AN: This story began with a little one-shot I wrote about a month ago about Ben as a hunter, all grown up and how I thought Dean would react to this when the two meet (please tell me I'm not the only one who's pretty sure Ben showed signs of interest when it came to hunting!). It kind of snowballed from there and took a life of its own. As stories often do. You don't have to read it to get this as I feel I've summed it up pretty well here, but you're more than welcome to.
Like blood to a vampire, I feed on the life force that are reviews. So feed me! But more importantly, enjoy!
Shelbyville, Kentucky
The first time I met Dean Winchester, he was surly. Tired, worn, and easily annoyed. The first time I met my idol, he told me to get out of the life. To lay my guns and knives down, walk away and do something that wouldn't endanger my mom or me.
So imagine my delight and surprise when I spy him sitting on an early 2000 model Harley, sipping whiskey from a silver flask just outside a pre-Civil War era mansion. Not that seeing another hunter at a house with a potential ghost problem is abnormal. Except that Dean Winchester is kind of like a ghost himself. A seldom seen, seldom heard legend that leaves his mark in blood before vanishing.
Also, he appears to be waiting for some one. The way he watches me as I slowly amble in his direction, the some one he appears to be waiting for is me.
Me. Ben Braden. A nobody young gun with dreams and aspirations to be just like my idol, Dean Winchester, despite the bitter old man he's become and his stern disapproval of my lifestyle choice.
I cautiously eye the aging hunter as I close in on him, studying his demeanor and appearance under the late afternoon's light. On the outside, he looks the same as he did when I first met him a few months back. His face looks weathered and rugged beneath a thick five o'clock shadow, matching the old leather jacket he wears despite the warm 60-something degree weather. Streaks of white wisp through his otherwise brunette hair just above his ears as wrinkles gently begin to settle themselves across his brow. A black patch conceals the place his left eye used to be and covers a small portion of the three deep scars that run parallel in a diagonal direction from his brow to his cheek bone.
The way he looks at me with his green eye, however, is not at all the same. This time he looks on with a vague twinkle of excitement.
"Took you long enough," he greets me once I've awkwardly approached the man and I can't help the confused crease my brows form at his statement.
"How did you..." I begin before I trail off in realization.
Flash back three days ago to Bellevue, Washington where I had just wrapped up a vampire case. A text message from an unknown and unidentifiable number came through that read this and only this;
38 12 44 85 13 33
It took me about five minuets to figure out it was a coordinate. The coordinate led me to web pages dedicated to the modest city of Shelbyville, which led me to the state of Kentucky when I discovered a slew of strange, ghosty sounding murders had taken place at a local Bed and Breakfast.
Honestly, I didn't question who had sent me the text. I figured it had been Garth or maybe some hunter on the lamb who wasn't allowed back in the particular state. Never in my wildest dreams did I think the message came from Dean "Get Out While You Can" Winchester.
"You sent me that text?" I vocalize my realization in the form of a question as Dean takes another swallow from his flask.
"You sound surprised," he comments and I can smell the whiskey on his words.
"No... well, yeah," I slowly admit. "I guess I thought the last time was kind of one of those once in a lifetime kind of deals." I pause before I awkwardly add, "Plus, you kind of told me I shouldn't be a hunter, so..."
"Yeah," he admits as he absently caps his container. "I also recall giving you one hell of a weapon when you refused to quit."
The demon blade. He didn't give it to me directly, but I knew it was meant for me when I found it in my room after our brief encounter. After all, I was the only one in that tavern he spoke a single word to.
"Come on," he climbs off his bike as he tucks his flask safely away in one of the inner pockets of his old jacket. "I reserved a room for you."
"So, this is happening?" I blink in disbelief, unable to move from my spot. "You're asking me to go hunting with you?"
"Sure," he shrugs as he slowly begins his ascent up the elegant stairway towards the front doors. "Why not? You seem like a capable young man."
Seriously? This is real life? The Dean Winchester wants to go hunting with me? I'm half tempted to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming, but I don't. If this is a dream, I don't want to wake up just yet.
"You comin'?" Dean calls to me from the top of the staircase.
I give him a short nod as I scurry to catch up with him.
"This is a huge honor for me," I practically gush as we make our way toward the heavy oak doors. "Really. I just have one question."
"I'm sure you do," Dean mutters, not looking at me as he reaches for the brass handle.
"Do you really need help with a ghost?" I can't help but wonder.
"No," he easily admits, pushing open the large door. "I just thought you might like to go hunting with your idol or whatever it is you think I am. This was the first case I came up with. Now get in there or I'll do the damn thing myself."
"Yes sir!" I respond with a short salute as I scurry past him.
"Don't call me that," he grumbles.
xXxXx
There's a chance I'm too excited for this. It's like if Tony Stark came up to you and said "hey, we want you to join the Avengers". Or if Luke Skywalker swung by to tell you that you've got jedi powers and he needs you to help him save the universe.
I'm also incredibly nervous. This is my chance to prove to Dean, my idol, the man I've looked up to from afar, that I know what I'm doing. That I belong in this life. Which is really nerve-wracking when your idol is only the most legendary living hunter on the planet. It would be like a concert pianist playing in front of Mozart, or a student of astronomy presenting their thesis to Neil Degrasse Tyson.
I kind of lied when I told Dean I only had one question for him. I actually have about a dozen and a half questions, and those are just the ones I can think of off the top of my head. But as fate would have it, I'm not the only one with questions.
"Where are we starting?" he asks me once we've both settled into our lavish, too-nice-for-dirty-smelly-hunters-like-us rooms. He asks me this just after he's let himself into my room and finds me sitting on a queen sized bed with an open laptop.
"Um," I fumble with my response, temporarily confused as to why he of all people is asking me where to start. Maybe he's testing me, which is a thought that drives both my determination and my nerves up a few notches. "I was thinking we'd start here in the hotel. It's where all the murders have happened, right?"
"Okay," Dean nods as he draws his flask out from his back pocket. As he slowly screws the cap away from the lip, he asks "What's our angle? Feds? Reporters?"
"Curious bystanders?" I lay my response out in the form of a question and again Dean nods before taking a short drink.
"Because?" he presses me for my reasoning and now I know he's testing me.
"Anyone here knows more about what's going on than the cops do," I nervously begin. "If we're looking at a pissed off spirit, some one here has to have seen or heard something. The kind of something you don't want to tell cops or reporters."
Dean nods a third time. He takes another drink before pocketing his metal container.
"What do we know so far?" he asks, not revealing whether or not he finds my answers adequate.
"All three vics were bludgeoned to death," I report, my eyes between my hero and my computer screen. "Doors and windows were locked, no sign of forced entry or struggle." I pause to drag a second window into view. "According to their web site, this place was built in 1806. The surrounding acres were used to grow tobacco until around 1956. It's been a Bed and Breakfast ever since."
"Any deaths?" Dean wants to know and I shrug as my fingers quickly stroke the keyboard.
"Not that this web site would admit to," I say.
Once again, Dean just nods. The look on his face seems calm, but masked. Whatever he's thinking, he's not letting me know. I'm fairly confident in my hunting abilities, but I can't tell if I'm doing things right in his eyes or not.
The attractive young blonde at the front desk isn't completely unhelpful. As a member of the family owned business, she's been around long enough to know there's definitely a ghost or two milling around. Whether she knows it or not, her comment about the violent activity starting around the time they renovated the whole place was extremely helpful.
"What's that sound like to you?" Dean quizzes me as I drive us into town when we decide a trip to the record's hall is in order.
"Sounds like a Casper or two," I begin. "And one really pissed off ghost that's been asleep for a while."
Dean nods and takes a sip from his flask.
Digging through two centuries worth of records help, but not by much. The old house has experienced five deaths since its construction, none of which indicate a violent murder. Not on paper, anyway. And we can't find anything that would give reason for this sort of malevolence, either.
"What now?" Dean wants to know what I would do next.
"Check the place out after dark," I respond. "See if something comes out to play... or maim."
Dean nods.
So far, I think I'm passing his test, but I still can't tell. Each time I supply him with an answer, he just nods. And the questions aren't even close to coming to an end.
"What's your arsenal look like?" he wants to know as twilight ascends and we've reached our haunted lodgings.
I open the secret compartment I keep under the flatbed of my pickup and let Dean rummage through my somewhat organized stash of guns and knives, jars and jugs.
"Every hunter essential," I proudly show him my collection which he picks through with a thoughtful expression on his face, silently inventorying my stash. He picks up a long machete to test its edge. He replaces the blade with a sawed off shotgun and checks the rounds. He hands this to me before studying a polished silver handgun. His studious face turns into mild amusement when his hands find my water pistols and Super Soakers I use when I'm hunting demons.
Carefully, in the rapidly waning light of the day, Dean inspects my entire arsenal before he helps himself to my backup sawed off shot gun and pockets a box of ready salt rounds.
"Not that I'm against sharing," I begin, watching as Dean takes out his flask. "But don't you have your own shotgun?"
Dean smiles at this before taking a long drink.
"You got a duffel?" he doesn't bother answering my question. "We don't want to freak out any of the living."
From my private, hidden stash of weaponry I pull out a medium sized black duffel bag and hand it to Dean.
"Great," he takes this from me with his left hand as he extends his flask towards me with his right. "You want a sip?"
"Sure," I shrug and accept the offering. It's not until I've tilted the object upside down that I realize Dean has polished it off.
"It's empty," I inform him, passing it back.
"I know," he nods, loading our weapons into the bag. "That was a test. Like I'm gonna let you drink before a hunt."
"But you've been drinking all day," I point out before I can think better of it.
"Yeah," he doesn't attempt denial as he turns and heads towards the house. "But I'm a professional."
"A professional drinker?" I mumble quietly before following him.
To be perfectly honest, this hunt is actually going better than expected. Rather, better than I could have realistically expected. In the fantasy part of my mind, Dean told me everything I was doing was great, just perfect. That I was a natural and he'd be honored to take me on as his next partner. The realist side of my brain told me he was going to bark orders, tell me I was doing it all wrong and then, before we could reach the gory parts of the hunt, he'd send me on my way while bitterly grumbling he should have just taken care of it on his own and that I should reconsider ditching the life.
I'm totally cool with middle ground here.
AN: Stay tuned for the conclusion of Ben and Dean's first ever team up!
Disclaimer: I own nothing except the title as Fangirl and I wear it proudly. I'm not affiliated with the CW, Supernatural or anyone associated with them (which sucks cause that Misha Collins guy looks like he'd be a fun person to know). I'm not profiting from this, bla bla bla.
