Chapter 8

Sam and Dean sat in an old diner across the street from the motel they had taken up temporary residency in. Compared to other motels they had stayed at, it was pretty nice. Big bathroom. Big tub with a shower. Two small twin beds. Reasonable décor and furnishings. A working TV with cable. The only real problem, and they both agreed on this, was that the air-conditioning system worked too hard. Their room was about as cold as an icy tundra. Sam had tried to adjust the thermostat, but it had done nothing.

As they sat and ate their pulled-pork sandwich (Dean) and Five-Veggie Salad (Sam) they discussed their plan. "We need to call them." Sam insisted.

"We don't need to call the British Men of Letters." Dean huffed. He felt like Sam and he were always having the same fights on loop, like a turntable with only one track spiraling around on it. "We can handle this." Dean boldly stated. "I can handle this."

Sam ignored the exclusion from Dean's plan and got back to the point. "They have a much more impressive database on supernatural creeps than we do, Dean. If we asked them, we could know in five minutes flat what we're dealing with."

"We don't need them, Sam." Dean took a big bite of his sandwich and spoke through his chews in a distorted, muffled manner that only Sammy could really understand. "The point of this hunt was to get away from them, right? Just you and me."

"Right." Sam conceded. "But lives are at stake here. Why waste time trying to figure this all out on our own when we could save them with the British Men of Letters' help?"

"So, what's the plan, Sammy-boy? What are we gonna' do this time?" Dean asked as he swallowed and licked his fingers clean. "Are we gonna' line up a bunch of puppies and see what comes out and slaughters them? Or, oh better yet, how about we round up some innocent children and tie them up. Then, when we find their hearts all eaten out, we'll know the monster's a werewolf. Then we can follow the trail of children blood and kiddie-organs back to the den, job well-done."

"Dean, get serious." Sam whined.

"You know I'm serious." Dean said flatly. "That's how they work, and you know it. We both saw it."

Sam couldn't deny it. He had seen it with his own eyes. Children used as bait just for easing the work of the hunt. It had done that, but the plan didn't go exactly right. Some kids had died and the Men of Letters didn't seem nearly upset enough over it. "But neither of us have any idea what we're dealing with." Sam reiterated. Sam complained. "Can't you trust me on this?"

"No. So we do some research."

Sam sighed heavily as he practically felt like the steam of anger was about to shoot out of his ears like in a cartoon. "We don't have any leads." Sam nearly yelled, catching the attention of the other patrons of the restaurant. A bit embarrassed, he lowered his voice to a harsh hiss. "We've nothing to go off of."

"Y'know, this isn't really working out." Dean said as he gestured back and forth between himself and Sam with his hands. "It used to because we used to rely on ourselves. On each other. We could trust each other and we got by just fine." Dean sighed heavily as he placed his forehead on his closed fists. "Now you're too reliant on those foreigners. I don't feel like you trust me and I can't trust you and the choices you make."

"Dean, you can't be serious." Sam begged, his tone changing significantly. The last thing he wanted was to be separated from his big brother again. Even with all their fighting, Dean was Sam's only real friend and confidante. "You're just going to ditch me here?"

"Not if you leave the British Men of Letters out of this." Dean reasoned. "Not if you go with me to the zoo tonight."

"The zoo tonight?" Sam questioned.

"Yeah." Dean responded casually. "I'm going. You saw the videos. Something was there. That blur on the screen wasn't a camera malfunction and you know it. It was our culprit. And I think Melanie might have been right. That thing was clearly setting animals loose, but didn't finish the job. I bet he'll be back one of these nights and we'll bag him."

"That's the plan? Just hope he shows up while we're watching and…" Sam hesitated with a slight shake of his head. "…'bag him'?"

"Yes."

"But we don't even know what it is. We don't know if it even is a him!" Sam's voice was growing louder again. "We don't even know what hurts the S.O.B."

"Are you in or not?" Dean asked. His face was stern and unemotional as he could make it, but Sam knew Dean too well. Hell, he knew him better than he knew himself, and visa-versa probably. Dean was practically begging him to come with him. "Sam?" He asked as he waited.

Sam sighed, hating this plan. "Yes. I'm in." He said begrudgingly. "But if more people start dying because we're sitting on our hands spying through binoculars like a couple of peeping-Toms, then I'm calling the Men of Letters." Sam held out his hand. "Deal?"

"Amendment. I'll make the call when I think it's time, and I swear I'll do it if we need it so no one else gets hurt." Dean held out his right hand, pinky extended. "Deal?"

Sam stared at Dean's cocky-smile-covered face. He hated how easily Dean could get him to do whatever he wanted, but then again, Sam had gotten to do many, many things that Dean would have never done without Sam's pestering. "Deal." He placed his longer pinky around Dean's and they shook. "You're so weird."

"You love me." Dean said with a grin.

"When you're not being a jerk."

"Bitch."