Coming Home

A/N: Headcanon. Takes place in the distant feature, where Benny successfully finds a way out of Purgatory (because let's face it, we need Benny back), Cole has had a hard day, and the two meet after the former man saves his life. *Spoilers up to 10x07*

For the bae. I don't need a flashlight for you to shine, babs!

Maine, 2016

Cole Trenton was always a rock on his own private Idaho. Nothing got in or out of his one-man island without a warrant or looking like something Pulp Fiction dragged out of the dumpster. Trenton may have ran a size small in contrast to most men, but he was not to be underestimated. He spent half his life hunting down the guy responsible for killing his father with an arms locker, caffeinated drinks, and a whole lot of determination.

He liked to think of himself as a Blues Brother, minus the three-piece suit and sweet ride. He traded in his flat top for something more practical when he brought a baby boy into the world. He and the wife have been talking about the possibility of a second—something to put that "gently used" SUV into use—but his frequent deployments had the tendency to get in the way of conception.

The ex-Marine was diagnosed with PTSD long before the enlistment papers came around; the guilt he felt when he lied couldn't be touched with a sniper rifle.

Consequently, he could still taste Guinness burning on the way down his esophagus, and for once since one of his real deployments, it was smooth sailing down the rocks.

And then someone from the bar shoved his shoulder and suddenly he was in an honest to God showdown with two guys twice his size.

It started out innocent enough, a few blows to his face that, after years of building up immunity, only stung mildly. It wasn't until after being face-down dropkicked that he seized the opportunity to do the same to his assailants with his free leg. Cole's bite was fierce, ramming their gawky statures into the back of the establishment. Supplying several blows to their nether regions and plowing his raw elbows just beneath their chops, the twenty-something proved to win out in the fight.

And then, materializing from the darkness, a wild third caught him with his pants down, pinning him to the concrete, detaining his neck. Cole writhed underneath a surprisingly strong grasp for his meager body, trying every tactic in the book. He was even about to reach for the bottle of holy water he kept stowed in his pocket—for precautions, he reminded himself after he sought out one (and about to be former) Dean Winchester in a similar back alley—just to distract the guy when something weird happened.

Cole thought he'd seen it all. And then he saw extra teeth growing out of Mr. Steroid's mouth. He looked almost famished the way he eyed Cole, like a falcon to roadkill. The latter man braced himself for whatever inevitability was around the corner, shutting his eyes and sucking in a deep breath—

Then an odd sound sliced through the air like a torpedo. He opened his eyes and met with the glossy ones that belonged to Mr. Steroid. He laid overturned next to him, head liberated from his shoulders. The others, formerly knocked out cold, were strung out in the same fashion. Among him was a bloodbath—a sorry bastard bloodbath.

Looming over him was a man not much taller than him but far more beefy. His face seemed kind enough, minus the grunge. Had Cole not taken in his surroundings and the butcher knife in his hand, he would've bought him a drink for the courtesy call.

"Who are you?" he snarled.

Benny Lafitte just laughed, twirling the blade in his hand until the sharpened face reflected the stranger before him. "I'm the guy that just saved your life, hombre."

"No, sorry, not buying it."

"Whether you buy it or not it's the Devil's truth."

Cole took in the only Jack he could stand behind, because he definitely wasn't giving squat about vampires. He needed harder liquor to ingest let alone even conceive the thought of human parasites. Taxes were real. Aquaman was real. Even demons were real—riding people's vessels, manipulating, torturing, and God knows what else. Edward Cullen wasn't a category on Jeopardy. Vampires were just bedtime stories and television shows and films to stimulate entertainment and eroticism.

This guy was a serial killer, had to be. He pops out in the dead of night, decapitates people, and somehow lures guys in with a drink. And Cole was stupid enough to be one of those guys. Boy, if his superiors could see him now.

Then again, he did see the teeth on Mr. Steroid and my, my, what big fangs the guy had on him. Better to eat him with—or whatever constituted vampiric activity.

"Alright, say in some crazy alternate universe I do believe you," he said, setting his drink down to align his head with Benny's cocked one. His blue eyes were unusually bright for someone who just made the Boston Massacre look like a bad remake of Child's Play. "What does that make you, a hunter?"

Benny roared a lively laugh, causing a few heads to turn. When he spoke, his deep Southern dialect came in lower, more vigilant of the ears around them: "I'm sorry, but that's a hoot. I'm as sick as they come, hombre."

"You don't mean—?" Benny nodded and suddenly it became clear of why he hadn't picked a drink for himself; they weren't stocking up on what he was after. Cole shook his head, laughing to deride the irony, "First Dean Winchester and now vampires, what's next the Biblical Apocalypse?"

Benny narrowed his eyes, suddenly intrigued by the previous claim. "Hold up now, what about Dean Winchester?"

"You know Dean?" Cole said incredulously, like that comment was the weirdest thing that's transpired tonight.

Benny's voice came in softer, almost fond, "Dean's my best friend—or was, anyway."

"Dean's my worst enemy—or was, anyway," he echoed, running his finger around his second shot glass. He shook his head again, this time to dispel memories of yesterday. "Then he went and killed my father. Ten years it took me to find the bastard and all I have to show for is a loaded gun and demon-phobia. I mean, cold blood is one thing, but possession—?"

Benny's eyes shot open. "Dean was a…?"

"You mean you didn't know?"

"Why in the hell would I know that my human best friend's some kinda transmonster?"

"I don't know, maybe because you're swimming in the same septic tank?" he spat back.

"You better crack those books a little harder, hombre," he scoffed, and Cole never felt more judged in his life. "Demons and vampires have no association. I wanna squash the Black Eyed Peas as much as you do—or, sorry, did wanna kill 'em." He leaned back in his stool, raising a finger and saying, "You're welcome, by the way, for saving your juice box ass."

Cole, despite the shiver that ran down his spine at the last remark, had to admit he was intrigued himself. Here he was, having a surprisingly civilized conversation with a man who may or may not be one step away from admission into an institution. But behind the charisma and almost instinctual self-sacrifice was something that just barely bubbled on the surface—something that told Cole he wasn't the only one who lost someone close to him.

He shouldn't feel pity for a blood-sucking monster. He blamed the Special ops for making him soft. "Why are you killing your own kind?"

Benny laughed again, this time more shallow. "I just wanted to leave a burnin' crater behind," he said, like he's practiced that singular statement like the Commandments. "Killin' humans was never my scene."

"So what, you're an AA member for ex-blood junkies?" Cole was surprised their conversation wasn't overheard by now. Benny was smart enough to take them to a different establishment—one less packed to the walls with fresh carnage.

"You remind me of him—Dean, I mean," he amended quickly then shrugged. "I still drink, just not straight from the fountain."

"Well, thanks… for, you know…" Benny dipped his head low, anticipating with a smile. Cole scoffed, eyeing him curiously. "Are you seriously gonna make me spell it out? I was almost gang raped by a group of man-eating mosquitoes—no offense."

"That depends, s'your drink spiked with vinegar?"

Cole bit back a laugh. He couldn't believe he was swapping sob stories with a guy who technically wasn't even a guy and more or less (but probably more) a serial killer. Regardless if he was telling the truth or not about the previous postulation he'd made would forever be a mystery, but Benny still saved Cole's—or hombre, as he famously put it—life. And for that, he'd raise his glass.

That is, if he was staying.

It was Cole's turn to smile when Benny asked where he was going, cell phone in hand. "I have an expecting missus to attend to." Though Benny looked like he was an inch away from saying congratulations, he had to add: "Sorry about yours, by the way."

"How'd you—?"

"I know the look. I've seen it a dozen times in the mirror."

Benny called for him again on his way out, "Say hi to Dean for me before you kill him."

"Oh, he's all yours, hombre," Cole replied, supplying him a wink.

That night, he left Bangor with a few more cuts and bruises and one hell of a story to tell the kids one day. What he failed to see, however, was the loud smile and the sly son of a bitch that escaped one Benny Lafitte's lips as he too prepared for the long but worthwhile journey home.

-END-