheets, Sam was flipping through a June 1^thWall Street Journal when he spotted a small ad in the classified section:

Four Dead Sea Scrolls, Biblical Manuscripts. Would make an ideal gift to an educational or religious institution.

The ad gave a local number and an address, which Sam jotted down on a scrap of paper and slipped in his pocket. That was as solid a lead as he was going to find on the scrolls themselves—now they just needed a translator. He wished that Don had briefed them a little more thoroughly before the unceremonious time-jacking. Sam regretted going behind Dean’s back to talk to the angel, but at the time, there seemed to be no other choice. The secret fear that Sam had been carrying around since they got to 1954 was that they would never find their way back. What if they were unable to procure the War Scroll—would Don just leave them to rot?

Without occult books to refer to, Sam was limited to commonly available biblical texts. I don’t even know Don’s real name, Sam realized. All I know is his job description: guardian of Hell’s gates.

Luckily, that was all he needed.

Flipping through an especially old book, Sam found a list of angel names and one in particular stuck out: Abaddon, Guardian of the Gates. Don, Abaddon—has to be the same guy, Sam thought. Further down the page, the book traced Abaddon’s motley history. Scholars couldn’t seem to decide on the angel’s true nature, some believed that he was among the most powerful of the Heavenly Host, others claimed he was fallen and in league with Satan. In fact, in some places, Abaddon was used as an alternate name for Hell, and even the Devil himself. Great, Sam thought.

For the moment, Sam decided that he wouldn’t share those particular juicy details with Dean. I’m in enough hot water with him as it is, he figured. But, to be safe, he discreetly tore the relevant page out of the book and slid it into his pocket, alongside the scrap of paper with the information from the advert. If it turned out that Don had less than angelic intentions, Sam wanted to be ready.

Dean tugged at the chinstrap on his hat. He needed a break. Mercifully, the lobby was quiet and the dickhead front desk guys were engrossed in their work. He made his way downstairs and threaded his way through the halls under the building, finally reaching a set of steel doors. Throwing caution to the wind, he swung them open.

A hotel security guard stood on the other side with his back to Dean, and a box truck idled outside the loading dock. The man was tubby and middle-aged. He turned around slowly, looking as if he’d been caught committing a crime.

Dean politely nodded a greeting. “Guess I’m lost,” he said. “Where’s the little boys’ room?”

Instead of answering out loud, the man simply pointed back the way Dean had come.

“Great,” Dean said. He was about to call off his reconnaissance mission, when he saw what the security guard had been hovering over—it was a simple wooden crate, damaged on one end, covered in strange characters. Probably worth getting a better look at, Dean decided. “Actually... I think I can hold it,” he said. “I’m gonna get some fresh air.”

Under the guard’s watchful eye, Dean maneuvered his way past the crate and to the edge of the loading dock, but he wasn’t able to get a better look at the contents. Damn security goon and his thighs, Dean thought. He jumped off the loading dock and walked down the alleyway, rounding the corner onto Park Avenue, then stopped.

Hebrew? Could the lettering have been Hebrew? By pure chance, he may have just come impossibly close to the scrolls, and he couldn’t pass up such an opportunity—even if that meant beating the ass of a civilian. He turned around and started back to the loading dock.

James peered inside the truck. Barney’s crumpled body was pushed to one side on the floor, his neck twisted at an unnatural angle. The sight of his nephew’s corpse prompted no reaction in James. If anything did, it was the smell. Meat, James thought. Still fresh.

James turned and grabbed a black rubber hose attached to a waterspout. He turned on the water and sprayed down the inside of the truck. The water ran pink as it flowed out and over the bumper. He turned off the hose and pulled Barney’s body onto the dock. Then he picked the body up easily with one hand, opened the top of the crate and pushed it inside.

Clunking the crate closed, James wheeled the carton into the back of the Waldorf Astoria.

It’s still safe, he thought with pride. She’ll be pleased with me.

Holding onto his stupid bellhop hat, Dean hurried back down the alleyway. He slid back around the corner just as James disappeared into the hotel. With finesse, he jumped onto the dock and banged through the steel doors.

The security guard and the carton were gone.

After a couple more unproductive hours at the library, Sam decided to stop off at the new apartment; he wanted to call Dean. As he fiddled with the key in the lock, he noticed out of the corner of his eye one of their neighbors walking toward him down the hallway. He half-nodded a greeting as the young woman brushed past him in the narrow corridor, briefly glancing up to admire her petite dark-haired figure as she moved away from him, before carrying on fiddling with the stubborn lock.

Finally there was a click as the key connected with the mechanism and Sam managed to get the door open. By this point his mind had wandered far from the mission at hand to fantasies about living a normal life—one that held room for girls and movie dates and romantic dinners. It all came crashing back as he took in the sight before him. The apartment had been completely ransacked.

Sam wondered how, after being in 1954 for less than twenty-four hours, he and Dean had already made an enemy.