Takes to Its Wings like a Hawk
By San Antonio Rose
April 2002
Corpus Christi, Texas
Dean Winchester sighed yet again as he stared out, not really seeing, at the darkening sky over the Gulf. The sun was setting behind him, but he didn't really care; if he'd wanted to watch the sunset from a beach, he'd have gone to Palo Alto. He should have been there during Spring Break for Gil and Agatha Wulfenbach's actual anniversary, except that by the time he'd finished the hunt that had taken him to the Mizzou campus to begin with, every route past the Sierra Nevadas had been closed by a late blizzard. Even I-10, which would have taken him two days out of his way but should have been far enough south to be passable, had been closed by a freak avalanche just a few miles east of the California state line. But that was then, when he had a new girlfriend who wasn't sorry he was staying in Columbia another week, and Gil had laughed when he called and told Dean they'd celebrate again when he did get there, since their official anniversary wasn't until Midsummer. This was now, when the new quarter had just started at Stanford, and Sammy had a bunch of hard classes and had told Dean in no uncertain terms not to come out before June. And the truth was, although Dean had come to Corpus in search of bluer skies, he hadn't brought his broken heart to this beach to watch the sun set. He was just killing time until the bars were open and the pool hustling was likely to be good... if he even got around to hustling pool tonight.
He couldn't believe he'd been so wrong about Cassie Robinson.
Not about the sex; no regrets there. It had been as hot as she was. And not about her character, not really; she was definitely sweet and smart and spunky, and she'd make a good reporter when she graduated. He just... why had he thought she'd get it when he'd told her about hunting? Why had he been willing to get so serious so soon? He hadn't even known her a month!
Sighing again, he dragged his eyes down from the sky—and caught sight of a tall olive-skinned girl with waist-length green hair who was out on the beach, armbands on her bare biceps glinting red-gold in the light of the setting sun as she moved through some sort of training routine while brandishing a pair of unusual swords. He watched intrigued as she whirled and jumped, her blue pants and sleeveless top just tight enough and the sheaths crossed on her back just right to show off the fact that she had muscles and curves in all the right places. Finally, he eased off the hood of the Impala, went back to the trunk, traded his jacket for his machete, and made his way down the beach, being careful to stay out of the girl's line of sight until he was in range. Then he stopped while she spun toward him, and he met both her swords with the machete.
They froze like that, staring at each other for a moment, her startled brown eyes boring into his smiling green eyes, neither blinking. She was about his height, so it wasn't hard to keep eye contact.
"You any good?" she finally asked, a slight and indefinite Asian accent in her English.
He cocked an eyebrow and smirked. "Only one way to find out."
She smirked back and attacked, and they sparred for several minutes. She was good, but despite having a weapon not totally suited for the situation and no shield, Dean kept up with her well. He even successfully resisted the temptation to pull any of his hunting knives for his left hand; this was supposed to be a friendly match, after all. But suddenly she got the machete trapped, sent it flying, swept his legs out from under him, pounced on his stomach, and pinned him by crossing her swords over his throat and driving them into the sand.
"HA!" she yelled.
He grinned and raised his hands as best he could. "I yield."
"And you're smart, too," she replied with a chuckle. "Not too bad, considering."
"You doing anything tonight?"
"If I say yes?"
"Then I'll leave."
"If I say no?"
"I might stay."
She grinned, displaying pointed canines, and removed her swords and sheathed them with a flourish but didn't get up. "Lucky for you, then, I'm not doing anything. You hungry?"
"Maybe. Who's paying?"
"Loser pays."
"Well, then, I'm not so sure I lost."
Her grin turned dangerous as she leaned over him, a pair of dog tags falling out of her low-cut top as she did so. "You want to try again?"
He chuckled and kept his eyes on her face, trying to ignore the way his heart was racing that wasn't entirely due to exertion. "Not for dinner."
She laughed and got up, helped him to his feet, and retrieved the machete from where she'd flung it while he brushed himself off. "Strange weapon," she said, handing it to him.
He shrugged. "Comes in handy. Got a car?"
"Nope."
"Got a bag?"
She pointed to a small duffle that was lying nearby, and he picked it up before nodding toward the car and starting off.
"It's called a machete, right?" she asked, falling into step beside him. "I've seen them used in the jungles before. Not many jungles around here, though."
He shrugged again. "Like I said, comes in handy."
"For chopping off heads?" When he raised an eyebrow, she grinned. "Rust spots. Blood corrodes even the finest steel, no matter how thoroughly you clean it."
"You speakin' from experience?"
"I might be." She gave him a sly look.
He chuckled and shook his head. "So what are you hungry for?"
"Oh, kinda want a taste of home. You like Thai?"
"Never had it, but I'll try anything once. You from Thailand?"
"Not exactly. We moved around a lot." She glanced down at the machete again. "You're a hunter, aren't you?"
"I might be," he countered, wondering what she was getting at and precisely what kind of hunting she meant.
"What's your opinion on the fae?"
His eyebrows shot up; she did mean his kind of hunter. "Never run into any that I know of. But hell—they don't kill people, I don't kill them."
"And half-fae?"
They had reached the car by this point, so Dean put the bag and the machete in the trunk while he weighed his answer. "Gotta be honest," he finally said, closing the trunk. "My best friend is half-fae. Just found out about it last year."
She sobered. "What's your name?"
"Dean Winchester. Yours?"
"Zeetha Wulfenbach."
He blinked. "You're kidding."
She shook her head. "My mother sent me to this country to find my father and brother. I've walked this far from Los Angeles. But I haven't found even a trace of them, and... and all I have to go on are Dad's dog tags."
"May I..."
She took off the dog tags and handed them to him. There was just enough light left that he could read the information stamped in the metal: WULFENBACH, NIKOLAUS E, 1161209 ONEG, USMC XL, LUTHERAN.* He swore quietly.
"You do know them, then."
"Yeah." He took a deep breath and handed the dog tags back to her. "I don't know where Klaus is right now. He's with my dad, off on a hunt somewhere. But I know exactly where Gil is. He's at Stanford, in California. So's my brother. I can... I can take you. If you want." Sam would be mad, but Dean couldn't not offer.
"How long will that take?" she asked, sliding the chain back over her head.
"Couple days. I, um... I know some shortcuts."
"They say shortcuts make for long delays. How long of a delay will these shortcuts cause?"
"How long would you like it to be?" he asked without thinking and immediately kicked himself. He shouldn't even be thinking such things about her—Klaus would kill him—
She frowned and got in his face. "Let's get one thing straight right now, mister," she snarled, grabbed his T-shirt, shoved him back against the trunk, and... kissed him within an inch of his life.
"Oh, come on," he replied when he'd caught his breath. "You gotta at least let me buy you dinner first."
"Heh," she said with a smirk and let him up.
"Better leave your swords in the trunk while we eat, unless you want carry-out."
She grumbled a little but shrugged out of her sheaths while he opened the trunk, then oohed appreciatively as he opened the arsenal. "Pretty," she said, eyeing the shuriken as she laid her swords in on top of the shotguns.
"You got any favorites?" he asked, closing the trunk's false bottom.
"Anything but cold iron," she teased.
Dean had a feeling he was going to like Thai.
They were awakened the next morning by Dean's pager going off with coordinates for a new hunt. He groaned, wrote them down, and called Dad for more particulars about the case, not letting on that he wasn't alone.
"Problem?" Zeetha asked when he hung up and flopped back on his pillow.
"Yeah, got a hunt in Denver. Dad said it looks like a vetala. Look, I can—"
"I'm coming with you."
He turned his head to her with a frown. "Why? I mean, yeah, it's on our way, but..."
"Dean," she interrupted, deadly serious. "Vetalas hunt in pairs."
He blinked. "You've done this before."
She nodded. "Oh, yeah. Mom and I have killed dozens. It is not a one-man job."
He blew the air out of his cheeks and nodded. "All right. I'll drive; you talk."
"Don't we have time to get cleaned up first?" she asked, trailing a finger down his chest.
He smirked. "We might. Got any time-saving suggestions?"
"Maaaybe."
Her suggestion didn't actually save any time, but the closest Shipley Do-Nuts had a drive-through, so it worked out.
"Can you shoot?" Dean asked a week later, handing Zeetha a shotgun outside an Idaho cemetery as they prepped for a salt-n-burn.
She scoffed. "Can I shoot!"
"No, I'm serious. Do you know how to fire a gun?"
"What's to know? You point this end at the target, pull this bit, and it goes bang. Simple. In fact, I bet I'm a better shot than you!"
He raised an eyebrow. "Oh, do you?"
"I do."
"How much are you willing to bet?"
"W-ell, I don't have any money, but..." She whispered her terms in his ear.
He grinned. "You're on."
She lost.
"How long?" Zeetha whispered three nights later in a cabin in the Cascades after yet another successful hunt, a faint green fae light steady in the back of her eyes.
"As long as you want," Dean whispered back and meant it with all his heart. "As long as you'll have me." After Cassie, he wasn't sure he was ready to say the L word yet, never mind the M word, but he didn't think he'd ever find another girl like Zeetha. Even ignoring who she was, who her parents were, who her brother was... she was gorgeous, fun, smart, and strong, and she was just as good a partner in a fight as in the sack.
She ran her fingers through his hair. "And if I say forever?"
He swallowed hard—he'd hardly dared hope. "Kinda sudden. But... I wouldn't say no."
She kissed him gently. "Forever, then?"
"Hell, yeah," he breathed without thinking.
She kissed him clean down to his soul.
They never did catch up to their dads that spring.
Three more hunts later, though, they finally rolled into Palo Alto on Midsummer's Eve and walked into the Adventure Club's favorite hangout perfectly in step with each other, her arm around his shoulders, his arm around her waist, identical grins on their faces, his anti-possession tattoo copied on her chest, and her wing mark around his finger. And it was highly entertaining to wonder whether Sam or Gil was the more likely to pass out when he saw them.
.
* Information totally made up but based on the format given on the Moore Militaria website for Vietnam-era Marine dog tags. The serial number is derived from Klaus' first appearance in Girl Genius.