The Passenger: Chapter four

[askellington]

Sam
The inside of the pretty guy's truck was thick with scent-smelled like him, booze, stale food, and smoke, a typical hunter's stink. But underneath it all was something good, something that pulled at him. Layered with the hunter stink was something sweet, like hay or dried grass. The smell of something not really wild, but not really tame, either. Sam settled his blanket between his feet, shoved it a bit deeper into the footwell. While his pretty new master messed about starting the truck, Sam took advantage of his distraction to secretly scent deeper, mouth a little open, and nostrils fluttering as he softly inhaled. He did it carefully because for some reason humans seemed to hate being scented.

Just as he leaned a bit towards the new master, the truck's heater kicked in, blowing warm air-which was a surprise, considering the age and condition of the old rattletrap. No surprise, though, that with the heat came the stink of old blood, mixed in with the guy's natural smell (which he hated to admit was damn attractive). Old blood, not so old blood, human, monster...a good reminder that this guy, no matter how he dressed it up, was a hunter, and what hunters did was kill monsters.

Yeah. He leaned his head against the truck window and watched his new master through narrowed eyes, faking sleep. Pretty might throw around words like 'free' and 'no slave' and 'the law' and blah-fukin' blah, but Sam was no fool. He knew his worth lay between his legs and in his ability to be bait that survived. This guy, hunter, mole, whatever he was, was no different than the rest. Except better looking and maybe smarter and that could be a problem.

Well, Sam thought. We'll see about that. He'd been surmounting problems of all sorts since he was a pup. He was pretty fucking good at it.

1996

"What's in the cage, boys?"

Sam inched backward, eyes on the men coming close-one suddenly poked a stick between the bars, he yipped when pain shot through his thigh. He knew better than to cry out like that, but it hurt, and it wasn't fair. He fought to keep back the tears that sprang to his eyes, rolled himself in a ball to hide himself from them as much as possible. After all these years and so many disappointments, he still tried to hide.

He heard them walking around the truck, smelled their breath and their blood and wished he could tear them open and drain them of every drop, just let it splash uselessly all over the road.

"Skinwalker. It's locked into its skin, though, so it can't change, keep its beast locked tight. See? Paid a sorcerer to craft some silver runes and put them under the skin, something that works really well on 'walkers and shifters. Easier to keep them this way. Much more useful."

"Unh-hunh. You using it for hunting or what?"

Sam felt a growl building in his chest, bile rising in his throat. He knew what it meant when it said 'or what'. Seli-ma had to do that thing with many men, and now, he had to do it too. But he felt it was different with him. No one smiled when he did it with them, no one laughed. It was furtive and grunting and dirty and it hurt and sometimes he thought they liked it better when it did. No one ever said 'beautiful' to him, or praised his eyes or his hair. No one brought gifts or wanted to kiss him like they did Seli. No, he got the bad ones, the damaged ones who hit him, like a few had done to Seli. He got the ones who called him 'freak' and 'monster' and a-a-tempter or something like that. Some of them told him that it was his all his fault what happened, and that he must want it.

If he could shift, he'd show them how much he wanted it. He'd bite their throats out like Seli had done, fierce and brave-he'd roll around in their blood and eat their hearts.

"Hey, your little freak here is growling up a storm."

"Jeez fucking damn it, this little monster is a hard-headed un-trainable piece of shit. I oughta get rid of it. I beat the hell out of it and it still tries to bite me, little shit. If it didn't do such a damn good job of baiting other monsters, I'd have put it in the ground by now. That and it gives a blowjob that you wouldn't believe. S'why I bought it off the last guy who owned it."

"Jeez-fuck, I don't need to hear that that shit. Tell it to the perverts. Tell me what he knows about hunting, how old is he?"

Sam opened his eyes and stared at the human who referred to him as 'he' instead of 'it'. A human who was actually curious about him, and not just what he could fit in his mouth. He took an instant dislike to the man, and saw it was mutual...but Sam was pretty sure that with this guy, he might be able to survive. This one saw him as a living being, not a toy, or a bear trap. His current masters were going to kill him sooner or later; sooner, it felt like, what with not enough food, not enough rest, just non-stop hunting, fucking, beatings, and...Sam felt the sharp sting of tears, the black sludge of no hope filling him again. There was no end in sight.

But.

This one looked like a crafty animal, staring into the cage with all the warmth and kindness of a shifter, meaning none. Probably as self-centered as one, too. But. Something about him told Sam that he might-would-push Sam to the edge, but not off. That was some small thing to hope for anyway.

Sam came to his knees in the cage-all the low ceiling allowed-and pressed himself against the bars. He lifted his lip in a silent snarl, testing the waters. Instead of reaching through the bars to slap him, the human laughed. It turned towards the other humans standing around the truck.

"You know you're not supposed to have any supers under lock and key anymore, right? The new law forbids it. If a ranger or something catches you, there'll be trouble. Be a shame if someone were to rat you out."

"What? What the fuck-no human's gonna rat out another for a freakin' monster!"

The new man just went on talking right over the master, like he hadn't even spoken. "But me, I'm a good guy." Sam watched the man smile, the way his gaze bounced between Sam and his master. "I'll let you go, no problem, and I'll even pay you for this little thing."

He reached in his pocket and flashed a silver badge that Sam couldn't quite catch...sheriff's badge? Probably not. In Sam's experience, sheriffs didn't give a shit about monsters. Whatever the badge stood for, it made the other humans hiss and lean back, as if they expected a beating. Sam could only hope.

"Yeah, I'm with the moles. Men of Letters registered inspector and recovery agent. But…" he unfolded a square of paper and tossed it to the men. "That's a certified voucher for two pound of salt at Grenly's Goods in Bedford. I'll take the freak off your hands and mum's the word. And no need to thank me for it."

"Fuck you, that's not even half the bounty on a pixie head. That freak brings in five times what that's worth at least once a month."

"Right then," the man said. "I'll just call my boss here and tell him what's up." He raised a hand to his head and started mumbling a spell or something, waving his fingers dramatically...Sam grinned inside as old Master cursed and kicked sand. He looked so frustrated it was hard for Sam to hold in a laugh. He couldn't believe that Master was falling for the new man's crap.

"Fucking take him then, you bastard. Fuck you." The old master slunk off, and Sam took advantage of the new master's back being turned to laugh silently, tongue hanging out just to piss the old one off. It was a good feeling.

"Whatever, jerkface." The man who'd suddenly become his new master muttered before yelling for someone. "Floyd! Come over here and help me get this little monster into the truck."

Another man came over, it leaned into the cage, an oily smile creasing his face. He leaned in and stroked Sam's cheek with a dirty finger, the yellowed, ragged nail catching on Sam's lip. "Hello, pretty thing. Look at you, so cute. Such a wide mouth, such pretty eyes."

"Oh for fucks sake you sick sonofabitch-wait until I'm not around. Now help me get this cage in the back of the truck. Got wind of a throw back pack of wolves out near the Deadlands, trying to harvest hearts. We're gonna make a fortune snuffing them and this little shit's gonna sniff 'em out for us. Say hello to your new masters, pup."

Sam gulped back a protest that he was no pup, not at ten...twelve...whatever age he was, he wasn't a baby, for sure. He leaned back from the new master's grin, and the oily, hungry look the other was giving him. Sam stared at Hungry, and made a show of wiping his mouth where he'd been touched-the master Sam was sure now was the boss laughed and Hungry turned an angry red. So what. He was going to get a beating anyway. They all did the same thing. Buy him, and then beat him half unconscious like that was supposed to teach him something or make him afraid. Assholes. Then half of them starved him which was stupid too, because then they'd have to pass up hunts until he could stand again.

He just hoped that whatever these bozos did to him hurt less than what he'd already lived through.

=@=

Warmth made him feel lazy...reminded him how long he'd been cold. He kept his eyes closed and wallowed in Pretty's scent because, Jeezus, Sam couldn't remember ever being penned in with someone who smelled so damn good; it was even better in this warm, enclosed space. There was that animal part of Sam that wanted to shove his nose under this guy's arms where his real scent would be, or high up his neck, right in that little dimpled spot behind that ear, pretty with the way those dots curled around the shell of his ear..or no, deep between those curved legs, he was that fucking hot, smelled that damn good. Speaking of between his legs, he wondered when Pretty-ugh, what the hell had he said his name was?

Deke…? Dan? Ah, no, Dean, right.

Wondered when Dean was going to pull over and get to it. It usually didn't take a new master that long to rip into him, either to teach him who was master, or just because they liked the guilt-free fun of fucking monsters-or monsters that looked like boys.

Sam shivered, and sat up, not able to pretend sleep anymore; his sudden movement startled Dean and the truck swerved a bit. Sam gave him a narrow-eyed stare. Kinda jumpy for a hunter….

"Fuck, dude, I thought you were out for the count. What's up? You need to piss or something?"

Sam just stared at him, shook his head, letting a nice thunderhead of rage build up to help him to get past this point. It worked, a little too well-his mouth roared off without Common Sense at the wheel. "So when the hell are you gonna do it? Pull over and we can get to it now. I'm ready. I'm always ready."

"What, you hungry or-oh. Oh!"

Sam felt a sharp stab of fear-what he'd said, the way he'd said it-fuck. Well, it'd be far from the first time his attitude earned him a beating.

Dean, though, he just drove on, every few minutes shooting him wide-eyed glances. When Sam realized this guy was actually not going to beat him, it pissed him off even more for some reason. No way was this guy as fucking clueless about the whole master/slave thing as he pretended.

He was doing a damn good job of acting it, though, the way his face was a bright red, dark enough to obscure all the spots splashed across his cheeks and the bridge of his nose. His eyes looked even greener surrounded by that red. Sam smirked. He looked like a guilty little pup, gulping and staring through the windshield like the answer to life was sitting out there on the road.

Dean opened his mouth a time or two, like a fresh-caught fish, before words kind of tumbled out. "Okay, ah, I'm not into dudes like that, really. I don't want that. I'm-I'm just doing my job. You just, shit, just shut the hell up and-and-go to sleep."

Obeying without thinking, Sam slid down in his seat and closed his eyes. He curled a hand over his knee. His fingers flexed, absently kneading the kneecap that had been shattered into powder when he was a pup. Didn't hurt, not anymore, but he had a tendency towards phantom pain when shit went weird and sideways-and this was weird. Either this guy was for real, or he was a special flavor of sadist. And here he thought he'd been sampled by all the kinds there were.

Dean

Lucille shuddered her way down a less than perfect road, bumping her way eagerly towards a patch of the road that had been scoured nicely clean by magic nukes and was smooth as snot. Glass. Really smooth stuff.

Anyfuck, she and Dean both would be grateful as fuck once off the suspension-screwing, kidney-pulverizing stretch of loose gravel and potholes and sundry old-time debris this part of the road was made of. A sharp inhale turned his attention towards his right; Sam would probably be glad to be off this washboard of a road too, though he hadn't said shit since he'd casually asked when Dean was going to rape him, for fuck's sake. He'd spent his time silent, occasionally gripping the dashboard like he wished he had claws, and stamping on the floorboards as if Dean couldn't handle his Darling.

"You've been quiet 'cept for the occasional gasp of horror. What's up? Worried about the road? Or worried about me taking you to the MoLs?" Dean asked. The kid's-Sam's-head jerked towards him, attention focused laser-like on Dean. He was an intense guy, which, sure, made sense when your whole life depended on paying the right sort of attention.

"Why? Should I be? You said we monsters are supposed to be free," Sam snapped and Dean marveled at his seeming inability to suck up even a little bit.

"We don't say 'monsters' unless of course what we're talking about is really a monster, which you are not. 'Rado 's Menaletters calls guys like you Supers and you're full-blood citizens-as long as you don't eat anyone, that is."

Sam's nose wrinkled. "Gross. I'd have to be dead-ass starving to eat a human. You all are disgusting, the shit you put in your bodies. I like for my food to be cooked and for it not to be fuckin' people, for Jeez sake. Bigot."

"Fuck you! Ain't talking about you personally, Dog-boy," Dean laughed, missing how Sam flinched, how he curled in a little more. He just went on chuckling to himself, thinking Sam's remark was funny as hell. All he heard was Sam's growled, "fuckever," in response, felt some disappointment when Sam turned away to stare out the window, leaving Dean feeling weirdly lonely and somewhat unsettled. Maybe he shouldn't have called him Dog-boy? But Sam had to know he didn't mean anything by it, he was just joking around….

=@=

They rolled on through miles of gray landscape, broken up by occasional outcroppings of stripped-bare rock, places where there used to be towns and now there were only wide spots filled with rubble bordering the road, gray on gray. Dean gripped her wheel, and as he drove he found himself keeping one eye on the endless road and one eye on his passenger. He was grateful Sam was there, keeping Dean from drifting worse than usual.

He was an original, this wild boy. He was a good looking kid with a tongue like a stiletto; that hadn't done him any damn favors. How the hell had he even managed to survive in one piece? As a kid, Dean had seen plenty of supers mangled for not being what their masters wanted, stuff like having their tongues taken for being the kind of smart mouth this kid was. Man, you could never go broke betting just how monstrous humans could be. No question that Sam had had a life of being used and abused by freaks who never would have done anything like that to a human child.

What had happened to the mother, Dean wondered, and imagined it could only have been the worst. Skinwalkers were super possessive of their kids, like werewolves, and totally not like shifters who tended to be kind of fifty-fifty about the whole parenting thing-they either doted on their kids, or practically popped them out on the side of the road and kept on strolling. Vamps of course had to recruit, what with being some form of dead and all….

Lucille jumped and complained loudly about hitting something in the road, a loud thump came from behind him as the green mailbag fell to the floorboard.

"Holy shit, Lucille-what have we said about killing me?" Dean muttered, and tightened his grip on the wheel. He'd better pay less attention to his passenger and more to the damn road before they ended up in a ditch somewhere.

It was late by the time Sam woke again, the sun almost behind the hills. Dean flipped Lucille's lights on even though it wasn't completely dark yet. The road was finally clear, hardly any debris, but no sense taking chances.

Despite the growing darkness, the hills around them were dotted with green, which meant the land was on its way to healing on this bend of the road-he could even feel it, like a weighted blanket had been lifted from his shoulders. He took a deep breath-exhaled. They were finally getting closer to being able to relax.

One of his dad's favorite tunes, Spirit In The Sky, was in the deck, low so as not to bother Sleeping Beauty, when out of nowhere Norman Greenbaum was overridden by a low, angry rumbling, startling Dean so much Lucille wavered on the road. He clenched the wheel, peering around for whatever the fuck it was that might be coming after them….

When the growl rumbled through the cab again; he clamped a hand over his mouth to smother giggles-it was the damn kid's stomach complaining.

Sam frowned and jerked in his sleep-finally coming awake with a surprised grunt when his stomach nearly howled. Dean bit his lip to keep from really belting out a laugh, until Sam lurched upright, quickly moving out of reach as he did, his hands coming up to shield his face.

"What, the nest's cleaned out, lemme sleep, you dick," he mumbled, threw himself back against the seat when he actually opened his eyes to find Dean staring at him.

"Shit!" he yelped, "And ow. Have you been watching me sleep, creepo?" Sam winced, straightening, rubbing at his eyes. His hands went up to dig viciously into his hair, tousling it to stand out wildly. Dean disgusted himself by thinking a sleepy Sam was kind of cute.

"Oh man," Sam moaned. "I was dreaming. Thought I was on a hunt. Something was chasing me down, growling at me…."

"Oh, definitely," Dean grinned. "I heard it too. You ready for some food?"

Sam's stomach howled in agreement. Sam snarled at the laugh Dean finally let loose, then kind of regretted, when Sam went still, his head down and his hands gripping the edge of the bench so tightly Dean was a little afraid he was going to pop his fingertips through the vinyl.

Dean shook his head-this kid. Well, shit, Sammy was going to have to lighten the fuck up, especially traveling with a someone whose sense of humor was as lowbrow as you could get, and not sorry about it in the least. Still, the kid was obviously hungry, and it wouldn't hurt to offer him a bite, it was just good manners and common sense.

"Hey, do me a favor, Kid, reach back and grab that bag right behind you; the green one, not the gray ones. I've got some jerky and water, some biscuits in the top of that. Should do us until I get to my next mail drop."

Sam pulled the bag over the seat, dropped it in the foot well and opened it, put the things Dean wanted between them on the seat before shoving the bag back behind them again. He eyed the little stack of dried meats, some recycled bottles filled with water and a handful of crumbly biscuits like it was steak dinner.

"You're going to feed me after this, too? Shit-for-Brains only fed me once a day…" Sam pressed his fists against his roaring stomach. "He said I needed to learn humility and bein' hungry would help."

Dean snorted, shoved a water bottle at Sam. "I can see that lesson never took."

Sam grimaced at Dean, a sideways kind of rueful smile, before he drank a long pull, eyes closed, hands clasped around the glass bottle as if the experience was brand new. Then he said something that kicked Dean in the gut and made him wish 'Dog-boy' had never come out of his stupid mouth.

"Always had to drink out of a bowl, before," the kid murmured softly, more to himself than to Dean. "People who think they're funny…."

Jeezus, he should have kneecapped that sick fuck instead of popping him in the leg. "Yeah, well, you're done with that." Dean snapped, angry at himself, the fake hunters, at the world; just a little bit. "You'll drink and eat like a damn citizen now, and when you're back with the rest of your kin, you'll eat whatever, however you want."

"Hunh." Sam laughed softly, bitterly. "Yeah, I guess."

=@=

Later that afternoon, all of the biscuits and a dozen strips of jerky later, Dean came to his last village mail drop before he'd be hitting the road for the last leg of his journey. His final stop would be back home again, the MoL chapter house in Sioux Falls. He peered through Lucille's dusty windshield, not much impressed by the sad, dreary little huddle of houses and shops around this decent section of the road.

"Well, here we are," he murmured and hooked the mailbag out of the truck's back seat. Sam slid out as well, looking around with interest, rolling up the long sleeves of the t-shirt he was currently wearing. He went to knot the bottom of it in a way that shortened the damn thing right under his damn nipples, but Dean reached out and slapped his hands away. "What I say about selling yerself?"

Sam stared at him. "Um...nothing?"

"Oh. Well-don't do it. The moles keep me in goods and stuff-I've got enough and then some. As long as I'm good, so are you. I've got you, okay?" he said and Sam's puzzled look cleared. He smirked, his eyes going narrow.

"Okay," Sam said. "Got it."

"Yeah, alright. And just so we're on he same page, here." Reaching into the back seat, he pulled his duffle bag out, and rummaged in it until he pulled a pair of pants out. "Ah-ha! Here's a pair of jeans I scored a few rides back-take those JeezDamn bootyshorts off and put these on instead."

Sam took the jeans from him and frowned. "They're kind of...baggy. Long, too. And they're brown."

"They're tan, and what the hell are you worried about? Suddenly you're fulla fashion tips? They'll keep your balls covered, how 'bout we celebrate that."

"Don't worry about my balls," Sam snarled, but went around the side of the truck, and a few minutes later, came out dressed in Dean's jeans, wearing the flannel shirt like a hunter would-buttoned up. Much better.

This village made much less fuss over receiving its mail than Dean was used to; there was no off-the-cuff celebration like Bedford had thrown together. The people here looked tired, worn out from the job of staying alive. Still, they smiled when Dean unloaded his bag, and huddled together to wait as Dean held mail up, called out names. Though they were mostly silent as they walked away, clutching envelops or tiny packages to their chests, their expressions, the way they held themselves, radiated a subdued kind of pleasure, and gratitude. Dean flushed-he wasn't sure he deserved a reaction like that. He was just hauling the bags, is all.

"You guys hunters as well?" one of the villagers asked. Instead of walking away, he'd stood alongside Dean while he dug through the bag and parceled out envelopes. Fixing his gaze on Dean's shoulder, and blushing like he was on fire, he stuttered out, "It-it's just, we've had some, um, problems with a nest of feral vamps, and no complaints, but the MoL aren't getting back to our mayor and...I was hoping you might be willing to help." The guy shrugged. "I see your partner's a skinwalker. Hear that they're pretty good against vamps. He's...a free agent, right?" he asked hesitantly, like he was afraid to anger Dean, but also considered it his duty to ask-

Dean liked that he did. He pulled his badge out, held it up so that the man could inspect it, see that it was real silver, that the copper star gleaming in the middle was an authentic Men of Letters: America badge.

"Hell yeah, he's his own ma-being. Free to come and go as he pleases. Because anything else-" He glared at Sam, who was leaning against the side of the truck, and when he wasn't rolling his eyes at Dean, was giving the poor schmuck a come-hither-look. Not that the guy appeared to be interested in that way, though he blushed impossibly redder when Sam slid his tongue-slow, wet, pointedly-across his pink lips.

"-would be wrong." Dean finished with a snap. Sam huffed and pulled himself up into Lucille's bed, scrambling backwards to crouch under his blanket. At least he looked something like a hunter with Dean's jeans on instead of those damn ass-out cutoffs, for crap's sake. Though the unlaced boots and the way Sam had rolled baggy jeans up over his ankles was disturbingly...fuck, he'd rather bite his own tongue off than say sexy...little bastard.

Dean turned back to the guy waiting patiently. Took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"So, how about you give me the skinny on this feral vamp problem?"

=@=

Dean was brought to the village tavern, which did double duty as the city hall, to meet the mayor. He was led past a few tables before coming into the center of the room. There, at a table set slightly apart from the others, sat a thin, hatchet faced man-the mayor.

He was casually sipping from a weird little cup, the edges decorated with flowers, and his expression was one of complete boredom. He was totally uninterested in the strange mailman showing up in his town unannounced. It was quite a performance, Dean thought. His eyes-in fact, the whole of him-radiated all the warmth of a basilisk, but looking into those well-deep eyes, Dean knew he'd just been read like a book. It made him feel uncomfortably exposed-off center-which was probably just what the bastard was going for. With his too-thin frame and dead look, all the man needed was a scythe and a hood to complete the picture of being The Final Judge.

A minute or two of silence passed, and then the man heaved a sigh that came from the floorboards. "Sit," he said. "Eat." He held up his hand before Dean could try to politely refuse. "It's my pleasure to share what we have. Despite looks, we do well here; we have good chefs."

Dean nodded. He could see that, alright, they certainly did well. The tavern's outside might look shabby, like the rest of the village, but the lamp over the mayor's table was an electric one-he could hear the muffled chugging of a generator. The place was clean, smelled like cherry wood and spices. The people sitting around the mayor looked interested and aware-not at all like a people ruled by fear. Good. Dean had come up across a few too many places like that; good to see this was not one.

Dean was impressed at how well they hid in plain sight, sort of hiding their light under a bushel, smart. He was sure the mayor had a lot to do with it, smart enough to keep his people safe. But..what the hell was a chef?

While Dean was scoping out the joint, the mayor leaned to one side, the better to see Sam, who was doing his best to hide all of his tall self behind Dean. "And is that your monster?" the man asked.

"No, he's my partner," Dean shot back, and then cursed himself because damn it, he'd just made Sam his partner officially. Great. The moles were going to kick a bitch about having to pay out a bonus to an unregistered hunter, let alone an unregistered super. Well, fuck, they'd deal with that later. "This is Sam, and he's hungry too."

The skeletal mayor's thin lips pursed minutely, the only sign he was none too pleased to have a 'walker sit to table with him, but Dean didn't give a shit. If he wanted Hunter assistance, then he'd have to take what he got.

"Fine," the mayor said, smooth voice dropping lower. "Bring them both the soup, and today's bread," he murmured to one of the men lounging at the table, who took off in a hurry to do what the Slim Reaper asked.

"Now, as I'm sure you've heard, our problem revolves around a small nest of rather vicious feral vamps. Though I suppose what they have is not so much a nest as a...sort of cat box they've fallen into together. In the hills above the village, there's what's left of a resort…" Slim stopped, gave Dean a once over and sighed. "Of course you don't know what a resort is. There's an old hotel, built before everything fell apart. They've nested there. And now they're demanding tribute, as if they were some sort of royalty instead of a troop of half crazy, rabid monsters-no offense."

He directed a look down his nose at Sam, and Dean was pleased that Sam just pulled his head back and looked down his own delicate swoop of a nose at the bastard. "Sure," he sneered.

The mayor stopped. The look he gave Sam was one of surprise, and interest, before fading back into boredom. "They've taken five of our people, and the local vamp family refuses to do anything about it. They told us the feral ones were our problem, not theirs."

Dean nodded. No surprise that was the course they'd take. The Families would kill each other over vamp biz, but they weren't about to do it for humans. They'd trade with humans-vamps were damn good scavengers, bringing goods in from places humans (or weres) couldn't go, due to climate, lack of food or water, or the need to breathe regularly.

In return, to keep the truce the Men had cobbled together after the end of the world, the vamps got their animal blood from the humans in trade: nicely, conveniently packaged, sometimes mixed with volunteer blood depending on the community. The vamps were industrious, always out to trade for new clothing, boots, knick-knacks-'cause they were non-dead, vain motherfuckers, with no creative ability of their own. Being dead-ish did that to you, Dean guessed.

Bowls of soup was set on the table, breaking into his vampirical ruminations. The soup smelled amazing, and looked it, thick with chunks of meat and potatoes. There were plates holding thick slices of still-warm bread, too. Something behind him let out a low roar, followed by Sam growling curses under his breath.

Dean smiled, shook his head. That's my hungry boy.

He pulled a chair out for Sam, making a show of seating him, gleefully ignoring Sam's bright-red face and irritated snarl. He sat himself then, and took a deep pull of the local-made beer Mayor Slim had slid over to them when their food appeared.

"Damn, that's good stuff; your guys know what they're doing." Dean set the glass down, and addressed the remarkable soup, wolfing down spoon after spoon. Ever-Fresh food was fine, but it lacked a certain something that fresh-that-day food had.

When his tastebuds let him, Dean put his spoon down, leaned back from the table with a satisfied sigh and said, " All right, so you've been cleared, approval-wise, from the Not-Crazy Vamps. You wanna give me a map of the area and a headcount of the crazy ones? And when's the last time they took someone?"

"Ready for business. I like that in a man," Slim said. "Now, so I know who I'm dealing with-introductions. I'm Mr. May. Yes, yes, Mayor May. And you are?"

He frowned, noticing that May's introductions didn't extend to Sam-he didn't even look Sam's way. "I'm Dean Winchester, hunter first class, registered Man of Letters agent, and amongst the many jobs I'm tasked with is checking what's being tithed against what villages actually produce. Like this really damn fine beer…" The checking-on-tithing part was a lie, but May didn't know that. Dean smacked the glass down on the table top, licked his lips, and shot the mayor a grin.

Mayor May went a few shades paler, and Dean grinned wider.

"Anyway, I need to talk to my bosses before I take this job on officially. Don't worry, I will take it on," he said, glancing at the guy who'd treated Sammy with some concern and a dab of respect. The guy nodded, like Dean was having a pow-wow with him instead of Slim. "It'd just be cool to get the whole bounty if I get it registered as a job. Now, as to how I do the job-me and Sam here will work it alone. Feral vamps ain't amateur hour, okay?"

Everyone at the table nodded in agreement, except for Sam, who was attacking the butter-soaked bread in front of him like it was his job, looking up only when the silence registered. "Whu?"

"Nothing, honey, you just enjoy your little snack there, and don't forget your napkin."

Sam grunted and went back to the bread. Dean turned to Mayor May with a bit of his smile still lingering-it evaporated at May's speculative look. "So, see here, what say we work out a deal between me and you? This beer is good, excellent even. I know you got plenty pork, that generator's not running on gas. How about we say, some smoked meat, some Sage, couple good bottles of that beer and some cooking spices? That's not a big hit-I can see by the looks of you you have plenty."

May nodded slowly. "True. It's not a lot to ask. But we don't want the fact that our situation is optimal made known to anyone."

"Understood. That's not the kind of information I pass about, anyway. My job is to deliver the mail and courier packages. I don't owe anyone, Moles included, more than that."

The mayor fixed a long, icy look on Dean. "All right. We have a deal."

=@=

After dinner, Dean and Sam retired to their lodgings for the night-a pile of blankets spread out in Lucille's bed. Not having to barter for shelter right now couldn't hurt. Instead of a room, Dean planned to stock up on stores, maybe ammo if they had it; if he was really lucky they'd have gasoline here, too. In the meantime, he'd best contact his home base; the Sioux Falls chapter house. He could mix business with a social call. And that meant hauling out the radio.

He clicked on a small wizard's lamp, pushed aside the ugly, pink blanket Sam held onto like it was made of dragon gold; there was a locker on the rear of the truck's bed from which he took a small, somewhat battered wooden box from. It was draped in a piece of worn velvet, embroidered with some simple wardings. The front of the cedar box was decorated with brass dials and buttons, some of whose functions he didn't understand even after all this time-the old-school, original-flavor Men who'd forced the box on him were a close-mouthed bunch, not like his family in Sioux Falls.

He lit one of his fancy smokes before taking a few pieces from the bag. Inhaling deeply, and blowing out a thin, satisfying stream of smoke, Dean set to assembling the radio, whose insides were an assortment of interlocking metallic pieces that made no sense to him. He knew how to assemble them, that was the sum of it. Along with the metal-puzzle insides, a preserved eagle's eye, and a pinch of sugar in a thumbnail-sized copper box went inside it as well. Dean attached a hand crank to one side, then a hook shaped like a claw on the other, meant to support a pair of headphones.

Dean slid the headphones over his head-once he had them settled in place, he cranked, cranked, cranked the box until finally a series of tiny lights across the top flickered to life. It sputtered and crackled until finally settling into a quiet hum and a feminine voice said, "Men of Letters, Grand Station South Dakota. How may we assist?"

"It's me, Dean Winchester. Connect me to Bobby or Missouri, at the Sioux Falls chapter house, please."

"One moment. Your proof of person, please."

Crap. He hated POPs, but what could you do? Gripping the cigarette tightly between clenched teeth, he pushed his finger into a shallow dip in the headphone-side of the box and winced when a pinpoint of pain bloomed in the pad of his finger. Sam turned towards him, the edge of the blanket he'd had tucked over his head sliding down. He sniffed, head tilted. Picking up the scent of blood, Dean guessed, so he jerked his head towards the box and rolled his eyes.

Sam nodded. No doubt Sam understood all about sorcerers, magicians, witches, and the goofy stuff they got up to.

"Dean, hello. It's so good to hear from you. It's been more than a minute, dear. And stop whining about that tiny pinprick, I swear." Missouri's voice came out clearly from the radio.

"What? It hurts! Anyway, I'm sorry about the radio-silence, Miz. I took the route past Boulder and got saddled with the mail and some mole, I mean, MoL drops. I'm calling to check in on you-"

"And to get permission for a vamp hunt, I picked up on that. Now, who's this you got traveling with you, honey? You find a cousin or something out there?"

"What? No, I recovered a skinwalker a while back. We've been traveling tight-did you mix us up some how?"

"Maybe...he doesn't quite feel like a 'walker, exactly. Well. Come on by after you do them vamps. In the meantime, I'll get you registered, get a bounty fixed for you. Be careful."

"Why? Why'd you say that? Is something-"

"I said 'be careful' because that's what you say when a loved one goes off to a dangerous job, sweetheart. No matter how skilled they are." Her tone was sharp and a little exasperated, clear to Dean despite the distance.

"Oh. Okay," Dean half laughed.

"Um-hum. Go on, get some sleep. And remember I want to see the both of you soon. Also, I told you stop smoking that tobacco, it's bad for you. And don't smoke all that Sage you got for Bobby, you hear?"

"Yes ma'am, Miz. Love you too."

He hung up smiling, found himself caught in Sam's gaze. He tossed the butt and raised an eyebrow at Sam. "Hmm?"

"Who was that?" Sam asked. The look he gave Dean seemed like he was trying for mildly interested, but it kind of shot past that into...jealousy? Dean shook his head. What the hell did the kid have to be jealous of? Dean decided his brain was melting down or something.

He plopped the headphones on the box, and said, "Was talking to my second mom-I mean a lady who's like a mother to me. Missouri helped my dad to raise me, taught him a lot about the life. Motherly woman with a backhand like a sledge hammer and the ability to shoot a gnat's asshole out."

Sam nodded seriously. "Skill like that comes in handy."

Dean started, and burst out laughing. "Was that a joke? Did you just tell a joke?"

"Fuck you," Sam smirked, and rolled back up in his blanket. Dean watched him for a while, putting off the paper work he'd have to do, watched the long, slim shape of Sam, the faint wash of lamp light on his cheek highlighting a perfectly placed beauty mark….

Beauty mark? What the fuck? Dean turned his whole body away from Sam and glowered at the MoL radio. "That damn thing is giving me brain damage."

=@=

The place May described sat back in a clearing in the woods, a circular sort of track nearly swallowed by a flowering vine that led to a pair of double doors, empty frames now, surrounded a spray of glass shards. Dean listened for Sam at his back and could barely hear him-smart, well-trained. He felt a brief shiver of guilt. Sure he was good at this, the kid had been bait his whole life.

They eased over the threshold-Dean didn't bother to waste Sam's time explaining that the vamps would be sluggish, sleepy in the day time. Dark inside the place or not, the sun was high in the sky now, and would be fucking with their response time. Sam knew that. What Dean didn't expect was Sam's puzzled face when he handed him a machete. Sam held it in an awkward sort of grip at arm's length, like he was ready to drop it in an instant. Gave Dean an eyebrow-cocked look of 'what the hell?'

Damn it, of course Sam was shit at handling weapons, nobody armed bait, for suck's sake. Dean jumped back when Sam suddenly swung the machete through the air. He slashed downwards and across, a move that while definitely awkward and a little shaky, would have taken a vamp's head off clean enough. He glanced at Dean, and smirked.

Of course his little monster knew how to swing a blade-sort of. Kid probably knew the basics of everything; must have watched everything around him like a hawk. If he hadn't had that tattoo on his neck along with the lock-in-spells....

Just how safe was it to have an armed, perpetually pissed-off skinwalker at his back? Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam, who immediately retreated behind a frown. Now, though, Dean could make out disappointment in his expression as well. Sam scowled harder as the tip of the blade lowered.

Taking a leap of faith, because for some fucking reason he was beginning to trust the brat, Dean hissed, "Shit, son, keep it, watch out for the suckers and swing for the bleachers when they come, you hear me?"

Sam jerked, astonishment opening his eyes wide, and the machete flew up again. Sam nodded, so hard his hair flew around his face. Like an eager puppy.

It was a small nest of vamps, but they were obviously bat-shit crazy, all of them. There were bits and pieces of bodies everywhere, and the place smelled like the back end of a rendering factory during a heatwave.

Dean worked his way as quietly as he could through the tangle of rotting meat and heaped cast-offs of the vamps' victims: shoes, clothes, hair. Here and there Dean's eyes were drawn to things glinting in the low light-jewelry hung from broken beams and smashed bits of furniture. It was like skulking through the nest of gigantic, insane magpies.

He looked up at a soft clucking sound. Sam was poised over a sleeping vamp, one finger over his lip and the machete held high. Tipped his chin at Dean and Dean nodded: right, they should both lower the count before the vamps woke-which the fuckers would at the first stroke through one of them. Smart move, Sam...

Dean got in position, and at Sam's count, they struck together-two suckers down from the jump. The rest rose up out of the garbage, screaming in rage and really, for creatures that were supposed to move slow during the high sun, they darted about like hyperactive lizards. Fucking fuck-these vamps were faster than they should have been-the crazy in them eating up any resemblance to human beings. Still, between Sam's skinwalker reflexes and strength, and Dean's experience and skill, they put the nest down neatly. Mostly neatly, Dean thought, staring down at the hacked-up huddle of headless, and a few limbless, blood-suckers. He was covered with scratches, Sam too, a few of them maybe deep enough to need stitches, though Sam's probably wouldn't.

Dean took a deep breath and closed his eyes-opened them again quickly when his brain insisted on rewinding the tape to vamps jittering all the fuck over the place, hissing and roaring, mouthfuls of needle sharp teeth and body parts flying-

"Fuck me…" He reached for the small knife he'd strapped to his ankle, hissed when movement scraped the tatters of his shirt against his wounds. He kicked one of the bodies in the gut. Fucker. He was about to give it another kick, just because, when he heard Sam calling him. He'd sent Sam to the truck right after they'd hacked the head off the last one to put together a set up for washing. It was something familiar and hopefully settling for him; like Sam said, it'd been one of his jobs since he was a pup. He assured Dean he knew just what was needed: holy water, salt, soap, nothing too complicated.

"Good boy. While you do that, I'll take the bounty proof and meet you by the truck."

Sam had already cleaned his weapon and washed himself by the time Dean had collected proof of death; he had water for Dean ready when he came out. And...he was wearing one of Dean's shirts.

Dean was surprised, but not pissed off by that. Hunting was a game that, if you had a partner, your shit was pretty much community property. There were plenty of times he'd worn his dad's stuff, and vice versa. But looking at Sam standing there, stretching out the shoulders of Dean's t-shirt, the material pulled tight against his chest...well, he'd never felt quite like this when he'd seen Dad in his clothes.

Sam in the meantime, had backed up against the truck. One hand was in a tight fist at his side, the other was rubbing hard at his knee. He was looking slightly to the left of Dean, his head tipped a little, just enough to put a sweet curve in his neck. Before Dean could ask if his knee had gotten fucked up, Sam snapped, "I just. I needed your shirt-a shirt. Mine was, it was-" His lip curled, showing teeth.

"Hey, it's cool," Dean quickly said, hands out and a smile on his face. "I mean, you're stretching the hell out of it, but it's okay. Good taste, dude. Zeppelin rules."

Sam had obviously never heard of Led Zeppelin in his life, but he relaxed, and while not quite smiling back, jerked his chin at the bucket. "Ready for you."

Dean beamed at him, tucked what was left of his shirt into the laundry bag and ran the cold, soapy water quickly over his arms and chest, trying to act like soap in his cuts didn't sting like a bitch. "What a night, hunh?"

Sam just rolled his eyes as he collected the gray water, but Dean was pretty sure he detected the ghost of a smile on his mug, too. And if Dean sort of incidentally flexed his biceps and pecs as he was wiping off, just a bit, well-it was worth it for the snort, and the blush he earned from Sam.



phoenix1966

Chapter five