I would like to apologize in advance to the good people of Florida for Ben's opinions (which do not necessarily reflect my own) of your fine state. He's just in a bad mood right now (you'll find out why in a minute). However, whilst typing the beginning of this chapter, it did kind of make me realize how often I take my own state for granted. Sure we get snow - which seems infinite at times - but the wildlife in my neck of the woods doesn't want to eat me (including the bears). You guys do know how to grow an orange, though.
Anyway...
Oh, right. There's lots of swears (primarily f-bombs) in this chapter (I told you, Ben's not in a good mood) so if you're particularly sensitive to such language, now would be a swell time to turn on that profanity filter.

Titusville, Florida

You'll never guess what I'm doing right now this very minute. Riding in the Impala with Dean? Cold. Guess again. Sunbathing at the beach with Dean? A lot colder. One more guess. Eating a bucket of fried shrimp with Dean while we explore a hiking trail through the swamp lands where, at any minute, an alligator could jump up and bite my ankles or a massive mother fucking python could slither down from a tree and swallow me whole.

That was actually the worst guess yet, but it reminded me why Michigan is my preferred peninsula, as far as peninsula states go.

Anyway, I'm not currently with Dean. He's on a food and booze run. Me, I'm sitting in a dark motel room. Oh, and I'm tied to a fucking chair.

The only reason we're in this smelly, muggy, reptile and serpent infested state is because Dean thought it was necessary to track down the guy who sold the Crandall's their Celtic/Fairy spell book and make sure there weren't any others like it. Yes, you heard me. Dean Winchester drove us all the way from North Dakota to fucking Florida on a search and destroy all spell books mission.

Half the way there I begged him to let me call it into Garth and have one of the newer hunters do it. Or one of the fresh from the loony bin and ready to hunt again but not really quite ready yet hunters. Even Garth would take this non-case, since it doesn't conflict with his whole being a werewolf thing.

But noooo. Dean said it was our job. Our boring ass, flea-market browsing, book burning job. And now I'm tied to a fucking chair.

I'm a little sore about the whole thing, if you couldn't tell. I generally can't stand an hours worth of shopping let alone three whole days of it. Also, I'M TIED TO A FUCKING CHAIR.

The worst part about this, in my opinion, is the thing that got the jump on me is some lanky ass looking, dark haired kid who looks to be somewhere between three and five years younger than me. He sits silently on the edge of one of the queen sized beds, calmly twirling a long dagger whose blade shimmers in the small amount of light that peeks in from the parking lot.

"Will you at least tell me what you are?" I ask him while I quietly fight against my restraints. "If you're going to kill me, I think I deserve to know what's about to do me in."

"I'm not going to kill you," the kid responds sincerely. "Once I have accomplished what I came here for, I assure you I will leave you unharmed." Pause. "Bearing in mind you can't hold me accountable for any rope burns you may give yourself if you keep struggling like that."

"So you're what again?" I ask, temporarily abandoning operation: free and flee. "And you've tied me up why?"

"I'm a kitsune," he tells me.

"A what?"

"Kitsune," he repeats.

"I've never heard of that," I admit, briefly wondering if he's made it up.

"There aren't many of us," he acknowledges. "And I've tied you to the chair so you don't get in my way."

"In your way?" I echo as a question. It hits me as the words leave my lips. "You're here for Dean, aren't you?"

He doesn't reply, not with words. His silence serves as his response. He hangs his head and I could swear he almost seems remorseful about it.

"I've never killed anyone before," he tells me quietly with a slight quiver in his voice. The way he tells me this, I know he's telling me the truth. Which is actually kind of confusing.

"Pardon my ignorance," I begin. "But what kind of monster doesn't kill?"

Even in the dark I can see the disgusted, angry frown that creases his brows as he gives me a cold stare. I've clearly struck a nerve.

"You hunters are all the same," he spits defensively. "Judging us by what we are instead of who we are. I am a kitsune, not a monster. Yes, I must feed on pituitary glands to live, but they don't have to come from the living. I don't have to, nor do I ever, kill for my own survival. No, I am not the monster here. Your buddy Dean, though. He fits the definition. Your hunter pal Dean, he's the only monster in this town tonight."

The way he says Dean, I can tell this is personal. Like he's spent years letting the hate build up inside of him while he plotted his vengeance.

"Listen, kid," I begin as I return to struggling against my snug bindings. "I'm sorry about your mom or your dad or your sister or whoever Dean killed. But we don't go out looking for things to kill for shits and giggles. We follow a trail made of corpses, which means mommy was a monster and had to be put down."

A hot rage flashes in his eyes and, for a minute, he thinks about going back on his promise not to kill me. That is, until I'm saved by the bell. The bell in this scenario being the roaring engine of Dean's Impala pulling into the parking lot.

"I'm really sorry about this," the kid apologizes as he swiftly wanders towards me and stuffs a clean hand towel in my mouth. "You just happened to be at the wrong place at the right time."

"Hurmm mur hmm mhmm," I try to speak through my gag while the kid hides in the shadow behind the door.

I've never been gagged before. I gotta say, it's not what I was expecting based on what I've seen on TV or in movies. I used to watch scenes like this and wonder why the guy tied to a chair or a bed or whatever didn't just spit the gag out. I now know it's because there's too much material tucked too far back to be able to repel from your mouth. It's so far back, I almost gag.

For an obnoxiously long minute the room falls into an eerie silence as the two of us wait for Dean to join the fun. My heart begins to thump just a little faster and harder as I hear the sound of his keys jingle before the door unlocks. I make as much noise as I can to warn the older hunter not to come in, but all I can manage are muffled gurgling sounds.

Dean steps into the room holding a brown paper bag in his left arm and a six-pack in his right. He glances around the dark room and finally sees me when he glances to his left. The look on his face when he discovers my predicament is less confused or even surprised. It's more of a 'well, shit' expression. He doesn't even seem surprised when the door suddenly slams behind him and the kid steps out of the shadows with his blade pointed at the hunter.

"Dean Winchester," the kid says, holding his blade menacingly out in front of him. "I've been waiting for this day for a very long time. Hands where I can see 'em."

Dean sighs but does as Knife Boy instructs, placing his bag and six pack on the closest bed before raising both of his hands.

"I told you this day would come," the kid goes on and Dean actually rolls his eye.

"I'm sure you did," he says with an unenthusiastic, borderline bored tone. "Who are you again?"

The young stranger lets out a short, angry snort and I'm sure his cheeks are flushed in rage. As if this kid didn't hate Dean enough already. Nothing takes the wind out of your revenge sails like the guy you're about to pay back not having a clue who you are.

"Jacob," the kid responds, his weapon still up in the air in front of him. "Jacob Pond."

Dean gives Jacob a small shrug, indicating his memory has yet to be jogged.

"Amy Pond was my mother," Jacob tries again, the wrath in his tone rising.

The name clearly sparks something in Dean's head, but his expression tells us he's not sure why or from where.

"The kitsune your brother let live?"

Recognition strikes Dean at this reminder, something that seems to satisfy Jacob.

"Oh, yeah," Dean nods as the memory resurfaces in his mind. "You did tell me you'd kill me, didn't you? Good for you on finding me. That couldn't have been easy."

"Shut up!" Jacob yells, clearly irritated by Dean's seeming lack of concern that there's a vengeful monster waving a knife in his face. For a minute no one says anything as the kitsune glares down the hunter who looks like he just wants this to be over so he can get on with his night. I keep fighting the ropes that hold me in place.

"Why?" Jacob asks at long last. "Why couldn't you just let us go? Your brother, Sam. He let us go. Why couldn't you?"

"Look," Dean rolls his head. "In retrospect, maybe my brother was right to let her just walk. Maybe. But your mom did kill people."

"For me!" Jacob yelled, fighting back the tears that fill his eyes. "She killed three assholes to save her son!"

"Maybe they were assholes," Dean shrugs. "Maybe they weren't. Your mom killed them, I killed her. End of story."

"No," Jacob speaks through clenched teeth, shaking his head as he fearlessly walks closer to Dean. "Not end of story. This story ends when I've avenged my mom's death. The same way you ended her." He pauses to let Dean eye the blade that's meant to take his life. "With knife in your heart."

Insert an epic and dramatic silence as the two stare each other down. Jacob, he's caught between nervousness for taking a life and utter joy that he's finally about to get the vengeance that's fueled his very existence for the past... well, I don't know how long exactly. At least ten years, since Sam was alive for the beginning of this tale.

Dean's expression is harder to read. His face remains stern, solid. Almost emotionless. His eye, however, keeps a subtle spark of guilt. Emptiness. As if he hopes Jacob follows through with his threat because he thinks he deserves to die, but not just for what he did to the kid's mom all those years ago. For all sorts of crap that's built up inside of him.

Oh my god. Is this what happens to hunters? Is this what's going to happen to me?

Wait, don't think about that right now. Get the hell out of this chair and stab the little freak with... shit, I don't have a weapon. I'll bludgeon him then. Or, at least, knock him unconscious.

"Any last words, Dean Winchester?" Jacob says, his voice hovering just above a whisper.

"Nope," Dean says, his eye never leaving Jacob's.

The seconds that follow pass by at an excruciatingly slow rate. Jacob draws his knife back, just above his head to gain enough inertia to drive the blade through Dean's chest. Dean, he watches this. Just watches. His eye on the blade glistening in the neon light from the motel parking lot, glad to see it descend.

"Mruhmmmmmm!" I try to yell through my gag, a sound that catches Dean's attention. He looks at me, blinks, then returns his focus to the descending knife.

Just as Jacob's knife is about to penetrate the soft leather of his jacket, Dean takes a firm grip of the kid's wrist. In the blink of an eye, the weapon transfers hands and Dean sinks the sharp blade into Jacob's own heart.

The kid's mouth gapes open as he blinks furiously in surprise.

"No..." he whispers before he staggers backwards and falls to the brown shag carpeted floor and exhales his last breath.

Dean gives Jacob a quick but through glance to make sure he's not getting back up. Then he glances up at me and says;

"You hungry?"

"Hrmm muhmmm," I grumble, my brows folded in anger.

"Oh, right," he says, swiftly stepping towards me.

"What the fuck!?" I yell at him the instant he's pulled the towel out of my mouth. I watch him through angry eyes as his own hunting knife begins slicing my bonds.

"What?" Dean asks, confused by my hostile tone. "You like deep fried sea food, right?"

"Dude," I motion to Jacob, the guy who's been dead for all of ten seconds. "We've got a dead kid laying in the middle of the floor!"

"No," Dean shakes his head as he rises to his feet. "We've got a dead kitsune on the floor."

"Whatever," I say, rubbing my wrists. "Did you know he was coming?"

"More or less," Dean replies vaguely with a casual shrug. "Help me wrap him up in one of these sheets. It's too early to carry a corpse through the parking lot. We'll stash him in the tub for now."

"What does 'more or less' mean?" I question, my tone still irritated.

"It means 'more or less'," Dean returns, stripping the white sheets from the bed not currently occupied with hot food and cold beer. He carefully drapes it over Jacob's body before bothering to flick a light on.

"I don't know what that means," I say with an annoyed tone as I bend down to assist Dean in the dirty work of wrapping a dead body in a sheet.

"I mean," he begins as we move the body to the bathroom. "I didn't know what would come or when, but I knew something would eventually come at some point."

"What?" I shake my head as I help Dean place the wrapped up kitsune in the bath tub. "Is there another hit list out there with your name on it? You got anything else coming after you?"

"Probably," Dean shrugs like it's nothing. He pauses to wash his hands before he makes his way back to the food. "You hungry yet?"

"Like what?" I ask with a voice laced with frustration.

"I don't know," he says with a deep sigh, extracting the flask from his pocket. He takes a long, hard swig as he scavenges his alcohol soaked mind for the answer. "Demons. Angels. Maybe some vamps. Probably some ghosts if we ever end up in their vicinity. Shifters, gods, ghouls. Witches. I don't know. I've spent a lot of time pissing a lot of things off. It's hard to say who's hit list I've made."

"And you casually failed to mention this to me?" I fume.

"It's part of the job," he tells me flatly yet sternly. He pauses to take a drink from his flask. "At first," he goes on, pocketing the flask as he speaks, "you think you're gonna die bloody on your feet. No matter what, it's gonna be bloody, but after a while your chances of dying sitting down go up. You think you're just saving people? Making all the bad nightmares go away? Well, you're making enemies, too, and it's just a matter of time before one of them catches up with you."

Of course I'm making enemies. Only, it's one of those things that you know, but you don't really know. Like when you know that it's a bad idea to keep drinking all night, but you don't really know it either, because you're in the moment and that moment is awesome and screw what happens in the morning.

I let this realization digest as I quietly watch Dean extract white to-go boxes from the brown paper bag, along with plastic forks and two paper plates. He carries this all to the small, round table and, with his back turned, asks "You want cocktail sauce or tartar sauce?" as he begins plating our meal.

"Both," I absently reply as a new question surfaces. "Hey, Dean. Can I ask you a question?"

"You like crab cakes, right?"

"When Jacob was about to stab you," I begin softly. "It, uh, it kind of looked like you were going to let him. You weren't... you weren't really going to let him kill you, right?"

Pause.

"Hush puppy?"

So, yes, Sam is dead in this story (in case anyone was wondering, since I never made that specifically clear until now). And I kind of feel bad about it, but I don't at the same time for two reasons. One, I'm fairly confident that, by the end of the series, the Winchester who survives will not be Sam (I have my reasons - shoot me a PM if you'd like to discuss them). Reason number two is season nine Sam is really starting to piss me off. Not that that's a good excuse to kill off a character, but I guess it makes it easier for me to write this without feeling too remorseful about it.
Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this enough to leave a review. *insert compelling puppy eyes*