3. Don't sniff around (it pisses people off… and monsters as well)

Dean thought Sam was insane, wanting to contact the Devil of Hell's Kitchen for more intel. Himself though, he didn't find out much. Sam got in their car, learning that there were still no witnesses apart from one drunk claiming he saw a monster with glowing eyes – then again, he supposedly said that every other day, some days being it a pale guy with really sharp teeth. Glowing in the sunlight. Yeah.

Sam took his laptop, setting a search for the possible starting point for the monsters that would hint them where their lair might be. Dean, clearly bored and not impressed, took a walk around the neighbourhood, trying to find a decent diner. Well, any diner. So Sam was left alone with his work, eyeing the entrance to the girl's apartment building from time to time. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for – for the vigilante come knocking her door? For her-

-leaving the building at half past nine p.m.? Yeah, perhaps. Randez-vous with her saviour? He sat up straight, tossing the laptop aside, hiding it under a blanket on the back seat – he liked it too much to let it be stolen. Not to mention Dean would kill him if someone broke the windows of Impala when seeing something so expensive lying there without any guarding.

He sneaked out of the car, gun shoving behind his slacks – hell, he might need it. If anything, he might actually bump into the werewolf. Or two of them, it was still hard to tell. The lunar cycle was their advantage – they should be weakened by now, if even changing. Then again, they might be pure-bloods and that would be very, very unfortunate. They wouldn't give a shit about lunar cycle – they would shift whenever they wanted to if they were able to control it.

The girl had no bag, her keys, maybe a phone and wallet in the pockets of her coat. That only supported his suspicion. He kept his distance, his height making it difficult to hide. She walked few streets, kept looking over her shoulder before she took a sharp left, disappearing into one of dark alleyways. Suspicions confirmed.

He gave her some time and then he followed, peeking to the alleyway as well.

Huge misstep.

Strong pair of hands grabbed him and pulled him in with minimum effort as if he wasn't 220 lbs of living mass. Holy-

Before he could reach his gun, his right hand was gripped in firm hold, twisted behind his back, making him to bend forward. He swept his other hand for the weapon vainly, his attempt repulsed, gun clinking on the ground.

"Shit," he cursed under his breath, jerking to free himself. Despite his undeniable weight advantage, the only result was more pain in his wrist and shoulder. Fuck. Who was this guy? Sam mentally slapped himself – what he did was just plain stupid. Such an obvious trap, dammit.

"Why are you following her?" a dangerous voice hissed to his ear, his tone freezing Sam on spot. Sam saw lots of scary things in his life. He heard a lot too. But this sent shivers down his spine; the voice was a liquid threat.

"I don't know what you're talking ab-ahhh," he whined as the tension in his shoulder strengthened, pain running through it like a knife. He subconsciously bent more, avoiding the pain.

"You've been in her apartment asking too many questions. You didn't leave the car parked on the street she lives in ever since. Now you just happen to walk the same direction and you stepped out conveniently thirty seconds after she went out," he continued, righteous anger in every word. Shit. Sam hadn't been spying; Sam was being spied on. "Wanna try that again?"

His mind raced, trying to figure out how to get out of his grip. He kicked out, but as if the other man knew exactly what he was about to do, he moved away, booting his other knee, making him sink to his knees. His arm cried in agony.

"Alright, alright. I'm agent Mason-"

"No, you're not," he protested immediately. "WHAT do you want with her? And think about your answer in case you want to use your arm again."

"Jesus. Nothing! I wanted to talk to you," he admitted finally as he figured out lying probably didn't work with this one. He knew much more than Sam would think. Shit.

"We're talking."

Sam gasped, wondering whether he would be able to use his fingers ever again. He couldn't feel them anymore. "And can't we do it like two adults?"

"No. You should have thought it through before you started stalking an innocent young woman and imposing an officer of law. Why did you want to talk to me?" he thundered, not loosening his hold an inch.

Alright. At least he got the Devil's attention. Also, he was fairly sure this wasn't Lucifer, so that was something.

"The bodies appearing lately-" he started only to be interrupted again.

"I didn't do it. I'm working on figuring it out."

"Yeah, maybe. In that case you're over your head. You can't deal with this," Sam hissed, concerned by the fact he was losing sensation in his wrist as well.

To his shock, the Devil suddenly let go.

"You genuinely believe that," he breathed, astonished. Then he returned to his hard mask. "But trust me, I can."

Sam massaged his fingers and wrist, getting up, looking at the man who stood in defensive posture few steps in front of him, Sam's gun at his feet. In the shadows, he looked exactly like in the pictures and videos. Sam would say less scary, because he had to look down at him, but after what he had just been through, he wouldn't let the man to fool him. Not again.

"No, you can't, because you don't know what you're dealing with," he explained, pleasantly surprised that he in fact could move his fingers, no matter how painful it was. Huh.

The vigilante tilted his head as if he was considering something. It was incredibly human gesture, in a stark contrast to the brutal force and intimidating voice he used before. "Do you?"

"I have a few theories, yes."

"Good. Care to share?" he challenged him, sounding like he wanted to cross his arms on his chest – he didn't though. He held them relatively high, ready to defend himself if needed – or attack.

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you. The less you know the better – stay out of this," Sam hinted him, saying nothing but the truth. This man was dangerous enough, but fighting a werewolf, he wouldn't stand a chance. Sam needed him only for information, not for the fight.

"Hardly. I'll find out one way or another," he responded confidently and Sam whined internally.

"I'm serious. It's too dangerous," he warned him, apparently with no effect.

"Did you already forget about the way we talked a minute ago?"

Sam flexed his fingers again, testing their stiffness. No, he really didn't. "No. But whatever you do, it won't help you. Not against this."

"I don't care about what you think." He took several rapid steps and Sam was on the ground again before he had a chance to prepare for the lunge. "Stay away from Vera," the Devil growled to his ear, knee buried between Sam's shoulder blades as he lied flat on the pavement, arms behind his back. "And get the hell out of my city."

Then the pressure vanished out of blue, and Sam only managed to turn his head to see the man disappear in the shadows, creak of near fire escape being only hint of where he went.

He stumbled to his feet, finding his gun on the ground, cursing. Dammit. That didn't go well. He walked back to the car, planning on calling Dean, mind wandering.

He realized he never asked the Devil what exactly he knew about all this.

Sam didn't mention Dean he had an encounter with the vigilante – he rather didn't spread the information he got his ass handed to him. He simply told him it was probably a dead end and grabbed a salad at the diner Dean found – naturally, he walked there, not being allowed to drive Dean's baby. It made them significantly slower, but rules were rules.

Sam's algorithm actually did find possible location, area of mile radius, so he counted that as a win. Dean parked the Impala on the edge of the populated area, close enough so they wouldn't have to walk too much, on the other hand far enough for the car not to get in harm's way. Typical. They both stock up with many, many silver bullets, two guns on them each, walking cautiously, keeping their eyes peeled for any movement.

The area was mostly abandoned as expected – whoever was turning, they were probably new, maybe even scared from his shifting; if they remembered it though. It would make sense they ran away from people, hiding, possibly sticking with someone who was the same. Sam didn't like killing the young ones better or worse than the old ones, but sadly, there was no other way – there was no exorcism that would expel the animal part from their body, neither a cure for their werewolf side. Silver bullets it was then.

Rustling on his right made him spin on his heels – nothing but a shadow. Sam didn't like it. Dean, who was few steps in front of him, turned to the sound as well, shooting his brother a confused look – he didn't see anything either, fishing out his flashlight so their surrounding was illuminated better than from a distant crappy streetlamp.

The light reflected in huge yellow eyes, too high and too close, making Sam jumping back, immediately firing, not really caring where. The creature roared, springing in his direction as he fired again, this time aiming for its heart. Dean didn't help him – Sam heard another growl in short distance, his brother's gun going off as well, fighting his own opponent.

His enemy flinched when another bullet hit its chest, continuing his way more slowly than before. Shit. It didn't kill him. Was Sam such a crappy shooter? He actually hoped so, taking another shot.

This time, he was pretty sure he hit its heart. Nothing.

"Fuck," he cursed under his breath. "Silver's not working!" he yelled after his brother.

Sarcastic shout was his answer. "You think?!"

Sam had no idea what the hell he should do. He was out of bullets, uselessly reaching for his other gun, walking backwards rapidly. Before he could fire, the werewolf lunged, Sam jumping away in the last second.

Shit. He had stuffed the creature with eight bullets, attempting to aim on its head, but he had no time. It took a swing again and this time… he was too slow. He felt the claws cutting through his abdomen, letting out a groan, stumbling backwards.

"Sammy!" terrified scream reached his ears, but he couldn't turn its direction, making his way as far from the werewolf as he could. Fuck, fuck, fuck, that stung. He instinctively raised his hands, pressing against the wound – his palms immediately got wet and stick with his blood. Oh Jesus, that was not good, not at all.

He peripherally saw a small flying light hitting the creature – it roared and turned around, following the other werewolf, running away, howl resounding from somewhere between the buildings .

It was a lighter, Sam realized. Dean had thrown his lighter after it. The monsters minded fire.