"Dean, this is me, you, whatever. The reason you're so far off the main road is, you're hunting a kei'lutt, an Eskimo ghost dog with a serious case of the munchies. If you didn't already know that, that means it's close. That chick with you is Gwen. She can track it down. Your job is to keep her breathing while she does her job. Then you can gank the bitch. The mutt, not the chick."

The recorded message ended.

"You said my name wrong." I remarked absently, my eyes staying focused on the prison yard tattoo slowly taking shape on my wrist.

"We're not starting that again." he snapped back.

During the successful, but uneventful supply run we'd settled into a comfortable pattern of good natured verbal sparring. So far, it had filled our mutual need for some level of conflict well enough that it kept us from tearing into one another for real.

His room was now the staging ground for prepping up for the next day's hunt. Room isn't really an accurate word. The place was one of those off the highway deals made up of a scattering of single room cabins. Unnecessarily long paths wound around strategically positioned bushes, creating the illusion that the area was larger and more spread out than it actually was.

"All right," he said as he finished poking at his phone, "got a repeating alarm set to run on a 15 minute cycle. That gives us a constant reminder and an early warning system. Give me your phone and I'll set one up for you."

"No thanks," I declined, jabbing the needle into my skin for what seemed like the hundredth time, "I'm not trusting that thing with my life. I barely trust it to make phone calls."

"So you're going to go with that superstitious mumbo jumbo?" he asked, coming over to claim the small table's other chair.

"If superstition was mumbo jumbo, I think both our lives would have played out differently." I said wryly.

"Well, yeah, I guess so. But," he paused, either collecting his thoughts or looking for the words, "it just feels wrong. Like crossing a line."

I looked up from my work and met his eye. "Whatever gets the job done." I said, "If I'm the one with all my pieces still in place when the fur's all done flying, I'm good with crossing a few lines."

He looked, unimpressed, at my wrist and the two contra-positioned arrows drawn there. "So, that's it? Couple of arrows and the devil dog can't touch you?" he asked.

If only it were that easy. Magic of any kind tends to be finicky stuff. That, or we don't know nearly as much as we like to think we do. Rarely, you find something that works with the kind of consistent reliability that you get from salt or silver. Mostly, you do the best you can playing by rules you only half know and don't really understand. Dean preferred methods that had stood the test of time in his personal experience.

My own experiences had been...well, let's just say different and leave it at that.

"It's just for general protection." I said, "Couldn't find anything kei'lutt specific. Didn't think I would since it's not from around here. I've been meaning to do this for a while. Seemed like a good time. I'm not saying for sure it'll help. I'm just hedging the bet. What I'm really going to be counting on is you."

"Yeah, but I'm going to be counting on this." he said, indicating his phone, "Kind of means you are too, doesn't it?"

It did, but the degree of separation had allowed me to ignore that fact. I wished he hadn't brought it up. "OK, so we're both going in with a little misplaced faith. You want out?" I asked.

"Oh, hell no," he promptly declared.

That was about what I'd expected. Dean had a score to settle and something to prove. He was in this hunt come hell or high blood pressure. No way he was pulling out because my methods made him nervous.

We were on common ground there, because his didn't square with me either. We were both going to have to live with it. We were in countdown conditions and a more solid plan would take time we didn't have. So, damn the torpedoes.

"OK then," I said, turning back to the half complete tattoo. The dozens of pin prick wounds had bled while we'd been talking. A sticky red blotch hid the pen drawn guide lines from view. I blotted it up with a wad of tissue scavenged from the bathroom and tossed it onto the pile that had been growing as I worked.

"Housekeeping's going to wonder what we've been doing in here." he said, reaching over to grab the wastebasket.

"When is that not true?" I asked, dipping the needle into the ink. The dark liquid soaked up into the spindle of thread wrapped at the tip. I braced myself to continue the injections. I wish I'd picked a better spot, someplace fleshier where the bone wasn't so close to the surface. It was too late to change lanes by then. I just had to power through it.

Dean swept the pile of bloody tissue into the wastebasket and plopped it off the side before producing a sloppily folded map that he spread out on the cleared space. A sprinkling of red X's marked it. "These are where the cattle did the David Copperfield thing, and that's The Clark's camp. I figure our best shot is right here in the middle." he said, with a sharp finger tap on the spot.

I nodded. That did seem like our best move. "How close can you get us?" I asked.

"Best road I can find is right here. We'll have to hike in about two or three miles. We should head out first thing. As soon as you finish your "no trespassing" tribal tatt, I'll give you a lift to where ever you're staying." he said.

"Save your gas." I told him, "I'm not staying anywhere. I just hit town this morning. Been too busy trying not to get shot or eaten to think about where to bed down."

"Even better, you can grab a room here." he said. He pushed his chair back and wandered over to toss himself carelessly onto the bed.

"I'll work it out." I said casually.

The next half hour or so inched by a needle prick at a time. Dean relaxed while cycling repeatedly through the handful of local channels and complaining that they all sucked. He wasn't wrong. They did.

I wasn't listening to him or the TV. My mind was busy running through a cycle of its own. My plans for the night hadn't really included a roof and walls. My current funds were limited. The cost of a room would just about wipe me out. The Pretend You're Camping Cabin Patch, or whatever it was called, was isolated. It probably wouldn't be too hard to find a spot to throw down the bedroll for the night.

On the other hand, it was already late. I'd be losing the light soon. That meant a quick, bare bones set up, serviceable, but not comfortable. And I did need to be at my best in the morning.

I still hadn't settled on either option when I stepped out into the fading dusk of the ending day. I wandered in the direction of the front office not sure if I intended to reach it or not. The flash of the no vacancy sign informed me that the decision had been made for me. Roughing it it was.

Once I knew for sure what I was doing, it didn't take long to seek out a good spot. There was one just beyond the cabins that would do well enough. It was sheltered on two sides by large bushes which would keep my makeshift camp from being too visible. The ground was basically flat and over grown with tall grass that could be trampled down for some cushioning. Not fancy, but it would do for one night.

I'd gotten a patch large enough lie down flattened and was freeing my bedroll from the pack when something rustled from beyond the bushes. I held my breath listening. It was big, not a squirrel or raccoon. It was moving closer. I reached back to unsnap the safety strap on the Bowie, while I tried to orient myself to the noise, pinpoint the probable position.

It moved too purposefully for a deer. The gait gave it two legs, not four. One of the "campers" could have been out walking the paths, or maybe staff on a security check. Just because the area was grown up and not maintained didn't automatically mean that I was across the property line.

No light flickered through the leaves. Would either of those be out without a flashlight? I set my hand on the knife's handle but didn't draw it. Not yet. Too soon. Readied weapons make it harder to look innocent when you're talking your way out of trouble.

The sound abruptly stopped and I went to full alert. That was either good or bad, and there was no way to know which.

"Damn it, enough hide and seek. Where are you?" the darkness asked impatiently.

Relieved but irritated, I answered, "Dean? What the hell are you doing out here?"

"That's a good question." he said, fighting off branches as he pushed his way through the bush, "You go first."

I did not need this. "Well, before you kicked my adrenaline into overdrive, I was thinking about getting some sleep."

"Out here." he scoffed. It wasn't a question, more of an expression of disbelief. "No, you know what? That's good. It'll be easier to get up early if you're not comfortable in the first place."

"Just another Tuesday, city boy. I'll be fine." I told him and went back to untying the bedroll. I assumed the conversation was over. I was wrong.

"You said you were going to get a room." he persisted.

"No," I corrected him while unwrapping the ground tarp, "You said I could get a room. I said I would work it out. I worked it out."

He still didn't leave, which I tried to ignore as I got the tarp spread out. I was smoothing out the last of the wrinkles when he said, "OK, you know what? Here."

I looked up to see him holding out a stack of bills. I guess he'd looked over the state of the patched blankets and road weary pack and come to a conclusion that, while it wasn't exactly wrong, wasn't entirely correct either. I could have told him then that there was no room at the inn, but damned if I was going to play distressed damsel so that he could "rescue" me. So instead I said, "Dean, I'm going to give you just one chance to put that back in your wallet."

"Yeah, I don't think so."

Well, I had made an honest attempt. With a shrug of surrender I accepted and pocketed the money. Then I started unrolling the blankets.

"I gave you that so you could get a room." he growled.

"And I appreciate it. But since there aren't any, I figure it's all right if I spend it on something else."

I said.

I couldn't make out whatever it was he muttered in response. I figured I had won at that point. I had yet to fully appreciate the length and breadth of the Winchester stubborn streak. He stalked resolutely over to my pack and snatched it up. "Come on, you're staying in my room." he announced decisively.

"Oh, I don't think so." I answered. "Most rules you can tag as optional as needed, but no way am I spending the night alone, in a cheap motel room, with an underage kid."

He snorted. "First, don't flatter yourself. Second, what's this underage crap? I'm not underage."

I gave him a quick once over. It was just for show. I'd long since come to my assessment of him. "Nice try kid." I said dismissively.

"I'll prove it." he said, dropping the pack and reaching for his wallet.

"Seriously?" I asked sarcastically, "You think I'm some dumb mark? Like I'm supposed to believe that one of those just happens to be legit?"

"Yeah, I guess that's not going to work, is it?" he asked sheepishly.

"I'll see you in the morning, Dean." I said, going back to the blankets.

"Fine," he snapped and plopped onto the ground, sitting cross legged.

"Dean, what are you doing?" I asked, my patience running low.

"You wanna camp out, we'll camp out. Got a perfectly good room all paid for, but no, this is great. We can tell ghost stories and roast marshmallows, but I'm not letting you stay out here all night alone. That's just not happening." he said.

He was officially on my last nerve. "I know what you're doing." I accused him, "You're just trying to make me feel guilty so I'll go inside with you."

"Right," he admitted without hesitation or shame, "So, just out of curiosity, is it working? Because, to be honest, this kind of sucks."

And that was checkmate. I didn't admit it until I'd chewed on the bitter taste of it for a moment or two, but the kid had out maneuvered me, no denying it. Angrily I began gathering up the bedding.

"Thank god," he whispered loudly, standing back up.

We headed back to his cabin, him carrying the pack over one shoulder, me with arms full of the bundled up bedding I hadn't bothered to roll properly. "So, are you going to give me my sixty bucks back?" he asked in a conversational tone.

I didn't look his way, just kept right on walking and innocently asked, "What sixty bucks?"

Once back inside, we discovered that we had both overlooked the next inevitable argument, sleeping arrangements. There's no sense in a blow by blow replay. It was more of the same as had happened outside. He wasn't going to take the bed while "some chick" slept on the floor. I wasn't going to kick him out of a bed he had paid for. Besides, I informed him, a carpeted floor was already an upgrade from the open ground. It really wasn't. Ground has more give, and the weeds would have been more cushion than the thin carpet. I didn't think he'd know that and, since it would have weakened my argument, I didn't tell him.

We ran through the same lines like we were rehearsing a play, three or four times, and I was about a half tick from going back to my would be camp, damn him if he was stubborn enough to sit out there all night. The truth was though, neither one of us was going to get much sleep that way. We did have a hunt the next day, not the best time to be running on fumes. One of us was going to have to be the mature one, and the gods help us both, it looked like it was going to have to be me.

"All right," I broke the script, "This is stupid. We're both adults." Open question on that, which caused me to glance curiously in his direction, "I think."

"Oh, whatever," he scoffed with a toss of his head.

I plowed forward, "I think we can both manage to stay on our own side queen-size mattress for one night, OK?"

He thought that over for a minute, looking like he was checking a piece of bait for the hook. "Are you cool with that? Because as long as I can get some shut-eye, I don't care." he offered.

Once the decision had been made, things went surprisingly smoothly. The stage was all set for a series of rom-com worthy cliches, duct tape down the middle of the mattress and elaborate negotiations over the rules, but we didn't do any of that. We were being adults.

He went around to the far side of the bed and sat to unlace his boots. I loosened my belt to pull the Bowie from my hip.

Now, any hunter, any smart one, will tell you that you always keep a weapon at hand, always, no exceptions. When possible, it's the one you're best with, but even when it's not, day, night, on a case, or in between, you leave yourself some option open. That's why, on the nights I have a pillow, the Bowie is under it, in easy reach.

It was just habit to stash it there on that particular night. That's how he turned around and saw me standing there, pillow in one hand, knife in the other. I didn't know what he was thinking, but I knew what I would have been thinking, and it wasn't charitable.

"Um, this isn't because I don't trust you." I babbled awkwardly, "It's just standard operating procedure."

He didn't comment, just reached over and lifted the bed's other pillow.

I nodded approvingly at the blade that had been hidden underneath. "Eight inch clip point, nice choice." I said, "I prefer a drop point myself, better balance, more durable."

"Well, yeah, if you're gonna throw it." he answered, "Me, I like getting up into the stab zone. Clip point's the way to go for getting up close and personal."

I gave a small, ironic laugh and dropped the knife and pillow into place. "Turns out, we're not so different after all." I said.

"Looks like," he agreed tossing his pillow back in place before shifting around to lie on his back.

All the posturing felt stupid after that, downright childish. We were two hunters, partnered on a job. We needed to grow up and start acting like it. In the morning, we'd be playing for keeps.