"Son of a bitch," Dean gusted out, fists on his thighs as he tried to catch his breath.

Sam panted next to him, the bloody machete in his hand matching Dean's drip for drip. They leaned against the wall of the old train depot which marked the front of the vamps' lair and Dean tried to stop the shaking in his tricep.

"Son of a… bitch," he said again, flexing his arm. "Either I'm getting older or these bastards are getting stronger."

Sam laughed. "Bit of both, big brother."

Dean couldn't even be mad. "Yeah, well. When can we get some new recruits so we can, I don't know, train the next generation or something?"

Sam, still breathless, Dean was validated to see, gestured vaguely towards the interior of the depot, where their recently added team member was on the phone, probably to let his partner know he was still alive and still not a vampire.

Dean rolled his eyes at Sam's suggestion. "I've already tried Eames. He's not interested. You can work on Arthur. That kid hates me."

Sam looked at him. "Kid? Dude, he's older than I am."

Dean blinked. Huh. Then he shook it off. "Yeah, whatever. Still younger than me. And he still hates me."

They both sat there and breathed for a while, waiting, thinking.

"What about her?"

Dean glanced at Sam sharply. "What about her?" he snapped.

Sam shrugged. "She wanted to come. And she's going to be pissed at you."

Dean shook his head and walked around, trying to stave off the adrenaline crash. He flicked the blood off the blade in his hand, a new arc of crimson staining the wall. "Yeah, well. She'll be alive to be as pissed at me as she wants to. I'm not sorry I didn't bring her."

Sam pressed his lips together. "I just hope she's not—"

"It doesn't matter, okay?" Dean barked at him. "She's going home as soon as we can figure it out, so it makes no sense to have her get killed by stupid vampires before—"

He broke off as Eames trotted up, grinning and smeared in blood, carrying his borrowed machete blade.

"Fun job you blokes have here," he said. Dean and Sam said nothing. The awkward silence stretched until Eames, the bastard, said, "What are we talking about?"

"Nothing."

"Dean wants an heir so he can pass on the family business," Sam said at the same time, and Dean tried to murder him with his eyes.

"Well, now!" Eames said, and laughed. "Things really have changed then, haven't they, my friend?"

"Alright, alright, knock it off," Dean snapped. "Are we done here?" At Eames' raised hands and step backward, he said, "Excellent," and lead the way outside.

The bright afternoon sunlight was almost blinding.

He squinted as he dropped his gear in the trunk, gratefully stowing the unneeded ingredients for a vampire cure and making sure the weapons were where he could find them if they needed them. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Eames expertly wipe down the door handle for fingerprints before he returned the borrowed blade.

"So," Eames said, "Arthur and I have a few loose ends to tie up regarding the coverup, and I could use an extra hand. How are you boys at running a short con?"

Dean closed the trunk. "We've got a glove box full of badges that says we do alright. How long is this going to take? I'm starving."

"Two hours, tops."

Dean's stomach growled.

"I'll go," Sam said, tossing his bag in the back seat. "Why don't you go pick up Arthur and Lady Sansa, get some food, and we'll meet up with you when we're done."

Dean shrugged and ignored the flutter in his stomach. He was a grown-ass man, for Christ's sake. "Sure. Whatever."