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I feel so accomplished. Fic! Again! Yay! :)
Of course, this fic was *started* waaaaaay back at the beginning of season two. Sad, i know. But i've finally got it done and here it is and hell yeah, yay.
Beta'd by![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
darkhavens, of coz, who continues to be horrifically evol at every turn.
*eyes folder full of Inception fic* Dear gods - she could enable Jesus to kinky gay internet sex. And probably has. The title is from the movie of the same name staring James Cagney because, well...James Cagney rocks. :)
So - on with the show. Sam/Dean, Spike/Xander, drinking and swearing and killing of things. Good times!
They were five hundred miles past Flagstaff, and highway 54 was a river of endless black. Sugar stars were dusted over a navy-satin sky and distant mesas bulked across the horizon. The radio was turned down low, some station out of Mexico tuning in and out. Static and the throbbing strum of a guitar, echo and fade. No other sound except for the cooling ticks of the car's engine and the ringing call of nighthawks, sieving the air for insects.
Dean attempted to fluff the wad of flannel shirt he was using for a pillow, but it resisted. Damn all poltergeists and the snotty little brats that attract them, he thought, yawning and then wincing as his bruised jaw twinged. Damn 'em all to hell. Hell, yeah... Dean snorted in amusement and there was a slithering sound from the back seat as Sam shifted.
"What?"
"Nothin'," Dean said and twisted a little, wincing again as his strained shoulder sent an arrow of pain through him. "Ow, damnit!"
"Did you take anything?"
"Yeah, I took three."
"Good thing we stopped, then." Sam shifted again and Dean grimaced in sympathy as he heard Sam's knee crack into the door.
"Don't hurt my car, Sam."
"Your car sucks for sleeping, Dean."
"Hey!" Dean lifted his head and glared into the back seat, where Sam was a dark, humped shape in the frail starlight. "It's not her fault your legs are so freakishly long."
"Her? Her? It's just a -"
"Don't dis the ride, Sammy boy." Dean settled back, arms crossed, chin sinking down to his chest. Everything ached and he was sure he wouldn't sleep until the pills kicked in. But until then, the desert air was sweet and crisp, the random pipings of insects and animals soothing. Dean closed his eyes, pulling the five-dollars-at-Stuckey's fake Navajo blanket higher. He was asleep in five minutes.
"Hey, Sam, wake up!" Dean poked at Sam's neck with a Slim Jim, snickering when Sam bolted awake, batting at the tickling plastic.
"Jesus!" Sam rubbed his neck – dragged his hand up over his face and back through his hair, looking blearily around. "What the hell?"
"Motel. I'm gonna check us in." Dean turned the car off and Sam slumped down again, shooting him a look.
"You didn't have to wake me up for that."
"Dude, you were drooling on the leather." Dean squinted out through the wash of rain on the windshield, grinning as Sam surreptitiously checked for drool. He got out of the car and walked fast to the office, scooting in under a leaky gutter and cursing as rivulets of cold water got in past his collar and trickled down the back of his neck. The Indian woman behind the counter watched him wipe his feet and nodded approvingly. Her sari was blindingly pink with dark pink edges and it made Dean want to squint. Have her eating out of my hand in a minute, Dean thought, and turned on the charm.
Their room was around the back, facing a steeply sloping wooded hill. They were on the second floor and Sam left the door open – pushed the window open, too, letting the cool, wet air puff out the staleness. It was mild, for November. Dean bounced on one bed and then the other and piled all their gear on the one furthest from the door.
"It's got a wicked sag," he told Sam, but Sam just nodded, already distracted. Hunting around for an outlet so they could charge up the laptop and the phones, pushing his wet hair back off his face. Dean just sat and watched him – handed over his phone and then bent to unlace his boots. He flopped back on the bed and heeled them off – pulled his socks off in the 'squish the toe and pull foot out' method he'd perfected as a kid. Then he carefully stretched, feeling the lingering soreness in his left shoulder, hip and knee. Getting tossed into a wall was never fun.
"You don't wanna go eat?" Sam asked, dropping his jacket onto a chair.
"Nah – we can order pizza or something."
"Oh, yeah, pizza." Sam wandered over and shut the door, then sat down next to Dean. He got his own sneakers and socks off and then his hoodie – leaned back on one elbow, this little smile on his face. The smile he wore when they were alone, familiar and mostly just for Dean. The rain hissed softly outside, the whole world grey-green-gold, the sun still a couple hours from setting somewhere behind the clouds. "Don't you ever get sick of pizza?"
"Nah. Can't have too much cheese and grease."
"That's what you think. One of these days you're gonna go face-first in the dirt with a heart attack, right in the middle of a hunt."
"You're just Mr. Sunshine, aren't you?"
"Fact of life, man. All that cholesterol –"
"Oh, just shut up," Dean said. He pushed himself up and over, knocking Sam flat and then squashing him a little, chest to chest and Dean's thigh over Sam's. Dean threaded his fingers up through Sam's hair and knocked his head back into the mattress a couple of times. "Repeat after me: pizza-is-good-for-you."
"Pizza-will-kill-you," Sam chanted, grinning – hands fisted in the shoulders of Dean's shirt. Dean just had to wipe that grin off Sam's face. So he did, lips and tongue and teeth right there on Sam's. When he finally pulled back for a breath, the grin was gone.
Works every time, Dean gloated, and dove back in.
In the morning they drove out of Jefferson City along highway 50, the dome of the Capitol building glinting in the washed-soft light. It only hurt a little, being there.
It rained all across Illinois and Indiana and they spent an extra day near the Little Wabash River, double and triple-washing mud out of everything thanks to a water nixie. Nixies were rare, tenacious and mean. Sam sported a nasty black eye for days and Dean had scuffs on both knees from being dragged through sharp gravel. But the drownings stopped.
Somewhere around the Hoosier National Forest they pulled over for new windshield wipers and sandwiches so thick you had to squish them before you could fit them in your mouth. After, Dean flipped through a Car & Driver magazine while Sam perused the trail-mix selection. They walked out with a bag full of M&M's and licorice and jelly beans. Of course, Sam immediately started picking out the orange beans.
"If green ones make you horny, what do the orange ones do?" Dean asked.
"That only works with M&M's." Sam unfolded a map and squinted down at it and Dean opened up the M&M's with his teeth, searching for green. "You're such a perv," Sam said, but his voice made it a caress.
They were about to call it quits for the night outside a bar in Ashtabula, Ohio when they heard the crack of breaking wood. A moment later there was a muffled shout back behind the rambling wooden structure. Dean looked over at Sam and grinned a little, bouncing on the balls of his feet with pent-up energy. The sudden rush of adrenaline was like tingling heat all through him. Sam shoved the laptop bag into the back seat with a resigned sort of noise.
"Dude – somebody could be in trouble," Dean said, and Sam rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, somebody could..." Sam looked around – jerked a length of board off a warped pallet that was leaning next a dumpster, hefting it thoughtfully. "Or – maybe you're just bored."
"Well – yeah. You wouldn't let me blow you in the bathroom."
Sam turned an incredulous face toward Dean. "Dude, that's disgusting. I don't wanna have sex in a public toilet."
The look of horror on Sam's face made Dean laugh. "Picky, picky. Skin washes."
"Hepatitis doesn't," Sam muttered, and Dean laughed again. He touched his fingertips to the knife at his waist and they ghosted silently down the alley. There was a single, dim bulb high up behind a wire guard over the loading bay and they stuck to the shadows, Sam a half step behind and to the left.
Two guys were standing in a mostly-clear space, back to back; taller dark-haired guy and shorter blond guy. Surrounded by four other guys and one girl, all of them crouched and circling and predatory in a way that made the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand up.
"You're gonna be fucking sorry, man," one of the stalkers said, flexing hands at least as big as Sam's. "This is our city. We're gonna carve you up and feed you to the dogs."
"Always talking the bloody talk, aren't you?" the blond guy said, TV-English accent, grinning a nasty and fearless grin and, for a moment, Dean thought he might actually have a chance. Then the dark-haired guy turned his head, showing a patch over his left eye and Dean couldn't suppress his groan of frustration. Half-blind, in this dark alley? Against that many? Guy didn't stand a chance. The blond guy looked up – seemed to look right at Dean for one second and then he looked away again, still grinning.
"Sam," Dean whispered. Gesturing out to his left and fading right, crouching down. Advancing in small steps, doing his best to avoid the scattered trash, broken glass and teetering piles of cardboard boxes that crowded the space. Sam was doing the same, nearly invisible in the gloom despite his size.
"How about you walk the bloody walk, you wanker," blond guy said. He lifted his chin, dismissive, and the guy with the patch made a kind of 'come on' gesture. He was grinning too.
These guys are fucking nuts, Dean thought. But – a fight was a fight, and Dean was bored. And nothing got him hotter faster than a good tussle. Just ask Sam.
Mouthy guy snarled – and kept snarling – and Dean felt a nauseating little rush of icy cold all through his gut as the guy's face changed. Moved and morphed and took on a strange, low-browed sort of look. Leonine, with glittering golden eyes and fangs, for fuck's sake. Dean heard Sam make a tiny noise of total shock and then the – thing – launched itself right at the blond and one of the other things aimed a punch at patch-guy's head.
Jesus – Christ... what the fuck...? "Sam –"
"What have we here? Latecomers to the party," someone said, and Dean spun around to see two more things dropping down from the roof of the bar. Dropping light and easy, making a joke of the fifteen feet between roof and alley floor. A guy and another girl, eyes flaring up candle-gold in the pale light.
"Fuck...me," Sam muttered, and the girl-thing gave him a look. One Dean totally recognized.
"That an invitation, daddy long-legs? Bet you're good."
"Oh, for fuck's sake." Dean pulled his knife out and took a step toward Sam, closing the gap between them. "Lay off with the pseudo-sexy talk, okay? You bad guys are all alike."
"'Pseudo sexy'? Sam muttered, little half smile lifting the corner of his mouth.
"Word-A-Day dot com," Dean muttered back, grinning.
The guy – thing – facing them made an annoyed sort of noise, like a cat being stepped on. "Bite me, human," he snarled and then he was piling into Dean like a fucking freight train, fists connecting hard and those fangs way, way too close. And Dean was ducking and blocking and falling back because these things were strong and Dean's knife to the hilt in its chest didn't do fuck all but make it roar like a pissed-off lion. Dean's head was already ringing from the solid, crunching blows and that really didn't help. Plus there was blood dripping into his eye. It felt warm.
Sam was dodging – weaving – getting in hits with the two-by but not hard enough to knock the girl-thing out. Taking a couple of high kicks right into his ribs and wheezing. Girl-thing dodged a blow and the end of the two-by shattered against a wall, old wood splitting jaggedly. They were herded step by step down the alley, Sam crowding into Dean and Dean crowding into Sam, and all of a sudden the blond guy was there. He pushed between them – dodged a startled swing of the two-by and snatched it out of Sam's hands.
"How about I just finish up here, yeah?" he said, and lunged at the girl-thing. The pale, pointy end of the two-by punched right into her chest and she screamed and then...
"What the fuck?" Dean said, feeling slightly fuzzy in the head. A hand twisted into his collar and jerked him backwards. Patch-guy.
"Would you believe it's all done with mirrors?" patch-guy asked.
"Not on your fucking life," Sam said, panting. Staring at the little swirly pile of ash or dust or whatever it was the girl-thing had crumbled into.
"You bastards!" the other thing yelled, advancing. Growling like something out of Wild-fucking-Kingdom. The blond guy feinted right and then left and then buried the two-by in the guy-thing and he exploded, too.
"Bloody amateurs," blond guy said, and Dean didn't know if he meant the things, or him and Sam.
"Sammy, you okay?"
"Just got the wind kicked out of me," Sam said, pressing his hand to his side with a wince that said it was a little more than that. "You okay? You're bleeding." Sam reached for Dean's face, fingers going up to his left eye.
"Just a flesh wound," patch-guy said and the other guy snorted.
He took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up, puffing smoke into the chill air. "Best get that cleaned up before something comes sniffing. In fact – why not just bugger off altogether?"
"Hey, we came back here to help you," Sam snapped. Dean blotted his face on the tail of his shirt, the fuzziness sharpening rapidly as adrenalin did its thing.
"And look how well that turned out." The cigarette-end flared and smoke puffed out, blue-grey. "Don't you lot know better than to go running into dark alleys?"
"Listen up, blondie –" Dean stepped right up into blond guy's face but patch-guy was just as fast – just as close, his hand on Dean's chest, lightly touching. He had a bruise on his jaw.
"Okay – quit. Listen, just – thanks for trying to help, but there's stuff going on that you guys –"
"Were they demons?" Sam asked, and blond guy looked sharply up at him. Patch-guy sighed. "Well, were they? They weren't ghosts, obviously. Or any kind of spiritual manifestation because they left – stuff behind. Shapeshifters maybe? I've never seen –"
"All right, you've made your point." Blond guy took a step or two back, drawing on his cigarette and looking over at patch-guy, who shrugged. "Right. Okay. They were vampires; we dusted 'em – end of story. Stay out of dark places and don't invite strangers into your house."
"Vampires? No way." Dean didn't miss the eye-roll from blond guy. "We've seen vampires and those guys were nothing like the vamps we took out."
"How were they different?" Patch-guy looked interested – maybe even worried.
Dean wiped at his eye again, wincing a little at the sting of it. "They looked human. When they attacked, another set of teeth descended over the human ones. The only thing that killed them was –"
"Beheading. Yeah. Those guys." Blondie sighed and shot a look at patch-guy. "Remember? By-blows of the Lilu – descendants of Lilith."
"Wait – Lilith?" Sam looked pole-axed. "You mean...?"
"First wife of Adam, goddess of the night, all that, yeah." Blond-guy waved his hand dismissively. "They're...sort of vampires." His mouth curled in something like a snarl. "Bunch of inbred bastards."
Dean felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. No way. No way there's more than one kind of vampire. Jesus – Dad didn't even know... Where the hell are all these vamps hiding? Why don't we know?
Blondie took a last pull off his cigarette and flicked the butt away into the darkness. "Listen, we've got things to do, evil creatures of the night to kill. Why don't you two run along home –"
"We don't live here," Dean snapped, and blondie's eyebrow went up. "We were checking out a possible...a..." Sam's expression was saying 'no, dude, don't go there!' but Dean didn't care. "A loup-garou."
"Dean."
"What's a loup-garou?" Patch-guy asked.
"Sort of a werewolf," Blondie said, "only not. More of a curse, like." Blondie gave Dean an appraising stare. "You can break the curse."
"Yeah, we know. Did it once before." Sam didn't look happy, his hand still pressed hard to his ribs.
Dean frowned. "I've never seen anything like –" he waved his hand at the drifts of dust on the alley floor. "Like that. Nobody I know has."
"You haven't been living in the right cities," patch-guy muttered, smiling a little.
"Tell me –"
"We don't have the time. And I don't have the bloody patience." Blondie lit up again, smoking hard. "Wood through the heart kills 'em, so does fire or taking their heads off. Or sunlight, if you can get 'em out into it. That's all you need to know." He turned a sudden grin on patch-guy, who looked back, expectation on his face. "There's a pint callin' my name, Xander – let's not disappoint."
"How about let's not get drunk and brag about how many times you can get it up in a night?" patch-guy muttered. Xander.
"Why? Makes the punters jealous." Blondie snagged Xander's sleeve and tugged and Xander went, turning around half way up the alley.
"You guys be careful, okay? Don't invite strangers in – vampires can't come inside unless you invite them."
"Unless you're in a motel," Blondie added, smirking, and then they turned the corner and disappeared.
Dean looked over at Sam, who was sagging against the wall a little, wide-eyed. "You okay really?"
Sam nodded – straightened up. "Yeah, I'm good. Do you – believe them?"
They started back toward the car and Dean shrugged, scuffling his feet through the little patches of fine, sparkling dust. He was starting to feel cold as the adrenaline wore off. "Well, why not? We saw those... things. Vampires. Saw their faces and –"
"Saw that guy turn 'em into dust."
"Yeah. So – why not? Not like we haven't seen –"
"Crazier things," Sam finished for him. "Yeah." Sam paused at the corner, glancing up at the buzzing neon bar sign. "Wanna get a beer?"
"Rather just stop and grab a six-pack," Dean said. "Check out your manly bruises."
"At least I didn't bleed like a stuck pig," Sam said, poking him with an elbow. Dean poked back, but gently.
The noise didn't wake Dean. Not really. Bass-heavy music turned way up and the rumbling engine of something old and powerful was the soundtrack of Dean's life. He barely surfaced – just shifted a little, twisting in the bed enough to feel Sam's thigh with his knee. Then he sank back down.
A minute later, though, he was awake, heart pounding. He jerked upright in the bed, his hand closing around the knife-hilt under his pillow. Because something had just slammed into their door, hard. What the fuck –? The bed juddered as Sam moved, too – as he lifted his gun from the nightstand, silent. The knob rattled and there were voices. Loud voices.
"No, no...no. You hafta – hafta use the...key. Key."
"I don't have the bloody key!"
"I recognize that voice," Sam hissed and Dean did too.
"No fuckin' way," Dean muttered and then he was off the bed and at the door. Sam was right behind him, gun up and ready, his hair a rat's nest and the bruising on his ribs dark and ugly in the dim light that was coming in around the curtains. He nodded and Dean reached out – undid the lock and yanked the door open fast.
Xander all but fell into the room, Blondie attached to him like a leather-covered limpet. Dean shoved them both into the jamb, his fist in the lapel of Blondie's coat. The sky was a deep navy, the horizon a faint, frail green, the sun still a half hour below the horizon. The air that spilled over the sill of the door was wet and cold, patchy with mist.
"What the fuck –?"
"Bloody hell! Get off me, wanker." Blondie jerked away from Dean but he didn't have anywhere to go, really, since he was plastered pretty solidly to Xander. "Oh – s'you two." Blondie gave Dean a look Dean really couldn't interpret. It made him feel – exposed.
"Whoa, hey! Hi!" Xander made an ineffectual attempt to get Blondie off him, but Blondie seemed to be resisting. Resisting and getting kinda...grabby. "Um...why are you in our room?" Xander asked, squinting at Dean.
"This is our room," Dean said. He looked down at where Blondie's hands were – at the predatory and not-nearly-that-drunk glitter in Blondie's eyes. "You guys really need to get your own room. Like – now."
"You said number nine, Spike," Xander muttered, looking confused. "Aren't we in number nine? Hey, hands!"
Spike? Who the hell is named Spike?
Spike made a show of thinking about it. "I don't have a bloody clue, love. You got us the room – I was just makin' a guess. Only ten rooms to choose from."
"And you chose the wrong one," Sam said, stepping around Dean, the gun held down and out. No threat, but a clear warning.
"Hey – you guys are naked," Xander said, and it took Dean way too long to process that. It took Sam a lot less time because he immediately scuttled back behind Dean.
Oh for fuck's sake. No wonder he was giving me that...look. Jesus. "Yeah, we're naked, uh...so what?"
Spike's mouth twisted up into an impossibly suggestive smirk and Dean braced himself to give a naked ass-kicking. "Sooo –" Spike drawled, but Sam interrupted him.
"Just go breathe fumes on somebody else, okay?" Sam snapped, stretching over Dean to grab the edge of the door and slam it shut. Spike jerked Xander back just in time, chuckling. They heard Xander saying something in a confused voice and Spike saying something back and then – Spike started singing. The same song that had been pounding across the parking lot.
"Oh we're so pretty...Oh so pretty...we're vacant...Oh we're so pretty...Oh so pretty vaaaay...cunt!"
Dean heard Sam huff out a long, annoyed breath behind him. "We just flashed the parking lot, Dean."
"It's dark outside, Sam. Nobody noticed." Just two drunk guys. No, correction. One drunk guy and one really horny guy.
There was a thump – the slam of a door and then another thump. On the wall directly behind the beds.
"Oh, don't tell me –"
Sam groaned, crawling under the covers and winding himself up in sheet and blankets like a mummy. Dean flopped down beside him, wrestling for his share and curling close. His feet were freezing.
"They've got the fucking room next door," Sam muttered, and Dean flicked Sam's ear.
"Ow!"
"Hello, Captain Obvious." Dean flashed on Spike's grabby-hands. "Please tell me they're not gonna –"
There was a third thump and the squeak of springs and then... Thump thump thump, with a rising chorus of accompanying moans. And talking. Loud talking in that English accent.
That was fast. "Jesus, he's got a filthy mouth," Dean whispered and Sam made a choking sort of noise, his belly heaving under Dean's hand. Dean lifted himself off the pillow, staring at Sam in the dimness. "Are you laughing?"
"Dude, it's funny...oh, Jesus..." Sam's voice trailed off into breathy giggles and Dean yanked him closer, deliberately putting his cold feet on Sam's calves. "Hey! Get off, fucker!"
"Oh, shut up." Thump! "How in hell am I supposed to go back to sleep now?"
"Well..." Sam twisted just enough, so he could look back at Dean. "We could always...drown them out."
Dean gaped, astonished, and the bruised side of his face twinged. Sam's hand crept over his hip and squeezed. "Sam, you dog, I didn't think you had it in you," he said finally.
Sam grinned.
When they got up again, it was at a far more respectable ten o'clock. They took turns showering and were just gathering up laptop, money, and jackets when there was a knock. Dean did a quick scan of the room, making sure any questionable items were tucked away and opened the door. The heavy-set woman on the other side opened her mouth to speak and then stopped. Bruises always look worse the next day, Dean thought. She had a stack of towels in her hands and her shirt had an embroidered patch that said 'Delilah'.
She blinked. "Good...morning. Housekeeping?"
"Hi! Hey, uh – we don't actually need, uh...anything."
"Nothing?." The woman peered at the beds, which were both rucked up. Neither one of them liked to sleep in the wet spot. "You don't need new sheets?"
"Nah, it's fine." Dean dug into his jacket pocket and found a crumpled twenty. He held it out to Delilah. "But you know what? Our friends next door in number ten? They wanted the full service for sure. So you could just – go on in."
The woman finally smiled, all dimples and one gold tooth. The twenty disappeared into her...actually fairly impressive cleavage. "Okay, honey, no problem."
"Great! That's great, Delilah. Thank you." Dean grinned back at her and then jumped when Sam poked him in the kidneys with the car keys. "What?" Dean said, snatching the keys and walking outside.
"Don't you think that's a little – juvenile?" Sam said, stepping out behind Dean and watching Delilah push her cart over to the next door.
"So's pretending to be drunk and making all that noise at oh-fucking-dark-hundred." It was chilly outside, overcast and still a little misty and Dean zipped his jacket up, ambling a step or two toward his car. Not really paying much attention to anything at all until he glanced up to survey the parking lot. Then he stopped dead. "Oh, wow. Look at that."
Sam looked. "Jesus – it's even bigger than your phallic symbol."
"I got your phallic symbol," Dean muttered, letting his eyes run over the sleek, black lines of the car parked crookedly next to the Chevy. Distantly, he listened as Delilah knock briskly at number ten. "That's a 1958 Dodge DeSoto," Dean said dreamily. It looked like the windows had been blacked out with spray paint. "What kind of an asshole desecrates a fucking beautiful car like that?"
"The kind of asshole that Delilah's gonna wake up in about ten seconds. Let's go get some breakfast before she does, okay Dean? Dean?"
"Huh?" Dean tore his gaze away from the pure lines of the gorgeous car – stared at Sam for a second before it clicked. "Oh, yeah. Housekeeping. Yeah – let's get some breakfast." He opened his door and got in and then rolled his window down – started the engine. Delilah pushed number ten open wide, "Housekeep – oh my God!" ringing across the parking lot. Dean grinned and zoomed away, followed by a volley of completely incomprehensible British swear words.
For breakfast they found a little bakery with a restaurant attached. They had a view of the lake and the air inside was warm and steamy and thick with the scent of yeast and sugar, almonds and coffee. Sam paged idly through a local paper, stopping now and again to read bits of hometown news. Mostly the strange sort of gossip a small town generated. The column in the paper was called 'Bits and Bobs'.
"Melvin Heimell shot thirteen squirrels that were gnawing the roof of his porch. He says he blames his live-at-home son who dumps bong-water out his window." Sam huffed into his coffee. "He says the squirrels got addicted and were chewing his porch to shreds."
"Jesus. So is the next bit the 'live-at-home son' bein' hauled off?"
"No, just the fine Melvin had to pay for discharging a weapon in city limits."
"Go, Melvin. Squirrels are evil fuckers."
"Don't tell me – you have a squirrel phobia?" Sam popped the last of his bacon and spinach quiche into his mouth and Dean rolled his eyes.
"No, I don't have a phobia. But what are squirrels, anyway? They're basically rats with fluffy tails. Should all be – shot or something."
Sam laughed around his mouthful of egg and pig and vegetation and Dean flicked bits of napkin at him, managing to get a scrap into Sam's coffee. "Hey!"
"It's just a napkin, dude."
"That you wiped all over your greasy, slobbery mouth." Sam squinted down into his coffee, poking at it with a little stir-stick.
"You sayin' you have something against my mouth?" Sam started to reply and then his eyes went narrow, darting toward the door and Dean twisted around to look. "For fuck's sake!"
"Oh. Hey. Uh – hi?" Xander standing there, blood-shot eye and bed-head hair and a crease across his cheek.
"Morning, sunshine – sleep well?" Dean purred.
Xander winced. "Um. Listen, guys – sorry about last night. This morning, I mean. Uh – we were kinda…"
"Horny."
"Drunk. And horny. Um." A look of dawning horror suddenly crossed his face. "Oh. Oh, hell. You guys are right –"
"Next door, yeah," Sam said. He gave up trying to fish out the napkin fragment and took a cautious sip of his coffee. Dean smirked.
"Shit, guys, I'm…really sorry." Xander rubbed his hand over his face, careful around the eye-patch, and Dean almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
"Nah, don't worry about it. We've spent a lot of time in motels – you kind of get used to it."
"Tell me about it," Xander muttered. He pushed his hand back through his hair and then suddenly looked at Dean and Sam. "You guys were naked."
"We were in bed," Sam said, blushing, and Dean just leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out a little.
"Yeah, guess you got an eyeful and we got an earful. Even?"
"Um." Xander's eyes snapped back up to Dean's face. "Yeah, sure. Even, I guess." He sighed. "Now I have to get doughnuts and coffee to appease the Pissed Off One."
"Your buddy not a morning person?"
"Not as such, no," Xander said. He walked over to the counter and leaned there, gazing blankly at the doughnuts and pastries and quiches on display. Luckily for Dean, the place also did a killer biscuits and gravy.
"Dude!" Sam hissed, scowling. "He was totally checking you out!"
"Of course he was, Sammy. Most people just can't help themselves."
"Shut up, you freak," Sam muttered and irritably flapped his paper. Dean decided he needed another bear claw and got up – sauntered over to the counter and leaned next to Xander, hip-shot and grinning. A calculated grin.
Xander glanced up at him and groaned softly. "Jesus Christ. Not another one." He leaned over the counter, knocking on the warm glass. "Hello? Anybody back there?"
Dean just grinned some more.
"So, I think I found our loup-garou," Sam said, and Dean glanced up, his hands steadily sharpening the last of the knives.
"Yeah? What'cha got?"
"Well, all the attacks center around one particular neighborhood – right here," Sam tilted the area map in Dean's direction, pointing to a green space.
"Is that a park?"
"It is. But right next door is the Edgewood Cemetery. So I'm thinking whoever's cursing people –"
"Started with his neighbors. How convenient. And a graveyard full of supplies right in his back yard." Dean flipped the cover over the whetstone and stood up – stretched hard, knowing his shirt was riding up and his jeans sliding down. When he ended the stretch Sam was just sitting there. Staring. Gotcha, Sammy. "So that narrows down the field – what makes you think you know who it is?"
"Huh?" Sam blinked and finally looked up at Dean and Dean grinned. Sam rolled his eyes. "Not exactly a win, Dean – horny twenty-something, here."
"Horny geek, but I still gotcha. So – who's your choice?"
"Actually – Melvin Heimell's son."
"What, bong-boy?" Dean moved over to the wobbly hotel table and leaned over Sam's shoulder, one hand on the chair-back and one on the table, bracketing Sam.
Sam snorted. "This your patented 'librarian move'?"
"Yeah, what'cha think?" Dean murmured, his cheek inches from Sam's skull and his lips right there, just brushing the edge of Sam's ear. Sam's hair smelled like coconut.
"I thh…think you need to brush your teeth."
"God, you're a loser."
"Yeah, the loser you fuck – what's that make you?"
Lucky. Dean didn't say it out loud, just dropped his chin into the messy hair on top of Sam's head.
"Okay, so – I wanted to find out a little more about Melvin's squirrel problem and in yesterday's 'Bits and Bobs', Bob says –"
"Bob?"
"He writes it." Sam rustled the paper and Dean scrubbed his chin back and forth and when Sam spoke next, Dean could hear the smile in his voice. "Anyway, he said the local Lonely Hearts club should call on Melvin's son – his name's Clancy – because Clancy had been moping around, had quit his job, and was keeping himself indoors lately."
"Yup, loup-garou. Or, you know – he's stoned off his ass and hiding from the Satanic squirrels," Dean offered, and Sam reached up and flapped his hand, managing to whap Dean in the head. "Hey!"
"No Satanic squirrels. He was also admitted to the ER for lacerated feet and sleepwalking." Dean made a noise of incredulity. "Bob really gets around. He does the 'Pray for these sick people' column, too. I think we need to go find the Heimell residence, stake it out and break the curse on Clancy. In the last two weeks the loup-garou has injured five people and killed…" Sam flipped open a notebook and Dean finally lifted his hands and let them settle lightly on Sam's shoulders; let them slide slowly down while Sam talked. Sam took in a short little breath. "He's killed four cows, seven chickens, one goose, uh, five…dogs…"
"Big dogs or those yappy kind?" Dean murmured, circling Sam's wrists with his fingers – stroking gently along the sensitive underside with his thumbs; letting his lips graze the point of Sam's jaw and the soft skin just under it. Sam was warm under there.
"Um…all the yappy kind."
"Good for Clancy." Dean laced his fingers through Sam's and lifted Sam's hands up – brought them around and back and settled them on his own thighs. He opened his mouth and kissed the side of Sam's throat, just grazing with his teeth – tasting. "It's about…two hours until sunset...."
"Two hours and seventeen minutes," Sam said, his fingers kneading slowly along the backs of Dean's thighs.
"So…think that's enough time?" Dean asked, moving to nuzzle a little into the open collar of Sam's shirt. Skimming his tongue along Sam's collarbone.
"For what?" Sam breathed, his voice gone all low and rough. His head was tipping slowly back, eyes half-shut.
"To do some laundry," Dean said, straightening abruptly – little twist and he was free of Sam's hold. Sam jerked around, his eyes going wide – mouth coming open and his expression so bewildered and pissed off Dean laughed out loud. "Dude, my socks –"
"Oh, you bastard," Sam snarled, and tackled Dean to the bed. It was a good tackle – Dean approved.
"Shag ass, Sammy," Dean said, pulling on his jacket and checking for the keys.
"I already shagged your ass," Sam replied, then shook his head when Dean gave him a baffled look. "Shag? You know? Means 'fuck' if you're English?"
"Somebody's been watching too much Masterpiece Theatre."
"They don't say 'shag' on Masterpiece Theatre," Sam muttered and Dean shoved the obligatory duffel of 'just in case' weapons into Sam's chest.
"You are such a fucking nerd."
"Yeah, but you still want me." Sam body-checked Dean into the wall and snatched the keys out of his hand. "And I'm driving."
"Whoa, give you some time on top and you go all butch on me," Dean laughed – yelped when Sam goosed him.
"Bite me, bitch." He swung open the door and stepped out, smiling back at Dean and Dean lunged forward and grabbed his arm, yanking him back and keeping him from colliding with…someone.
'Someone' turned out to be Xander with an armful of beer and ice. "Oh, hey guys. Hi," Xander said. "You, uh…going out?"
"Thought we'd go check on our loup-garou," Dean said, edging around Sam and closing the door. Grinning, which made Xander blush. "Make sure he doesn't graduate to killing people."
"Too many sodding people on the planet, anyway," Spike said, leaning around the doorjamb of number ten. He looked like he'd just gotten up. He didn't look like he'd bothered to dress. Dean smirked when Sam looked away.
"Now, now, let's not bother these…uh…nice young men with your antisocial, probably Communist 'let 'em all die and there's no God to sort 'em out' world view, m'kay? It's early." Xander shifted ice and beer and waved an elbow at them. "Buh-bye."
"That your car?" Spike asked, easing outside. Well, he had jeans on. But they weren't buttoned all the way and Dean couldn't help it if he just had to check out what was probably the whitest white guy he'd ever seen. The hair, Dean noted, was naturally that honey-blond color.
"Dean." Sam's voice could have cut diamonds.
"Yup, that's my baby." Dean stepped over to the car and patted the hood affectionately. She needed a wash.
"Nice. 'Bout as nice as Delilah." Spike leaned against the wall, absently digging cigarette pack and Zippo out of a pocket. The jeans dipped dangerously.
Sam made a snorting sort of noise and opened the back door – tossed the duffel in. "We need to get going, Dean."
"Delilah? Oh, you mean the lovely lady from Housekeeping." Dean watched as Xander squeezed past Spike with an eye-roll that was pretty impressive for a guy with only one eye. "Yeah, she's a real peach. Hope she fixed you right up."
"Oh, God." Xander appeared in the doorway again, sans groceries. "We really need to get this beer on ice, guys, so –"
"Can't imagine why she thought we needed the full-on treatment," Spike said, pulling smoke into his lungs and flipping the Zippo shut. He lifted the cigarette from his mouth and flicked ash toward the parking lot. "I made it pretty clear she didn't need to come back."
"That's just great," Sam said, and Dean stretched just a little, going up onto the balls of his feet. Hands loose at his sides. Ready.
"Super!" Dean clapped his hands together, grinning at Spike, who was staring back, slit-eyed, through cigarette smoke. "Now that everybody knows which room is which…I'm sure she won't be bothering you." The front door creaked and slammed and the car started, engine revving under Sam's impatient foot.
"Ought to see to those hinges. Not very subtle, that." Spike drew in smoke and plumed it up and away and Dean grinned.
"Never been much for subtle."
"Sounds familiar." Xander's hand appeared on Spike's shoulder and he tugged. "Spike, the ice is melting."
"Sure, pet." Spike grinned back at Dean, his eyes half-shut and for just one moment, Dean felt a little chill. "See ya."
"Later." Dean walked around to the passenger door and slid inside and Sam backed and turned and drove out of the parking lot with a surprising lack of tire-squealing and engine racing. But he was scowling.
"I told you that was juvenile," Sam muttered.
"Ah, Sammy – lighten up! I got my point across."
"Yeah, so did he. Better make sure you keep an eye on the car tonight."
"Huh? Oh no, no, no. You don't get it, Sam. He wouldn't mess with my car."
"What makes you think that?" Sam asked. He pulled the marked and folded map of Ashtabula out of his jacket and glanced at it before taking a left.
"Because. He's got that –" Dean reached out and patted the dash, "that sweet little ride of his. We're kind of…you know…brothers. The girls are off-limits."
"Oh, God. I forgot about the overwhelming idiocy of the gearhead mind set."
"Dude, don't be insulting. It's pure practicality. The rides are sacrosanct." Dean turned and flashed a smile at Sam, the one that made him give Dean that 'you are such a moron' look. That look, right there. "Everything else is fair game."
"Jesus. I'm actually looking forward to possibly being mauled by a cursed man transformed into a wolf-thing," Sam muttered.
Dean just laughed and turned on the radio.
The Heimell household wasn't particularly impressive. It looked like the squirrels had been chewing on more than the porch roof. There was moss growing up there, plus a couple of ten-inch maple seedlings in the composty-looking pile of leaf-drift that had built up in the corner against the house. The lawn was unkempt and the sidewalk going up to the tilting porch was buckled and humped, dead dandelions cluttering the cracks.
As night well and truly came on, the temperature in the car dropped fast and Dean stuck his hands in his armpits, under his coat. "Man, I hate stake-outs."
"Yup, they're pretty boring, all right." Sam turned another page in the book he was reading by Itty Bitty Book Light and Dean felt the urge to smack him. What hunter used such a damn yuppie accoutrement, anyway?
"What hunter uses 'accoutrement'?" Sam said, sliding a sideways look of pure glee at Dean and Dean glared back.
"What?"
"What? Stop muttering so loud."
"Stop listening to my muttering!"
"If only I could." Sam snapped off the light and put the book down in the seat. "Looks like Clancy's going for a walk."
"Jesus, finally." They watched the weedy, flannel-jacketed figure lope off down the sidewalk, wooly-hatted head tucked low. "Looks like he's headed for ground zero."
"Well, the lake's that way," Sam said as they climbed out of the car. He had a Salvation Army blanket tucked up under his arm. "And there's a couple of parks…maybe he's going for someplace lonely and deserted."
"Wanna bet?" Dean said, patting the hilt of the silver-bladed knife he had at his waist.
"No, not really," Sam muttered, and they strode off after Clancy.
They walked about a block, Clancy's stride getting jerkier – clumsier. He turned in at the Edgewood Cemetery sign and Dean heaved an annoyed sigh. Definitely going to meet up with whoever had cursed him and carry out their evil plan to kill more Pomeranians or something. Fucking idiot evil sorcerers. Dean muttered under his breath across half the cemetery and almost missed it when Clancy went down on all fours, retching. Sam's hand shot out and stopped him and they both crouched behind a tall, wide marker of pale-colored stone.
"Okay. We have to draw blood, then name him as the...thing," Sam said, and Dean rolled his eyes, brandishing his knife.
"I know that already, Einstein. But thanks for the repeat."
"Just making sure we know the plan," Sam said. He drew a silver-bladed knife and braced himself to move.
After several moments of writhing, growling, groaning and whimpering – 'It's like some kind of fuckin' porno!' Dean observed gleefully – Clancy rose up. He was bipedal, hairy, hunchbacked and way too fast, and it took about five minutes of bait and switch – plus some yelling and stone throwing – until he charged into the little thicket of Rose of Sharon Dean and Sam had picked for the trap. Once he was inside, thrashing and howling, Dean ducked in under a flailing paw and scratched the tip of his knife across Clancy's hirsute chest just as Sam scratched his shoulder.
Clancy froze.
"Clancy Heimell – you are released from your curse!" Dean shouted, and Clancy growled. Then he whimpered and fell back among the branches.
After a few more minutes of thrashing and moaning – 'Don't say it, Dean!' – Clancy stood up. He clutched a handful of wet leaves self-consciously to his groin.
"Uh..."
"Don't say a word. Rules of the curse. Can't discuss – any of this. Here." Sam handed across the blanket and Dean looked away as Clancy wrapped it around his shoulders. "Now go home and don't do whatever it was you did to piss of whoever you pissed off again. Okay?"
"Uh...yeah," Clancy said. "Jesus, all I did was accidentally weed-whack her azaleas. Bitch." He eyed them both as he shuffled out of the bushes, wincing. "Did you bring any shoes?"
"Jeez, would you go home already?" Dean snapped and Clancy turned and limped off, muttering. "Man, talk about ungrateful."
"At least that's over," Sam said, wiping his knife clean on the side of his sneaker and tucking it away. Dean did the same and they both started ambling out of the cemetery. "Now all we have to do is find a house with mutilated azaleas."
"Great," Dean muttered. What the fuck did azaleas look like? "Just freakin' great."
Part two. Really, LJ? Really?
Of course, this fic was *started* waaaaaay back at the beginning of season two. Sad, i know. But i've finally got it done and here it is and hell yeah, yay.
Beta'd by
darkhavens, of coz, who continues to be horrifically evol at every turn.*eyes folder full of Inception fic* Dear gods - she could enable Jesus to kinky gay internet sex. And probably has. The title is from the movie of the same name staring James Cagney because, well...James Cagney rocks. :)
So - on with the show. Sam/Dean, Spike/Xander, drinking and swearing and killing of things. Good times!
They were five hundred miles past Flagstaff, and highway 54 was a river of endless black. Sugar stars were dusted over a navy-satin sky and distant mesas bulked across the horizon. The radio was turned down low, some station out of Mexico tuning in and out. Static and the throbbing strum of a guitar, echo and fade. No other sound except for the cooling ticks of the car's engine and the ringing call of nighthawks, sieving the air for insects.
Dean attempted to fluff the wad of flannel shirt he was using for a pillow, but it resisted. Damn all poltergeists and the snotty little brats that attract them, he thought, yawning and then wincing as his bruised jaw twinged. Damn 'em all to hell. Hell, yeah... Dean snorted in amusement and there was a slithering sound from the back seat as Sam shifted.
"What?"
"Nothin'," Dean said and twisted a little, wincing again as his strained shoulder sent an arrow of pain through him. "Ow, damnit!"
"Did you take anything?"
"Yeah, I took three."
"Good thing we stopped, then." Sam shifted again and Dean grimaced in sympathy as he heard Sam's knee crack into the door.
"Don't hurt my car, Sam."
"Your car sucks for sleeping, Dean."
"Hey!" Dean lifted his head and glared into the back seat, where Sam was a dark, humped shape in the frail starlight. "It's not her fault your legs are so freakishly long."
"Her? Her? It's just a -"
"Don't dis the ride, Sammy boy." Dean settled back, arms crossed, chin sinking down to his chest. Everything ached and he was sure he wouldn't sleep until the pills kicked in. But until then, the desert air was sweet and crisp, the random pipings of insects and animals soothing. Dean closed his eyes, pulling the five-dollars-at-Stuckey's fake Navajo blanket higher. He was asleep in five minutes.
"Hey, Sam, wake up!" Dean poked at Sam's neck with a Slim Jim, snickering when Sam bolted awake, batting at the tickling plastic.
"Jesus!" Sam rubbed his neck – dragged his hand up over his face and back through his hair, looking blearily around. "What the hell?"
"Motel. I'm gonna check us in." Dean turned the car off and Sam slumped down again, shooting him a look.
"You didn't have to wake me up for that."
"Dude, you were drooling on the leather." Dean squinted out through the wash of rain on the windshield, grinning as Sam surreptitiously checked for drool. He got out of the car and walked fast to the office, scooting in under a leaky gutter and cursing as rivulets of cold water got in past his collar and trickled down the back of his neck. The Indian woman behind the counter watched him wipe his feet and nodded approvingly. Her sari was blindingly pink with dark pink edges and it made Dean want to squint. Have her eating out of my hand in a minute, Dean thought, and turned on the charm.
Their room was around the back, facing a steeply sloping wooded hill. They were on the second floor and Sam left the door open – pushed the window open, too, letting the cool, wet air puff out the staleness. It was mild, for November. Dean bounced on one bed and then the other and piled all their gear on the one furthest from the door.
"It's got a wicked sag," he told Sam, but Sam just nodded, already distracted. Hunting around for an outlet so they could charge up the laptop and the phones, pushing his wet hair back off his face. Dean just sat and watched him – handed over his phone and then bent to unlace his boots. He flopped back on the bed and heeled them off – pulled his socks off in the 'squish the toe and pull foot out' method he'd perfected as a kid. Then he carefully stretched, feeling the lingering soreness in his left shoulder, hip and knee. Getting tossed into a wall was never fun.
"You don't wanna go eat?" Sam asked, dropping his jacket onto a chair.
"Nah – we can order pizza or something."
"Oh, yeah, pizza." Sam wandered over and shut the door, then sat down next to Dean. He got his own sneakers and socks off and then his hoodie – leaned back on one elbow, this little smile on his face. The smile he wore when they were alone, familiar and mostly just for Dean. The rain hissed softly outside, the whole world grey-green-gold, the sun still a couple hours from setting somewhere behind the clouds. "Don't you ever get sick of pizza?"
"Nah. Can't have too much cheese and grease."
"That's what you think. One of these days you're gonna go face-first in the dirt with a heart attack, right in the middle of a hunt."
"You're just Mr. Sunshine, aren't you?"
"Fact of life, man. All that cholesterol –"
"Oh, just shut up," Dean said. He pushed himself up and over, knocking Sam flat and then squashing him a little, chest to chest and Dean's thigh over Sam's. Dean threaded his fingers up through Sam's hair and knocked his head back into the mattress a couple of times. "Repeat after me: pizza-is-good-for-you."
"Pizza-will-kill-you," Sam chanted, grinning – hands fisted in the shoulders of Dean's shirt. Dean just had to wipe that grin off Sam's face. So he did, lips and tongue and teeth right there on Sam's. When he finally pulled back for a breath, the grin was gone.
Works every time, Dean gloated, and dove back in.
In the morning they drove out of Jefferson City along highway 50, the dome of the Capitol building glinting in the washed-soft light. It only hurt a little, being there.
It rained all across Illinois and Indiana and they spent an extra day near the Little Wabash River, double and triple-washing mud out of everything thanks to a water nixie. Nixies were rare, tenacious and mean. Sam sported a nasty black eye for days and Dean had scuffs on both knees from being dragged through sharp gravel. But the drownings stopped.
Somewhere around the Hoosier National Forest they pulled over for new windshield wipers and sandwiches so thick you had to squish them before you could fit them in your mouth. After, Dean flipped through a Car & Driver magazine while Sam perused the trail-mix selection. They walked out with a bag full of M&M's and licorice and jelly beans. Of course, Sam immediately started picking out the orange beans.
"If green ones make you horny, what do the orange ones do?" Dean asked.
"That only works with M&M's." Sam unfolded a map and squinted down at it and Dean opened up the M&M's with his teeth, searching for green. "You're such a perv," Sam said, but his voice made it a caress.
They were about to call it quits for the night outside a bar in Ashtabula, Ohio when they heard the crack of breaking wood. A moment later there was a muffled shout back behind the rambling wooden structure. Dean looked over at Sam and grinned a little, bouncing on the balls of his feet with pent-up energy. The sudden rush of adrenaline was like tingling heat all through him. Sam shoved the laptop bag into the back seat with a resigned sort of noise.
"Dude – somebody could be in trouble," Dean said, and Sam rolled his eyes.
"Yeah, somebody could..." Sam looked around – jerked a length of board off a warped pallet that was leaning next a dumpster, hefting it thoughtfully. "Or – maybe you're just bored."
"Well – yeah. You wouldn't let me blow you in the bathroom."
Sam turned an incredulous face toward Dean. "Dude, that's disgusting. I don't wanna have sex in a public toilet."
The look of horror on Sam's face made Dean laugh. "Picky, picky. Skin washes."
"Hepatitis doesn't," Sam muttered, and Dean laughed again. He touched his fingertips to the knife at his waist and they ghosted silently down the alley. There was a single, dim bulb high up behind a wire guard over the loading bay and they stuck to the shadows, Sam a half step behind and to the left.
Two guys were standing in a mostly-clear space, back to back; taller dark-haired guy and shorter blond guy. Surrounded by four other guys and one girl, all of them crouched and circling and predatory in a way that made the hair on the back of Dean's neck stand up.
"You're gonna be fucking sorry, man," one of the stalkers said, flexing hands at least as big as Sam's. "This is our city. We're gonna carve you up and feed you to the dogs."
"Always talking the bloody talk, aren't you?" the blond guy said, TV-English accent, grinning a nasty and fearless grin and, for a moment, Dean thought he might actually have a chance. Then the dark-haired guy turned his head, showing a patch over his left eye and Dean couldn't suppress his groan of frustration. Half-blind, in this dark alley? Against that many? Guy didn't stand a chance. The blond guy looked up – seemed to look right at Dean for one second and then he looked away again, still grinning.
"Sam," Dean whispered. Gesturing out to his left and fading right, crouching down. Advancing in small steps, doing his best to avoid the scattered trash, broken glass and teetering piles of cardboard boxes that crowded the space. Sam was doing the same, nearly invisible in the gloom despite his size.
"How about you walk the bloody walk, you wanker," blond guy said. He lifted his chin, dismissive, and the guy with the patch made a kind of 'come on' gesture. He was grinning too.
These guys are fucking nuts, Dean thought. But – a fight was a fight, and Dean was bored. And nothing got him hotter faster than a good tussle. Just ask Sam.
Mouthy guy snarled – and kept snarling – and Dean felt a nauseating little rush of icy cold all through his gut as the guy's face changed. Moved and morphed and took on a strange, low-browed sort of look. Leonine, with glittering golden eyes and fangs, for fuck's sake. Dean heard Sam make a tiny noise of total shock and then the – thing – launched itself right at the blond and one of the other things aimed a punch at patch-guy's head.
Jesus – Christ... what the fuck...? "Sam –"
"What have we here? Latecomers to the party," someone said, and Dean spun around to see two more things dropping down from the roof of the bar. Dropping light and easy, making a joke of the fifteen feet between roof and alley floor. A guy and another girl, eyes flaring up candle-gold in the pale light.
"Fuck...me," Sam muttered, and the girl-thing gave him a look. One Dean totally recognized.
"That an invitation, daddy long-legs? Bet you're good."
"Oh, for fuck's sake." Dean pulled his knife out and took a step toward Sam, closing the gap between them. "Lay off with the pseudo-sexy talk, okay? You bad guys are all alike."
"'Pseudo sexy'? Sam muttered, little half smile lifting the corner of his mouth.
"Word-A-Day dot com," Dean muttered back, grinning.
The guy – thing – facing them made an annoyed sort of noise, like a cat being stepped on. "Bite me, human," he snarled and then he was piling into Dean like a fucking freight train, fists connecting hard and those fangs way, way too close. And Dean was ducking and blocking and falling back because these things were strong and Dean's knife to the hilt in its chest didn't do fuck all but make it roar like a pissed-off lion. Dean's head was already ringing from the solid, crunching blows and that really didn't help. Plus there was blood dripping into his eye. It felt warm.
Sam was dodging – weaving – getting in hits with the two-by but not hard enough to knock the girl-thing out. Taking a couple of high kicks right into his ribs and wheezing. Girl-thing dodged a blow and the end of the two-by shattered against a wall, old wood splitting jaggedly. They were herded step by step down the alley, Sam crowding into Dean and Dean crowding into Sam, and all of a sudden the blond guy was there. He pushed between them – dodged a startled swing of the two-by and snatched it out of Sam's hands.
"How about I just finish up here, yeah?" he said, and lunged at the girl-thing. The pale, pointy end of the two-by punched right into her chest and she screamed and then...
"What the fuck?" Dean said, feeling slightly fuzzy in the head. A hand twisted into his collar and jerked him backwards. Patch-guy.
"Would you believe it's all done with mirrors?" patch-guy asked.
"Not on your fucking life," Sam said, panting. Staring at the little swirly pile of ash or dust or whatever it was the girl-thing had crumbled into.
"You bastards!" the other thing yelled, advancing. Growling like something out of Wild-fucking-Kingdom. The blond guy feinted right and then left and then buried the two-by in the guy-thing and he exploded, too.
"Bloody amateurs," blond guy said, and Dean didn't know if he meant the things, or him and Sam.
"Sammy, you okay?"
"Just got the wind kicked out of me," Sam said, pressing his hand to his side with a wince that said it was a little more than that. "You okay? You're bleeding." Sam reached for Dean's face, fingers going up to his left eye.
"Just a flesh wound," patch-guy said and the other guy snorted.
He took out a pack of cigarettes and lit up, puffing smoke into the chill air. "Best get that cleaned up before something comes sniffing. In fact – why not just bugger off altogether?"
"Hey, we came back here to help you," Sam snapped. Dean blotted his face on the tail of his shirt, the fuzziness sharpening rapidly as adrenalin did its thing.
"And look how well that turned out." The cigarette-end flared and smoke puffed out, blue-grey. "Don't you lot know better than to go running into dark alleys?"
"Listen up, blondie –" Dean stepped right up into blond guy's face but patch-guy was just as fast – just as close, his hand on Dean's chest, lightly touching. He had a bruise on his jaw.
"Okay – quit. Listen, just – thanks for trying to help, but there's stuff going on that you guys –"
"Were they demons?" Sam asked, and blond guy looked sharply up at him. Patch-guy sighed. "Well, were they? They weren't ghosts, obviously. Or any kind of spiritual manifestation because they left – stuff behind. Shapeshifters maybe? I've never seen –"
"All right, you've made your point." Blond guy took a step or two back, drawing on his cigarette and looking over at patch-guy, who shrugged. "Right. Okay. They were vampires; we dusted 'em – end of story. Stay out of dark places and don't invite strangers into your house."
"Vampires? No way." Dean didn't miss the eye-roll from blond guy. "We've seen vampires and those guys were nothing like the vamps we took out."
"How were they different?" Patch-guy looked interested – maybe even worried.
Dean wiped at his eye again, wincing a little at the sting of it. "They looked human. When they attacked, another set of teeth descended over the human ones. The only thing that killed them was –"
"Beheading. Yeah. Those guys." Blondie sighed and shot a look at patch-guy. "Remember? By-blows of the Lilu – descendants of Lilith."
"Wait – Lilith?" Sam looked pole-axed. "You mean...?"
"First wife of Adam, goddess of the night, all that, yeah." Blond-guy waved his hand dismissively. "They're...sort of vampires." His mouth curled in something like a snarl. "Bunch of inbred bastards."
Dean felt like he'd had the wind knocked out of him. No way. No way there's more than one kind of vampire. Jesus – Dad didn't even know... Where the hell are all these vamps hiding? Why don't we know?
Blondie took a last pull off his cigarette and flicked the butt away into the darkness. "Listen, we've got things to do, evil creatures of the night to kill. Why don't you two run along home –"
"We don't live here," Dean snapped, and blondie's eyebrow went up. "We were checking out a possible...a..." Sam's expression was saying 'no, dude, don't go there!' but Dean didn't care. "A loup-garou."
"Dean."
"What's a loup-garou?" Patch-guy asked.
"Sort of a werewolf," Blondie said, "only not. More of a curse, like." Blondie gave Dean an appraising stare. "You can break the curse."
"Yeah, we know. Did it once before." Sam didn't look happy, his hand still pressed hard to his ribs.
Dean frowned. "I've never seen anything like –" he waved his hand at the drifts of dust on the alley floor. "Like that. Nobody I know has."
"You haven't been living in the right cities," patch-guy muttered, smiling a little.
"Tell me –"
"We don't have the time. And I don't have the bloody patience." Blondie lit up again, smoking hard. "Wood through the heart kills 'em, so does fire or taking their heads off. Or sunlight, if you can get 'em out into it. That's all you need to know." He turned a sudden grin on patch-guy, who looked back, expectation on his face. "There's a pint callin' my name, Xander – let's not disappoint."
"How about let's not get drunk and brag about how many times you can get it up in a night?" patch-guy muttered. Xander.
"Why? Makes the punters jealous." Blondie snagged Xander's sleeve and tugged and Xander went, turning around half way up the alley.
"You guys be careful, okay? Don't invite strangers in – vampires can't come inside unless you invite them."
"Unless you're in a motel," Blondie added, smirking, and then they turned the corner and disappeared.
Dean looked over at Sam, who was sagging against the wall a little, wide-eyed. "You okay really?"
Sam nodded – straightened up. "Yeah, I'm good. Do you – believe them?"
They started back toward the car and Dean shrugged, scuffling his feet through the little patches of fine, sparkling dust. He was starting to feel cold as the adrenaline wore off. "Well, why not? We saw those... things. Vampires. Saw their faces and –"
"Saw that guy turn 'em into dust."
"Yeah. So – why not? Not like we haven't seen –"
"Crazier things," Sam finished for him. "Yeah." Sam paused at the corner, glancing up at the buzzing neon bar sign. "Wanna get a beer?"
"Rather just stop and grab a six-pack," Dean said. "Check out your manly bruises."
"At least I didn't bleed like a stuck pig," Sam said, poking him with an elbow. Dean poked back, but gently.
The noise didn't wake Dean. Not really. Bass-heavy music turned way up and the rumbling engine of something old and powerful was the soundtrack of Dean's life. He barely surfaced – just shifted a little, twisting in the bed enough to feel Sam's thigh with his knee. Then he sank back down.
A minute later, though, he was awake, heart pounding. He jerked upright in the bed, his hand closing around the knife-hilt under his pillow. Because something had just slammed into their door, hard. What the fuck –? The bed juddered as Sam moved, too – as he lifted his gun from the nightstand, silent. The knob rattled and there were voices. Loud voices.
"No, no...no. You hafta – hafta use the...key. Key."
"I don't have the bloody key!"
"I recognize that voice," Sam hissed and Dean did too.
"No fuckin' way," Dean muttered and then he was off the bed and at the door. Sam was right behind him, gun up and ready, his hair a rat's nest and the bruising on his ribs dark and ugly in the dim light that was coming in around the curtains. He nodded and Dean reached out – undid the lock and yanked the door open fast.
Xander all but fell into the room, Blondie attached to him like a leather-covered limpet. Dean shoved them both into the jamb, his fist in the lapel of Blondie's coat. The sky was a deep navy, the horizon a faint, frail green, the sun still a half hour below the horizon. The air that spilled over the sill of the door was wet and cold, patchy with mist.
"What the fuck –?"
"Bloody hell! Get off me, wanker." Blondie jerked away from Dean but he didn't have anywhere to go, really, since he was plastered pretty solidly to Xander. "Oh – s'you two." Blondie gave Dean a look Dean really couldn't interpret. It made him feel – exposed.
"Whoa, hey! Hi!" Xander made an ineffectual attempt to get Blondie off him, but Blondie seemed to be resisting. Resisting and getting kinda...grabby. "Um...why are you in our room?" Xander asked, squinting at Dean.
"This is our room," Dean said. He looked down at where Blondie's hands were – at the predatory and not-nearly-that-drunk glitter in Blondie's eyes. "You guys really need to get your own room. Like – now."
"You said number nine, Spike," Xander muttered, looking confused. "Aren't we in number nine? Hey, hands!"
Spike? Who the hell is named Spike?
Spike made a show of thinking about it. "I don't have a bloody clue, love. You got us the room – I was just makin' a guess. Only ten rooms to choose from."
"And you chose the wrong one," Sam said, stepping around Dean, the gun held down and out. No threat, but a clear warning.
"Hey – you guys are naked," Xander said, and it took Dean way too long to process that. It took Sam a lot less time because he immediately scuttled back behind Dean.
Oh for fuck's sake. No wonder he was giving me that...look. Jesus. "Yeah, we're naked, uh...so what?"
Spike's mouth twisted up into an impossibly suggestive smirk and Dean braced himself to give a naked ass-kicking. "Sooo –" Spike drawled, but Sam interrupted him.
"Just go breathe fumes on somebody else, okay?" Sam snapped, stretching over Dean to grab the edge of the door and slam it shut. Spike jerked Xander back just in time, chuckling. They heard Xander saying something in a confused voice and Spike saying something back and then – Spike started singing. The same song that had been pounding across the parking lot.
"Oh we're so pretty...Oh so pretty...we're vacant...Oh we're so pretty...Oh so pretty vaaaay...cunt!"
Dean heard Sam huff out a long, annoyed breath behind him. "We just flashed the parking lot, Dean."
"It's dark outside, Sam. Nobody noticed." Just two drunk guys. No, correction. One drunk guy and one really horny guy.
There was a thump – the slam of a door and then another thump. On the wall directly behind the beds.
"Oh, don't tell me –"
Sam groaned, crawling under the covers and winding himself up in sheet and blankets like a mummy. Dean flopped down beside him, wrestling for his share and curling close. His feet were freezing.
"They've got the fucking room next door," Sam muttered, and Dean flicked Sam's ear.
"Ow!"
"Hello, Captain Obvious." Dean flashed on Spike's grabby-hands. "Please tell me they're not gonna –"
There was a third thump and the squeak of springs and then... Thump thump thump, with a rising chorus of accompanying moans. And talking. Loud talking in that English accent.
That was fast. "Jesus, he's got a filthy mouth," Dean whispered and Sam made a choking sort of noise, his belly heaving under Dean's hand. Dean lifted himself off the pillow, staring at Sam in the dimness. "Are you laughing?"
"Dude, it's funny...oh, Jesus..." Sam's voice trailed off into breathy giggles and Dean yanked him closer, deliberately putting his cold feet on Sam's calves. "Hey! Get off, fucker!"
"Oh, shut up." Thump! "How in hell am I supposed to go back to sleep now?"
"Well..." Sam twisted just enough, so he could look back at Dean. "We could always...drown them out."
Dean gaped, astonished, and the bruised side of his face twinged. Sam's hand crept over his hip and squeezed. "Sam, you dog, I didn't think you had it in you," he said finally.
Sam grinned.
When they got up again, it was at a far more respectable ten o'clock. They took turns showering and were just gathering up laptop, money, and jackets when there was a knock. Dean did a quick scan of the room, making sure any questionable items were tucked away and opened the door. The heavy-set woman on the other side opened her mouth to speak and then stopped. Bruises always look worse the next day, Dean thought. She had a stack of towels in her hands and her shirt had an embroidered patch that said 'Delilah'.
She blinked. "Good...morning. Housekeeping?"
"Hi! Hey, uh – we don't actually need, uh...anything."
"Nothing?." The woman peered at the beds, which were both rucked up. Neither one of them liked to sleep in the wet spot. "You don't need new sheets?"
"Nah, it's fine." Dean dug into his jacket pocket and found a crumpled twenty. He held it out to Delilah. "But you know what? Our friends next door in number ten? They wanted the full service for sure. So you could just – go on in."
The woman finally smiled, all dimples and one gold tooth. The twenty disappeared into her...actually fairly impressive cleavage. "Okay, honey, no problem."
"Great! That's great, Delilah. Thank you." Dean grinned back at her and then jumped when Sam poked him in the kidneys with the car keys. "What?" Dean said, snatching the keys and walking outside.
"Don't you think that's a little – juvenile?" Sam said, stepping out behind Dean and watching Delilah push her cart over to the next door.
"So's pretending to be drunk and making all that noise at oh-fucking-dark-hundred." It was chilly outside, overcast and still a little misty and Dean zipped his jacket up, ambling a step or two toward his car. Not really paying much attention to anything at all until he glanced up to survey the parking lot. Then he stopped dead. "Oh, wow. Look at that."
Sam looked. "Jesus – it's even bigger than your phallic symbol."
"I got your phallic symbol," Dean muttered, letting his eyes run over the sleek, black lines of the car parked crookedly next to the Chevy. Distantly, he listened as Delilah knock briskly at number ten. "That's a 1958 Dodge DeSoto," Dean said dreamily. It looked like the windows had been blacked out with spray paint. "What kind of an asshole desecrates a fucking beautiful car like that?"
"The kind of asshole that Delilah's gonna wake up in about ten seconds. Let's go get some breakfast before she does, okay Dean? Dean?"
"Huh?" Dean tore his gaze away from the pure lines of the gorgeous car – stared at Sam for a second before it clicked. "Oh, yeah. Housekeeping. Yeah – let's get some breakfast." He opened his door and got in and then rolled his window down – started the engine. Delilah pushed number ten open wide, "Housekeep – oh my God!" ringing across the parking lot. Dean grinned and zoomed away, followed by a volley of completely incomprehensible British swear words.
For breakfast they found a little bakery with a restaurant attached. They had a view of the lake and the air inside was warm and steamy and thick with the scent of yeast and sugar, almonds and coffee. Sam paged idly through a local paper, stopping now and again to read bits of hometown news. Mostly the strange sort of gossip a small town generated. The column in the paper was called 'Bits and Bobs'.
"Melvin Heimell shot thirteen squirrels that were gnawing the roof of his porch. He says he blames his live-at-home son who dumps bong-water out his window." Sam huffed into his coffee. "He says the squirrels got addicted and were chewing his porch to shreds."
"Jesus. So is the next bit the 'live-at-home son' bein' hauled off?"
"No, just the fine Melvin had to pay for discharging a weapon in city limits."
"Go, Melvin. Squirrels are evil fuckers."
"Don't tell me – you have a squirrel phobia?" Sam popped the last of his bacon and spinach quiche into his mouth and Dean rolled his eyes.
"No, I don't have a phobia. But what are squirrels, anyway? They're basically rats with fluffy tails. Should all be – shot or something."
Sam laughed around his mouthful of egg and pig and vegetation and Dean flicked bits of napkin at him, managing to get a scrap into Sam's coffee. "Hey!"
"It's just a napkin, dude."
"That you wiped all over your greasy, slobbery mouth." Sam squinted down into his coffee, poking at it with a little stir-stick.
"You sayin' you have something against my mouth?" Sam started to reply and then his eyes went narrow, darting toward the door and Dean twisted around to look. "For fuck's sake!"
"Oh. Hey. Uh – hi?" Xander standing there, blood-shot eye and bed-head hair and a crease across his cheek.
"Morning, sunshine – sleep well?" Dean purred.
Xander winced. "Um. Listen, guys – sorry about last night. This morning, I mean. Uh – we were kinda…"
"Horny."
"Drunk. And horny. Um." A look of dawning horror suddenly crossed his face. "Oh. Oh, hell. You guys are right –"
"Next door, yeah," Sam said. He gave up trying to fish out the napkin fragment and took a cautious sip of his coffee. Dean smirked.
"Shit, guys, I'm…really sorry." Xander rubbed his hand over his face, careful around the eye-patch, and Dean almost felt sorry for him. Almost.
"Nah, don't worry about it. We've spent a lot of time in motels – you kind of get used to it."
"Tell me about it," Xander muttered. He pushed his hand back through his hair and then suddenly looked at Dean and Sam. "You guys were naked."
"We were in bed," Sam said, blushing, and Dean just leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out a little.
"Yeah, guess you got an eyeful and we got an earful. Even?"
"Um." Xander's eyes snapped back up to Dean's face. "Yeah, sure. Even, I guess." He sighed. "Now I have to get doughnuts and coffee to appease the Pissed Off One."
"Your buddy not a morning person?"
"Not as such, no," Xander said. He walked over to the counter and leaned there, gazing blankly at the doughnuts and pastries and quiches on display. Luckily for Dean, the place also did a killer biscuits and gravy.
"Dude!" Sam hissed, scowling. "He was totally checking you out!"
"Of course he was, Sammy. Most people just can't help themselves."
"Shut up, you freak," Sam muttered and irritably flapped his paper. Dean decided he needed another bear claw and got up – sauntered over to the counter and leaned next to Xander, hip-shot and grinning. A calculated grin.
Xander glanced up at him and groaned softly. "Jesus Christ. Not another one." He leaned over the counter, knocking on the warm glass. "Hello? Anybody back there?"
Dean just grinned some more.
"So, I think I found our loup-garou," Sam said, and Dean glanced up, his hands steadily sharpening the last of the knives.
"Yeah? What'cha got?"
"Well, all the attacks center around one particular neighborhood – right here," Sam tilted the area map in Dean's direction, pointing to a green space.
"Is that a park?"
"It is. But right next door is the Edgewood Cemetery. So I'm thinking whoever's cursing people –"
"Started with his neighbors. How convenient. And a graveyard full of supplies right in his back yard." Dean flipped the cover over the whetstone and stood up – stretched hard, knowing his shirt was riding up and his jeans sliding down. When he ended the stretch Sam was just sitting there. Staring. Gotcha, Sammy. "So that narrows down the field – what makes you think you know who it is?"
"Huh?" Sam blinked and finally looked up at Dean and Dean grinned. Sam rolled his eyes. "Not exactly a win, Dean – horny twenty-something, here."
"Horny geek, but I still gotcha. So – who's your choice?"
"Actually – Melvin Heimell's son."
"What, bong-boy?" Dean moved over to the wobbly hotel table and leaned over Sam's shoulder, one hand on the chair-back and one on the table, bracketing Sam.
Sam snorted. "This your patented 'librarian move'?"
"Yeah, what'cha think?" Dean murmured, his cheek inches from Sam's skull and his lips right there, just brushing the edge of Sam's ear. Sam's hair smelled like coconut.
"I thh…think you need to brush your teeth."
"God, you're a loser."
"Yeah, the loser you fuck – what's that make you?"
Lucky. Dean didn't say it out loud, just dropped his chin into the messy hair on top of Sam's head.
"Okay, so – I wanted to find out a little more about Melvin's squirrel problem and in yesterday's 'Bits and Bobs', Bob says –"
"Bob?"
"He writes it." Sam rustled the paper and Dean scrubbed his chin back and forth and when Sam spoke next, Dean could hear the smile in his voice. "Anyway, he said the local Lonely Hearts club should call on Melvin's son – his name's Clancy – because Clancy had been moping around, had quit his job, and was keeping himself indoors lately."
"Yup, loup-garou. Or, you know – he's stoned off his ass and hiding from the Satanic squirrels," Dean offered, and Sam reached up and flapped his hand, managing to whap Dean in the head. "Hey!"
"No Satanic squirrels. He was also admitted to the ER for lacerated feet and sleepwalking." Dean made a noise of incredulity. "Bob really gets around. He does the 'Pray for these sick people' column, too. I think we need to go find the Heimell residence, stake it out and break the curse on Clancy. In the last two weeks the loup-garou has injured five people and killed…" Sam flipped open a notebook and Dean finally lifted his hands and let them settle lightly on Sam's shoulders; let them slide slowly down while Sam talked. Sam took in a short little breath. "He's killed four cows, seven chickens, one goose, uh, five…dogs…"
"Big dogs or those yappy kind?" Dean murmured, circling Sam's wrists with his fingers – stroking gently along the sensitive underside with his thumbs; letting his lips graze the point of Sam's jaw and the soft skin just under it. Sam was warm under there.
"Um…all the yappy kind."
"Good for Clancy." Dean laced his fingers through Sam's and lifted Sam's hands up – brought them around and back and settled them on his own thighs. He opened his mouth and kissed the side of Sam's throat, just grazing with his teeth – tasting. "It's about…two hours until sunset...."
"Two hours and seventeen minutes," Sam said, his fingers kneading slowly along the backs of Dean's thighs.
"So…think that's enough time?" Dean asked, moving to nuzzle a little into the open collar of Sam's shirt. Skimming his tongue along Sam's collarbone.
"For what?" Sam breathed, his voice gone all low and rough. His head was tipping slowly back, eyes half-shut.
"To do some laundry," Dean said, straightening abruptly – little twist and he was free of Sam's hold. Sam jerked around, his eyes going wide – mouth coming open and his expression so bewildered and pissed off Dean laughed out loud. "Dude, my socks –"
"Oh, you bastard," Sam snarled, and tackled Dean to the bed. It was a good tackle – Dean approved.
"Shag ass, Sammy," Dean said, pulling on his jacket and checking for the keys.
"I already shagged your ass," Sam replied, then shook his head when Dean gave him a baffled look. "Shag? You know? Means 'fuck' if you're English?"
"Somebody's been watching too much Masterpiece Theatre."
"They don't say 'shag' on Masterpiece Theatre," Sam muttered and Dean shoved the obligatory duffel of 'just in case' weapons into Sam's chest.
"You are such a fucking nerd."
"Yeah, but you still want me." Sam body-checked Dean into the wall and snatched the keys out of his hand. "And I'm driving."
"Whoa, give you some time on top and you go all butch on me," Dean laughed – yelped when Sam goosed him.
"Bite me, bitch." He swung open the door and stepped out, smiling back at Dean and Dean lunged forward and grabbed his arm, yanking him back and keeping him from colliding with…someone.
'Someone' turned out to be Xander with an armful of beer and ice. "Oh, hey guys. Hi," Xander said. "You, uh…going out?"
"Thought we'd go check on our loup-garou," Dean said, edging around Sam and closing the door. Grinning, which made Xander blush. "Make sure he doesn't graduate to killing people."
"Too many sodding people on the planet, anyway," Spike said, leaning around the doorjamb of number ten. He looked like he'd just gotten up. He didn't look like he'd bothered to dress. Dean smirked when Sam looked away.
"Now, now, let's not bother these…uh…nice young men with your antisocial, probably Communist 'let 'em all die and there's no God to sort 'em out' world view, m'kay? It's early." Xander shifted ice and beer and waved an elbow at them. "Buh-bye."
"That your car?" Spike asked, easing outside. Well, he had jeans on. But they weren't buttoned all the way and Dean couldn't help it if he just had to check out what was probably the whitest white guy he'd ever seen. The hair, Dean noted, was naturally that honey-blond color.
"Dean." Sam's voice could have cut diamonds.
"Yup, that's my baby." Dean stepped over to the car and patted the hood affectionately. She needed a wash.
"Nice. 'Bout as nice as Delilah." Spike leaned against the wall, absently digging cigarette pack and Zippo out of a pocket. The jeans dipped dangerously.
Sam made a snorting sort of noise and opened the back door – tossed the duffel in. "We need to get going, Dean."
"Delilah? Oh, you mean the lovely lady from Housekeeping." Dean watched as Xander squeezed past Spike with an eye-roll that was pretty impressive for a guy with only one eye. "Yeah, she's a real peach. Hope she fixed you right up."
"Oh, God." Xander appeared in the doorway again, sans groceries. "We really need to get this beer on ice, guys, so –"
"Can't imagine why she thought we needed the full-on treatment," Spike said, pulling smoke into his lungs and flipping the Zippo shut. He lifted the cigarette from his mouth and flicked ash toward the parking lot. "I made it pretty clear she didn't need to come back."
"That's just great," Sam said, and Dean stretched just a little, going up onto the balls of his feet. Hands loose at his sides. Ready.
"Super!" Dean clapped his hands together, grinning at Spike, who was staring back, slit-eyed, through cigarette smoke. "Now that everybody knows which room is which…I'm sure she won't be bothering you." The front door creaked and slammed and the car started, engine revving under Sam's impatient foot.
"Ought to see to those hinges. Not very subtle, that." Spike drew in smoke and plumed it up and away and Dean grinned.
"Never been much for subtle."
"Sounds familiar." Xander's hand appeared on Spike's shoulder and he tugged. "Spike, the ice is melting."
"Sure, pet." Spike grinned back at Dean, his eyes half-shut and for just one moment, Dean felt a little chill. "See ya."
"Later." Dean walked around to the passenger door and slid inside and Sam backed and turned and drove out of the parking lot with a surprising lack of tire-squealing and engine racing. But he was scowling.
"I told you that was juvenile," Sam muttered.
"Ah, Sammy – lighten up! I got my point across."
"Yeah, so did he. Better make sure you keep an eye on the car tonight."
"Huh? Oh no, no, no. You don't get it, Sam. He wouldn't mess with my car."
"What makes you think that?" Sam asked. He pulled the marked and folded map of Ashtabula out of his jacket and glanced at it before taking a left.
"Because. He's got that –" Dean reached out and patted the dash, "that sweet little ride of his. We're kind of…you know…brothers. The girls are off-limits."
"Oh, God. I forgot about the overwhelming idiocy of the gearhead mind set."
"Dude, don't be insulting. It's pure practicality. The rides are sacrosanct." Dean turned and flashed a smile at Sam, the one that made him give Dean that 'you are such a moron' look. That look, right there. "Everything else is fair game."
"Jesus. I'm actually looking forward to possibly being mauled by a cursed man transformed into a wolf-thing," Sam muttered.
Dean just laughed and turned on the radio.
The Heimell household wasn't particularly impressive. It looked like the squirrels had been chewing on more than the porch roof. There was moss growing up there, plus a couple of ten-inch maple seedlings in the composty-looking pile of leaf-drift that had built up in the corner against the house. The lawn was unkempt and the sidewalk going up to the tilting porch was buckled and humped, dead dandelions cluttering the cracks.
As night well and truly came on, the temperature in the car dropped fast and Dean stuck his hands in his armpits, under his coat. "Man, I hate stake-outs."
"Yup, they're pretty boring, all right." Sam turned another page in the book he was reading by Itty Bitty Book Light and Dean felt the urge to smack him. What hunter used such a damn yuppie accoutrement, anyway?
"What hunter uses 'accoutrement'?" Sam said, sliding a sideways look of pure glee at Dean and Dean glared back.
"What?"
"What? Stop muttering so loud."
"Stop listening to my muttering!"
"If only I could." Sam snapped off the light and put the book down in the seat. "Looks like Clancy's going for a walk."
"Jesus, finally." They watched the weedy, flannel-jacketed figure lope off down the sidewalk, wooly-hatted head tucked low. "Looks like he's headed for ground zero."
"Well, the lake's that way," Sam said as they climbed out of the car. He had a Salvation Army blanket tucked up under his arm. "And there's a couple of parks…maybe he's going for someplace lonely and deserted."
"Wanna bet?" Dean said, patting the hilt of the silver-bladed knife he had at his waist.
"No, not really," Sam muttered, and they strode off after Clancy.
They walked about a block, Clancy's stride getting jerkier – clumsier. He turned in at the Edgewood Cemetery sign and Dean heaved an annoyed sigh. Definitely going to meet up with whoever had cursed him and carry out their evil plan to kill more Pomeranians or something. Fucking idiot evil sorcerers. Dean muttered under his breath across half the cemetery and almost missed it when Clancy went down on all fours, retching. Sam's hand shot out and stopped him and they both crouched behind a tall, wide marker of pale-colored stone.
"Okay. We have to draw blood, then name him as the...thing," Sam said, and Dean rolled his eyes, brandishing his knife.
"I know that already, Einstein. But thanks for the repeat."
"Just making sure we know the plan," Sam said. He drew a silver-bladed knife and braced himself to move.
After several moments of writhing, growling, groaning and whimpering – 'It's like some kind of fuckin' porno!' Dean observed gleefully – Clancy rose up. He was bipedal, hairy, hunchbacked and way too fast, and it took about five minutes of bait and switch – plus some yelling and stone throwing – until he charged into the little thicket of Rose of Sharon Dean and Sam had picked for the trap. Once he was inside, thrashing and howling, Dean ducked in under a flailing paw and scratched the tip of his knife across Clancy's hirsute chest just as Sam scratched his shoulder.
Clancy froze.
"Clancy Heimell – you are released from your curse!" Dean shouted, and Clancy growled. Then he whimpered and fell back among the branches.
After a few more minutes of thrashing and moaning – 'Don't say it, Dean!' – Clancy stood up. He clutched a handful of wet leaves self-consciously to his groin.
"Uh..."
"Don't say a word. Rules of the curse. Can't discuss – any of this. Here." Sam handed across the blanket and Dean looked away as Clancy wrapped it around his shoulders. "Now go home and don't do whatever it was you did to piss of whoever you pissed off again. Okay?"
"Uh...yeah," Clancy said. "Jesus, all I did was accidentally weed-whack her azaleas. Bitch." He eyed them both as he shuffled out of the bushes, wincing. "Did you bring any shoes?"
"Jeez, would you go home already?" Dean snapped and Clancy turned and limped off, muttering. "Man, talk about ungrateful."
"At least that's over," Sam said, wiping his knife clean on the side of his sneaker and tucking it away. Dean did the same and they both started ambling out of the cemetery. "Now all we have to do is find a house with mutilated azaleas."
"Great," Dean muttered. What the fuck did azaleas look like? "Just freakin' great."
Part two. Really, LJ? Really?
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