It was a beautiful night.

He looked up to the sky, watching the ember sparks float up, their light intermingling with the stars. As peaceful as the night was, he couldn't sleep. He hadn't had a good night's rest in years.

Of course, this coffee isn't helping either. He muses, half smiling at the thought.

The temperature wasn't too bad, even this far north. The leather jacket was enough to keep what chill there was in the air from affecting him too badly. He'd come out here to think on things, to get away from it all. It's been about twenty years since his life changed for the better, when he started to help people and fight for good. But he had to give that up for a rare opportunity. A once in a lifetime opportunity. He had said his goodbyes to his closest friends. It had felt final back then. He wishes now that he had kept better contact. He had missed the funeral by months. After that, he made sure his old friends could contact him for whatever reason. He'd come back to help them out for while at one point. He smiled at the half-forgotten memories.

But all good things must come to an end, as he went back on the road. He even signed up for the military, wanting that thrill that came with helping people. But it wasn't for him. He was fighting a war he didn't believe in, and when his contract was up, he hit the blacktop once more. After a while, he got the call once more, asking for help. He dropped everything and came running back.

And not once has he regretted it.

And despite being a few years away from being 40, he was still healthy and fit. Hiking, camping, he's kept fairly active throughout his life. Which is why he found himself here, in the 100-Mile Wilderness in Maine. Something just felt right about coming here, just like packing up his stuff earlier had felt right as well. It was dark as hell, making it harder, but he trusted his instincts.

And when the smell of ozone hit his nostrils, a flash of light, he stood up, his instincts telling him to get ready for a fight. The man could hear the sounds of footsteps getting closer coupled with heavy breathing. Soon enough, A young man came through the brush, the light of the fire showing blood covering him from head to toe. In his hand was a crude weapon of bone and stone. He looked around, his eyes wary, cautious.

Feral.

And those wild eyes met the older mans. The younger drew a gun with his free hand and pointed it at him. "Where-" the younger man started to say, but he didn't have a chance to finish it. The older man rushed him, grabbing the gun hand and twisting it, causing the weapon to fall. That didn't stop the threat, as the crude machete stabbed forward. Years of training saved the older man from being eviscerated, as he twisted his body out of the way. But he had to let go of the wrist. He ducked as the stone blade slashed through the air, quickly turning the action into a leg sweep.

That brought the psycho down. He landed on his side, the impact knocking the air out of him. Before he knew it, he was pinned, a boot on the wrist holding the blade and a knee his chest, his vision still swimming .

"Do it fang freak!" The young man said in a gravely voice. The older man cocked his head in confusion. "Go ahead! Bite me!"

"What are you talking about?" The older man asked, his eyes narrowing. The deep tone was friendly, even youthful.

"Ain't a werewolf, you'd have turned by now. Ain't a Leviathan, or you'd have gone full-on shark face. Either you're a vamp, or god forbid, something worse." The young guy chuckled darkly at that, his eyes finally focusing as he looked up. "The name 'Christo' doesn't mean anything to you, does it?"

"No, but I do have a question for you."

The cautious eyes apparently didn't find what they were looking for, and their owner nodded his head slightly.

"How do you take your coffee?"

Clearly this wasn't the question he was expecting, as the young man's eyebrows shot up. "What? Coffee?"

"Yeah, coffee. Black? Sugar? Cream? How do you take it?"

"...Black."

"Okay." The older man grinned, patting the guy's shoulder. He leaned back shifting his weight to his heels so as not to break the wrist. He took a few steps, wiping the blood off his hand onto his jeans, towards the coffee pot still over the fire. He grabbed the spare cup he had laying out, and asked, "What's your name kid?"

"Kirk Hammett." the young man replied as he got up. He grabbed the stone blade, holding it loosely in his fingers.

The older man just snorted as he passed the cup, "And I'm Cliff Burton."

"You look pretty good for a dead guy."

"So I'm told. What's your name?" the older man poured himself a fresh cup.

"Dean." He took a sip from his cup. This was some heavenly brew "The name's Dean."

"Well Dean, no offense, but you look like you've been through some hell."

"None taken. But why the sudden charity? Thirty seconds ago you could've ganked my ass." Dean motions to the area they were fighting, "You don't know me."

The older man shrugged as he sat down on th log, "You're right, I don't. But..."

"But what?"

"You look like you needed help."

Dean studied the man. He seemed altruistic, but he's been lied too before, by beings all over creation, up to and including freaking angels. Who knows what this guy's deal was. Close shaven head, blue jeans, t-shirt, hiking boots, trained to fight, possibly military. Too bad he didn't have salt or silver on hand. And what was this dude doing way out here? He glanced around, noticing the hiking backpack, all packed up and ready to go. Was it possible this guy was waiting for him? Doubtful, but was nice to know he wasn't a demon.

"Well, thanks for the hospitality, but point me in the direction of the road, and I'll get out of your life. How's that sound?"

"I'm heading in that direction myself." The older man said, patting his backpack. "Figured I get an early start before you showed up. Give me a minute to finish this cup, and I'll show you the way."

Dean grunted in agreement. He looked down at his own now-empty cup. He hadn't realized he had finished it that quickly. "Yeah, sure. just let me..." He looked around, and he saw what he was looking for. "There it is." He walked over and bent down to pick up his gun. He brushed the dirt off, making a mental note to clean it as soon as possible and get ammo for it. Even sparingly, a magazine can only go so far for a year. Especially in a place filled with non-stop danger like Purgatory.

He looked over to the older man, who was now kicking dirt onto the fire to kill it. "So what's your name?"

"Jason." The man replied, looking up after being satisfied that the fire was out, "Jason Lee Scott."