The Passenger: Chapter three
Phoenix1966
Dean
There was a tall kid sitting in the back of a grungy, rust-eaten Chevy truck. He seemed focused on the far hillside, though Dean guessed by the kid's expression he wasn't really seeing what was in front of him. His bony elbows were planted squarely on knobby knees, his legs were thin and about a mile long. Dean squinted-they were almost pretty for a boy's. But those wide shoulders were anything but pretty-thin too, yeah, but there was muscle there; they looked big even curled inwards and hunched forward like he was trying to shrink inside himself. Dark-brown bangs hung rough and shaggy around his narrow face. His posture radiated tension, but somehow, also, sadness. Or maybe...hopelessness?
Anyfuck, something about the poor bastard set off Dean's damn inconvenient sense of "need-to-help", that and his equally developed sense of sheer damn nosiness got him wanting to take a closer look.
Dean drew up short-like some weird alchemy, the boy in the truck went from sad kid to something borderline dangerous before changing again, tense muscle suddenly going from knotted rope to silk. He twisted, hiking farther up the truck bed and going back on his elbows, knees going wide enough to see right up the leg of the raggedy cut-offs he was wearing. That blank look went crooked before settling into a smirk. "Lookin' for me?" he said, his voice low and gravely, but not fooling Dean for a second. He was too young to be spreading himself like that, but the look in his eyes...made Dean feel like he was the kid, instead of that deadly boy in the truck.
Dean shook his head. Why was he spazzing over this kid? Not like he hadn't come across working boys before in places like these-despite how these backwoods, homegrown hunters acted like touching any dick 'sides their own was a worse crime than eating long pig. Usually though, working boys were girly-pretty, and mostly underage. On second look, this one was damn pretty and yeah, young, but not young enough to pass for a girl anymore, not with that jawline, not with those shoulders.
Those eyes….
That damned curiosity of his made Dean step even closer. While he'd never taken advantage of any working boys-never had been into guys like that-almost everyone had tried it out with a buddy at least once, during desperate times, like. Like when the only choice was between your hand or some other guy's and you were sick to fuckin' death of your own. So, not into guys, but then what was it about this one that had him creepin' up closer?
"Master explain how this goes?" the kid asked, his voice gone to a breathy growl now-for some reason, it made Dean feel odd, like he needed a deeper breath himself.
And then, the kid's words caught up to him and Dean turned his full focus on him. Master?
Dean was right up on the tailgate now, close enough to touch, ready to reach out but jerked back in surprise-no, shock- because what the hell?
The collar was the first thing he saw, with its silver links, then the kid turned his head and the hair kissing the nape of his neck parted, revealing what looked like a tat scrawled there by some talent-less amateur. That blood had been traced over it was nearly hidden by twisting, sweat-damp curls. That sent his radar pinging-the whole thing looked like some fucking "stay-put" spell. If it was, Dean was damn sure it was an illegal one, what with the way the kid's skin was bubbling up around it. And, adding the fuck to the what the, the kid whipping his head around at Dean's hiss revealed his damn eyes-they flashed gold. Dean couldn't help but take an instinctive step back. "Skinwalker-fuck!" Why the fuck would a 'walker want something poisonous like that on them?
The sheer hatred in that flash of pretty eyes had him stumbling back, almost falling on his ass. Weird on top of weird-the skinwalker kind of...writhed for a second, before settling again. Struggling not to shift? Yeah, no doubt. Probably had it drummed into him since puphood, no shifting in front of humans. Most shifters and weres taught their pups that.
It was quiet as the grave after Dean's outburst, and after a few minutes of mutual staring, the skinwalker shuddered from head to toe, and his whole face crinkled like he smelled something rotten, a definite possibility given how long ago Dean's last bath was.
"Yer hunter." When the 'walker spoke, Dean picked up just how rough his voice was, like talking wasn't something he did much. Also a possibility, since 'walkers were a 'notoriously reticent breed', to quote Uncle Bobby. "But…" the 'walker sniffed quickly, like maybe Dean wouldn't notice, "not from around here." He nodded once, sharply, and that sent the long, obviously silver chain attached to his collar to chiming and what the fucking hell--?
"No, for sure not from around here. Why in th'fuck are you tied down?" Dean was furious. He was pretty sure what was going on here. Shit like this had been outlawed since...he actually had to stop and think about the damn year for a moment. 1995? Yeah, going on about ten years now. "Do you want that collar on? I mean, is this some kind of game, or-um, a thing?"
The skinwalker looked at him like he was stupid as shit. "Why t’fuck would I want silver on? Master did it," he sneered.
Dean cocked his head and sized this fucker up. Well, someone might think they owned him, but they sure hadn't tamed this kid any. Good for him. Dean smothered a laugh. Obviously, he must not have been chained long. Well, good. Dean was about to put an end to this farce. Fucking backwoods sonofabitches. How did the kid even get his ass in this kinda situation?.
The kid in question snorted. "Was him, right? Sent you out here, didn't he? Freebie from one hunter to 'nother." The kid's mouth twisted up in a nasty smirk, full of contempt-and self-loathing.
When this was over, Dean was going to kick the shit out of whichever of these hillbilly motherfuckers was masquerading as a hunter and holding this kid against his will. "There’s no such thing as owning you 'cause it’s against the damn law. Jeezus, I see this shit over and over again out here where news is slow and seldom and I'm fucking sick of it. It's against the law to hold anyone, human or monster, as any kind of slave."
"Mother-fuckin' liar." The 'walker growled, bared his teeth at him, suddenly too-sharp, too-long, animal-like teeth in a pretty face. "Fucking hunters killed Seli-ma, sold me; I been sold over and over and over 'til I landed with Shit-"
His whole body shuddering with a deep inhale, the 'walker stopped. His teeth eased back to human-looking. Dean could see sweat beaded at his hairline and chin. He looked sick, his skin gone a greasy gray-there was nothing of the aggressive and seductive brat Dean had stumbled over.
The kid shook his head, said, "Been with this fucker since I'm thirteen, fourteen, 'bout."
That meant he'd been sold around for a longer time than Dean wanted to think about...meant his current owner knew it was illegal to hold him. Jeezus. This had to be one tough kid, to hold onto himself like this. "Man, how old are you?"
"Twenty-one," the 'walker shrugged. "Twenty-two…" he ended on a cough, his voice going dry, beginning to give out with use. "Lost track, but...probably close to that, at least. And no, can't change myself to look younger, fuckin pervert."
"No!" Dean threw his hands up, yelling, "Fuck no, that's disgusting, you little shit. Jeez. That's not-anyway, I can tell by your eyes you're a 'walker, not a shifter. Kind of an asshole, but not crazy. Shifters, man." Dean shook his head. "They're fifty-fifty. Never know when you're gonna run against one short a full deck. Skinwalkers…" He shrugged. "My dad never had much bad to say against them."
"Yeah, ain't that nice, thanks for the fuckin' arcanology lesson, asshole. Oh, Jeezus. Here comes Shit-For-Brains."
Dean caught a guy heading for them, a shit attitude clear in the way he walked. The kid rolled his eyes and muttered, "My master. Shit-For-Brains."
Dean couldn't help but laugh a little. The kid was hardcore-he was so through with everyone's shit. Had to admire that in someone chained to a piece of shit like the guy coming around the front of the truck. Dean snorted. Dude looked like a caricature of a hunter. Everything about him was just a beat off-muscle going to fat trapped in a too-tight plaid shirt, greasy billed-cap pulled low over his eyes, chins in serious need of a shave, and a body in need of a shower. Showers. Damn.
Shit-for-Brains’ face was wreathed in a wide, tooth-baring, fake-ass grin as he came to a stop against the truck. He leaned against it, looking Dean up and down before drawling, "Why’re you talking to my monster, boy? Don't you know that's kinda rude, without talkin' to me first?" He drew a handmade cigarette from behind his ear and popped it between his lips. Went for a lighter in his pocket and made a big show of revealing he was heated.
Dean snorted. He reached behind himself and adjusted his own gun just as ostentatiously, the shine on the chrome-plated, ivory handled Colt winking prettily in the sunlight. Baby always was a showoff.
Dean jerked his chin in the kid's direction. "You know this shit here is against the law?"
Shit-for-Brains hawked, the sound repulsive enough to make Dean wince, and to draw a hiss of disgust from the kid. "Maybe the fuck in Kansas, or 'Rado it is, but not out here in the Real, cowboy." He made another disgusting sound and spit a wad of brown-tinted phlegm near the toe of Dean's boot. It took everything Dean had not to flinch away from the fucker.
"How do you know I'm not an inspector, just looking for shit like this?" Dean snapped, swallowed back the 'fuckin' dumbass.' he wanted to add.
"Are you?" the man asked, rolling the cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other. He looked Dean up and down, then slid his gaze over to the kid and sneered, like he knew something private and shameful about Dean, and winked. " Or you looking for a free taste? I don’t mind. Much."
Dean inhaled, deep and slow. "Well, now, not only am I definitely a registered, legal, Hunter First Class and inspector," he said, and pulled out his credentials with a great sense of satisfaction. "I'm also a recovery agent. You know what that means, right? Even out here you fucks have to know." He lifted the collar of his jacket, and flashed the star of the Men of Letters.
"Fuck." Shit-For-Brains went the color of old cheese. His hand-rolled slipped through loose fingers to the ground.
"Yep. Fuck indeed. Gimme his key and I'll call it good- I got business with the Old Men in Kansas and he's coming with me right the fuck now." Dean stepped forward with his hand out and his eye on the guy's gun. His other hand inched behind his back, going towards his own.
"What about the cost of my goods-"
"Goods? Your illegal ass is gonna bitch about payback? Are you outta your JeezDamn mind?"
Even over his shouting, Dean could hear supposedly stealthy footsteps; a couple of guys coming up behind him, both heavy-footed as damn mooses.
Up in the truck bed, he could see the 'walker's eyes go wide and round-fear, but also a little amused? "Oh shit, hope you don't die," the kid murmured, and dived under a pile of blankets. Brat, Dean thought.
"Me, outta my mind? Nah," Shit drawled, "I'm not the one thinks these freaks got rights. I'm just gonna put your corpse in the hillside and go on with my life."
Overconfident motherfucker. Just the type of asshole Dean liked fucking with.
The guys behind him gave up being stealthy, and rushed him-yelling for all they were worth, like that was supposed to unsettle him. Dean twisted, grabbed one of the jerks by his arm and twisted again-the guy let out a high-pitched shriek that cut off quick when Dean slammed a fist into his ribs, then used the momentum to swing him face first into the truck. Before the crunch of the guy’s nose collapsing registered, he dropped the asshole, whirled around with Baby drawn. Faintly he heard the other dirtbag let out a surprised, "Fuck!" before tearing off in the opposite direction-this had obviously not gone the way they'd planned. Dean snapped a shot off at Shit when he caught his movement-aided by the 'walker yelling out, "Hey!
Shit-For-Brains dropped with a bullet hole in his leg, his ancient six-shooter hitting the ground. Before Shit could pull himself together to grab it, it went skittering under the truck.
When he hit the ground, he let out a scream-the guy with the broken nose yelled, " Sherman!" and lurched upright, intending to head for his partner. He made it as far as hands and knees, giving Dean the opportunity to crack him over the head with his gun-so he did. Hard.
He smiled at the kid, who was peeking over the edge of the truck. " Don't like wasting bullets."
Stepping over the unconscious guy, Dean stared down at the man who'd thought he was the skinwalker's master. He wasn't handling being shot very well, not for a hunter. He was bleeding and moaning on the ground, making a ton of noise, so Dean kicked him in the knee, which just made the guy moan louder. "Oh for fuck's sake, you’ll live. Pretty sure." Dean nudged the guy who was out, to make sure he was still breathing. "If this one wakes up in time to get you back inside, that is."
"Someone 's going to come out and look, you fucker, and then you're dog's meat," Sherman groaned, trying to keep his voice from shaking with pain.
Dean laughed out loud. "Ellen is not sending anyone out here to look at shit; besides, she’s always been a friend to Winchesters. Give me the key."
Sherman grabbed his thigh and moaned, " Fuck you, whoever the fuck you are."
" Okay, I'm tired of talking anyway." Dean shrugged, and snapped a kick at the guy’s chin. Shit-Sherman-whatever his name was, went out like a light, head rolling to the side, arms flopping loose.
"I think you broke his neck," the kid said.
"Yeah, don't sound so hopeful, he's fine. Ish." Dean leaned over and frisked the asshole's pockets, dug out a ring of keys out and headed over to the truck. "I won," he said, waving the keys. The kid just snorted.
"Lift," Dean said, swallowing for some reason when the kid tipped his head back so Dean could undo the collar, dark curls falling away to expose a ridiculously long neck. He held his hands out without being asked, slim, elegant hands with long fingers, that trembled some when Dean unlocked the cuffs around his wrists. Big hands. Big feet, too, Dean noted. He'd bet anything this kid wasn't done growing yet. Dean dropped his hands when he noticed he was still holding on to the kid. He was really warm…a lot of supers ran warmer than humans. Felt good against his chilly fingers.
The kid jerked away when the chain fell, flung the handcuffs away hard when they opened. He let out a weird noise, cross between a cough and a laugh, clambered to his feet-then froze.
"Come on, dude," Dean said, "we gotta get a move on. Sometimes these douches pack up to 'avenge' their own," he said, rolling his eyes. "I'm not sure where that other asshole went, but to be on the safe-"
"Can't." The kid turned his head, glaring at Dean sideways and sweating like he'd run a race. "Can't, damn it. I'll die if I try and leave." He jerked a thumb towards the back of his neck, breathing going fast and shallow. He swallowed again-so hard Dean heard him. Dean peered at him before finally putting two and two together.
"Oh hell, I'm not fucking leaving you here-or letting that sadistic piece of shit tattooed on your neck kill you. C'mere." He grabbed the kid's arm and jerked him into place. "Bend. Your neck, bend it," he snapped when the kid didn't move fast enough for him.
"Disgusting sonofabitch," Dean growled on looking at the nasty thing on the kid's neck again. Besides the tattoo, there were a trio of asymmetrical lumps, he could feel them move slightly under his thumb. They were each topped with a tiny brand-definitely something like lock-in spells combined with something that he was not about to fuck with. But the tat-he could take care of that. That fucking hunter-wanna-be had a sadistic streak in him a mile wide, to do something so foul to a thinking, feeling being. He smoothed the kid's hair out of the way, his brain taking a stupid moment to wonder at how soft and clean it felt-he'd figured it'd be tangled and dirty, the way the kid had had to live.
He pulled a small, silver knife out of his pocket, some salt, and some powdered amber. "Hey, I'm really fucking sorry, but this is gonna hurt like a motherfucker. I'll warn you before I put the drawing paste on it, okay?"
The kid gulped again, his eyes wide and rolling like a horse's. He knew what was coming, Dean guessed, so he stopped fucking around. No need to draw this out for the poor shit.
Dean cut across the tat with the silver knife and immediately, dark blood rose in the shallow slash, became pus, then clear fluid. Dark lines snaked out from around the broken tattoo and skated the edges of the lump, turning the skin an angry red before dissipating. The kid was breathing so fast and shallow it sounded like barking. Despite Dean's warning, he actually howled for a few seconds before biting it off when the powdered amber-the drawing paste-got layered over the broken tattoo. Dean winced, bit his lip in sympathy as the poor super writhed and twitched, muffled moans making it past pressed-tight lips. It was bad, and Dean grabbed the kid's hand, instinctively trying to offer some kind of comfort and the kid actually grabbed back, squeezing hard, hanging on as he breathed frantically through the pain.
"Almost done." Dean waited, counting out the seconds before he could speak the words that would break was was essentially a curse. The kid slumped, letting go of Dean's hand, letting go of everything for long moments before stirring again, groaning low in his throat.
"Fuck me...fuck you, that hurt like a motherfucker."
"Yeah, said it would, didn't I. C'mon, let's get out of here."
The kid eyeballed him warily, a bleak expression settling over his face, and Dean felt bad for a second-he knew he sounded like he didn't care, but really, he just wanted to get the hell out and spare himself and Ellen in case some shitbag fake hunters actually did want revenge for Shit and his buddies. He might be a Menaletters agent and a hunter, but he was on his own here.
The kid shuddered and staggered to his feet, long, coltish legs trembling with the pain. "Lemme get my stuff…"
Dean cocked an eyebrow at him. "Kid...is there anything in there you actually want?"
The kid looked at the truck bed, looked at Dean, and growled. "Fuck yeah. This is my stuff. I worked for this shit, it came out of my money, my ass." He scrambled back into the truck, grabbing up a faded pink blanket, what looked like clothing, a pair of tatty sneakers, a small canvas bag and something that Dan couldn't really see. He dumped everything into the blanket and grabbed it up.
The kid jumped down and startled Dean-he was as tall as Dean, something he didn't run across much, and leaner by far. His lanky, thin frame didn't carry much muscle, but what it carried was hard, defined. Like any softness had been carved away.
The kid walked around the back of the truck, stopped in front of a still out-cold Shit and looked down at him. Worked his mouth and nailed the guy in the face with a thick glob of phlegmy spit. "If I was a were, I'd bite the shit out of you, fuckin' turn your ugly ass," he muttered. Casting a sideways glance at Dean, he swung out and kicked the guy once in the ribs. At the unconscious man's deep groan, he smiled, and then turned to Dean, a look of satisfaction lighting his face.
Dean made a mental note not to piss the kid off, at least not if he was unarmed.
"So, which one of these fucking rust bucket's yours?" the kid asked, rolling the tatty pink blanket into a makeshift pack and heaving it up onto his shoulder.
"That fuckin' rust bucket on the end, the red one. And her name's Lucille, and just so you know, she don't take kindly to insults, Kid."
"Sam. My name's Sam."
"Oh...yeah. I'm Dean. Pleased to meet ya, Sammy, now get in the truck."
"Sam. Sammy's some fat an' happy little human shit, okay? My name is Sam."
"Man, with a fuckin' attitude like that, it's a miracle you ever survived, Sam."
Dean watched the kid-Sam-wheel around and stomp off towards Lucille. He stood there for a sec, grinning at the high, angry line of Sammy's shoulders, the emphatic stalk; he looked like a force of nature, and someone not to be fucked with. Or he would, once he got rid of those shorts that were showing his ass cheeks with each forceful step. Kinda jiggled with each-
"You comin' or what?"
Interesting being, this Sam; obviously Shit-For-Brains-or anyone-never managed to break this kid. Good. Dean liked a fighter.
Sam was waiting at the truck, arms crossed over his narrow chest and giving Dean the stink eye, so he trotted after. He bet this was going to be one hell of an interesting ride.
phoenix1966
Chapter four