Title: Holy Water and a Handgun
Author: Gin
Fandom: Supernatural
Rating: R
Summary: Sam and Dean end up with the unlikeliest of allies. Gen for now, slash in later chapters.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters, locations, and situations used herein, and I make no profit from said usage.
Notes: I got this really strange idea and started writing it down. Doesn't appear as though it's likely to stop. Ooops. Some spoilers for s2, set between the beginning of s2 and, say, Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things. Rather ambiguous time frame.

Chapter One

Sulphur, Louisiana.

The bar was dark. These kinds of bars usually were; the clientele needed more than beer goggles to appeal to each other. It smelled of smoke, piss, and cheap pot, God only knew what else. Dean picked up a pool stick, hung up his jacket the now vacant dowel, and told the waitress they wanted a pitcher.

"We're not here to shoot the shit, Dean," Sam said, ever disapproving.

"Do you have 75 cents?" Dean asked, because arguing the point never got him anything but frustrated.

"What?"

"75 cents for the game, Sam." He held out his palm, cupped it expectantly.

Sam scowled but dug around in his pockets for some quarters, fingers bulging against the denim. This pair of jeans, like all his others, hung off his hips and made him look like a sixteen year old who liked getting high behind the mall. No one'd carded him, though, compliments of his height and freaky Stretch Armstrong doll limbs.

Dean scored the quarters and set up the game. Sam broke while Dean chalked his stick with exaggerated relish. Sam hated pool. He sunk and went again. Dean's eyes wandered over what he could see of the customers. Mostly pickled old guys who needed their beards checked for lice. A few women sat at bar stools, legs like sausage encased in pantyhose.

"Don't think I see 'em."

"Who?"

"The contact we're meeting, dumbass." Sam blew the shot and the white cue ball danced across the table, aimless. He wasn't easy to rattle, but Dean smirked like he'd caused him to ruin the shot anyway. "Nice, Sammy."

"Shut up."

The waitress came with their pitcher and Dean slapped a ragged fiver on her tray. He gulped his, his mouth had tasted funny all day, and set the mug down with a satisfied ahhh. He moved around the table until he found a spot he liked.

"You didn't tell me we had an actual contact," Sam said, a little sour.

"You're a smart boy, I thought you'd figure it out."

"I'm not a mind reader, Dean."

"Really now." Score. The click and tumble of pocketing one undercut his statement. Sam's mouth flattened into a hard line, and he looked away, took a drink.

"So," Sam said, once he'd officially let the silence linger on into uncomfortable territory. "Who's this contact?"

"I dunno."

Sam's eyebrows went up. "Uh?"

Dean sighed and set down the stick. He went to the wall for his jacket and pulled out a letter, folded in half. "They gave me this at the front desk earlier."

Sam took it and unfolded it. On the front it was addressed to the McVey brothers (Dean thought it was funny, Sam thought he was sick, not like any of that was new), but when he opened it up, his stomach gave an unpleasant lurch.

"Who knew the famous Winchester boys would show up in Sulphur. No doubt here on that bullshit Vodun scam. Sorry to hear about your daddy. Got something that might be interesting for you, want to meet tonight at the bar on 23rd?"

It wasn't signed. There was an inky mark on the bottom of the page that, on first glance, looked like it might be a smudged fingerprint. On second, Sam realized, it was a very small and mostly illegible sigil. He leaned closer into what little light there was and peered.

"Huh."

"What?"

"It's got…" Sam gestured, and Dean leaned over. "Look familiar?"

Dean looked thoughtful. "Don't remember seeing it in dad's journal, but that doesn't mean anything."

Sam frowned. "We should probably check it out before we meet with whoever this is."

"Are you kidding? We've got a lead. They know about the Voodoo priest we've been chasing, and they know about dad, so it's not like--"

"Just because they know about dad doesn't mean they're a friend or something. Sorry to rain on your parade, man, but this could be a trap."

Dean shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest and leaning his hips against the now-forgotten pool table. "So? I've got holy water and a handgun."

Sam snorted.

--

They totally abandoned the game of pool -- Dean would have won anyway -- and sat down to nurse their mugs of beer. Dean was on his second when the waitress, possibly the most good-looking person in the establishment (obviously excluding him, who won that title without even trying), came by with a tray of top-shelf American Straight whiskey.

"Uh, we didn't order that," Sam complained, and Dean could have kicked him for looking such a gift horse in the mouth.

"I know." Her voice sounded as tired as she looked. "Girl bought them for you. She's in the back."

Dean's eyebrow went up. Sam didn't look too excited and even shoved his in Dean's direction. "In the back, huh?" he asked, but she was already back on her way to the bar.

"Maybe it's our contact," Sam said.

"Maybe it's some lovely lady's lucky night."

--

The back room wasn't any brighter than the front, but the shitty country music wasn't as loud and there weren't twenty people all smoking at once. It took Dean a moment to spot the girl. She was the only one there -- girl, that is; there were a few drunk guys hanging around -- and she was looking at Sam and Dean where they stood in the doorway. Dean nudged Sam in the ribs.

"Here we go," Sam muttered, but followed Dean toward her anyway.

"Was I right to get you the whiskey?" she asked in a funny sort of drawl. It wasn't quite the accent they'd been hearing in Louisiana. Dean studied her, trying not to be obvious, and decided she was barely old enough to drink. She had her black jacket tucked around her shoulders like a blanket and her red-brown hair pulled into a messy bun. Hard to tell under the damn jacket and in this light if she was worth going home with.

Dean pulled out one of the chairs at her table, turned it around, and sat down. He folded his arms over the back of the chair and smiled at her. "Absolutely."

"Have a seat, Sam," she instructed, and Sam did. He looked a little less at ease straddling the chair than Dean did, but then his knees were bumping the table. "Thought you weren't going to show up," she continued, conversational but detached. "Thought maybe you didn't get my note."

"No, we got it."

She smiled at Sam and reached for a packet of Marlboros on the table in front of her. She took her time pulling one out and looked at Dean expectantly. "Give me your lighter." Dean didn't smoke, at least not unless he was too drunk to remember he didn't, but he carried around a Bic lighter for moments just like these. He pulled it out and she leaned toward the flame. "Many thanks."

"So, uh," Sam began, because he just wasn't fucking content to sit back and watch the game unfold. He was really bad at checkers for the same reason. "What's this sigil mean?" He slid the note across the table to her.

"You really don't know?"

"No."

For some reason this made her smile again. "Well, maybe I was too obscure." She leaned back, puffed, and settled in more comfortably. "It doesn't matter, the sigil's bullshit anyway. It's meant to stand for the Illuminati."

Dean and Sam traded a look. Sam started to speak again, but the girl stopped him.

"Don't worry over it, boys. It was a joke. It's not why you're here." She didn't leave them time to ask why, just kept going like she was rehearsed or didn't give a damn for their input. "I need the kind of help only hunters can give."

"How did you know who we are?" Dean asked, same time Sam came out with;

"What's your name, anyway?"

She gave Sam another one of her privately amused smiles and flicked ash onto the tabletop. "I don't give just anyone my name, Sam Winchester. I'm not stupid."

"Okay," Sam said suspiciously. He licked his lips and looked like he wanted to say more, but wasn't sure of what. Dean thought it might have been prudent to mention that they weren't just anyone and clearly she knew it, but that might have sounded ridiculous.

"You two should know better than anyone the kind of things people can do when they know your name. I really don't think you'd care to hear mine, anyway."

"Why's that?" Dean asked.

Took her time with that one. She pulled two more drags out of the cigarette and stabbed it out in the ashtray. Eventually she looked at them, capturing both their gazes with her one, and smiled. Again. It was getting downright annoying.

She was still smiling, pretty as you please, when her eyes flashed yellow-red.