December 21st, 2042
"Dad, hang on," DJ said, pressing two fingers into his free ear in a futile attempt to drown out the cacophony around him. "I'm gonna go outside where it's not so loud."
The Fitzgerald packhouse was seldom quiet, but Sundays were always especially crowded and boisterous. That morning, multiple generations of pureblood werewolves had piled into the living room for fellowship and song—with not a few shy and fidgety bitten wolves among them—and later into the kitchen and dining room for ample portions of fresh offal that, for some of them, was difficult to come by anywhere else. It'd been years since DJ's presence among them was considered unusual; now, he gently disentangled himself from the toddler he'd been bouncing, nudged the pup in the direction of its mother, and let himself out onto the porch.
"All right, say that again," he prompted, ambling down the steps and across the driveway towards the backyard, where a truly terrifying-looking game of football was currently underway.
"The attacks have started up again northwest of here, in Alliance," Dad reiterated; he sounded exhausted. "So that's where I'm headed next."
His dad had been in North Platte for just over a week, and in Kearney the week before that, pretending to be FBI and trying desperately to discern some sort of connection between the victims there and the victims in Hastings before the real FBI showed up.
"By yourself?" DJ wanted to know.
"Castiel's busy at the moment," Dad huffed irritably. "I've got him babysitting Crowley and Rowena."
DJ made a face at that; from what little he'd been able to glean from his dad's bitching, those two did not play well together.
"Jesus, Dad," he muttered. "How many victims is that, now?"
"Too many," Dad answered grimly. "And there's no pattern that I can see, other than the westward trajectory. None of the vics knew each other, and unless I'm just totally blanking, here, there's nothing significant about the places they were murdered, either. If nothing shakes loose in Alliance, I might have to swing back by the bunker and dig through my old journals."
DJ chewed his bottom lip, wincing as he watched Sam make a particularly brutal tackle.
"Just be careful, Dad," he repeated, for probably the thousandth time since he'd reluctantly put Salina in his rearview mirror to go back for the last three weeks of the fall semester.
"I will," Dad promised again, not yet weary of the ritual. "Be safe, Dean."
They hung up just in time for DJ to duck as Cass ran over and faked him out with the football; he straightened up with a glare and punched the other man in the arm.
"Jerk," he accused; Cass just grinned.
"You should come play with us," Cass cajoled, darting backwards before DJ could pop him again.
"No, thank you," DJ turned him down, half-laughing. "I like my bones inside my body."
"Cass! Stop dicking around; you're holding up the game!" Sam griped loudly; several of the other juvenile werewolves chimed in with similar complaints.
Cass shrugged and trotted back over to the group; DJ propped his elbows up on the top rail of the fence and settled in to watch, flipping up the collar of his coat in an attempt to keep warm.
"Was that your old man?"
DJ startled; he hadn't heard Garth approaching.
"Hey Uncle Garth," he greeted, leaning into the expected hug. "And yeah. There have been more killings; in Alliance this time."
Garth's expression went strained around the eyes as he leaned against the fence next to DJ, staring out across the yard at his sons, their cousins, and their friends roughhousing in the dormant grass.
"Well, that's not good," he remarked, frowning as he tugged his old trapper's hat down more firmly over his ears.
"Not really," DJ agreed, sighing. "I hate this. Waiting, I mean."
"Yep," Garth said sympathetically, clapping him on the shoulder. "Waiting sucks."
He looked as though he might say more, but in the next moment he was distracted by something over DJ's shoulder; DJ turned to see a car pulling into the long drive.
"I'll have to let Bess know we've got a few stragglers," Garth commented, nostrils flaring as he tested the air; DJ wasn't sure he'd ever get used to that. "Well, I'll be darned," the older man sounded pleased, and his face split into a wide smile.
DJ followed Garth as he loped across the pavement to greet the driver of the old beater.
"Hey, stranger!" Garth said warmly, throwing his arms wide.
"Hey yourself, old man," Krissy replied, disappearing briefly into the hug. Then, to DJ, "What's up, short stuff?"
DJ rolled his eyes; he'd been taller than Krissy by the sixth grade, but she'd never dropped the moniker. It'd been awhile since he'd last seen her in person; there was more silver in her dark hair, now, and she had a few more scars than he remembered.
"You all right?" Garth said, holding her at arms length to look her over; DJ hadn't missed the butterfly suture above one eye.
"I'm fine," Krissy shrugged him off, but not unkindly. "Just a few bumps and bruises; no more than usual. But I do need to talk to Sam and Cass."
The easy smile dropped off of Garth's face, replaced by a steely-eyed glare DJ had never seen before; it was like Mr. Rogers had suddenly been taken over by The Punisher.
"You got 'em, then?" he said, more confirmation than question.
"The hunters? No," Krissy admitted, blowing on her hands before shoving them into her pockets. "We did get the vamps, but that's where it gets weird."
She paused to glance around the yard; her arrival had drawn the attention of the football players, who were making their rowdy way across the lawn to come and meet her.
"You got somewhere we can talk in private?" she inquired.
Garth nodded.
"I'll have Bess ring the bell for supper; we can talk downstairs in the clinic," he turned and pitched his voice to carry. "Boys! Run on inside and tell your mama to go ahead and put supper on the table!"
Sam tossed up a two-fingered salute and changed direction to jog back up to the house; from everything DJ had seen, he was doing his level best to keep the peace in the packhouse. Cass, however, had no such compunction.
"What are you doing here, nerd?" he demanded of Krissy, panting slightly as he joined their little gathering.
"You and your brother need to learn how to answer your goddamned phones," Krissy retorted; she never had taken anybody's shit.
"But it's Sunday," Cass countered, as though that absolved him of responsibility.
"I've been calling both of you for almost a week, dumbass," Krissy said, shaking her head.
Garth made a face and elbowed Cass in the side.
"Don't be rude," he chastised. "Get Krissy's bags and come on inside; she's got something to tell us."
As it turned out, Krissy only had one bag, and she flatly refused to let Cass carry it. The clamor of the dinner bell covered their entrance, and the subsequent pandemonium of hungry werewolves jostling for space at the folding tables allowed them to slip down the basement stairs without interference.
"Mom will be down in a minute," Sam informed them when he came in. "She's just gonna take something up to Gertie real quick."
Gertie had begged off socializing after church, instead going upstairs to her old bedroom to lie down. Apparently, the first trimester was a bitch.
"I thought it was called morning sickness," Cass grumbled, kicking off the floor and turning a slow circle in his seat on Garth's rolling stool.
Garth smacked him in the back of the head, and Cass yelped.
"Stop being an idjit," he scolded.
"All right, Jesus, you don't have to hit me," Cass complained, rubbing his head dramatically.
"I'm sure you deserved it," Bess said breezily, gathering her cardigan more closely about her as she let herself in. "Now, what's this all about?"
Krissy left off her disinterested inspection of Garth's dental paraphernalia and straightened up, acknowledging Bess with a nod.
"So, we caught up to those vampires you boys had been tracking," she said to Cass and Sam, who perked up at the news. "That was almost too easy. They were using a shipping container as a kind of mobile nest, I guess. They were mostly picking up hitchhikers and sex workers, a few tourists and a trucker or two. They weren't hanging on to them, either; just draining 'em and dumping 'em," she continued, mouth twisting.
"Yeah, we know all that," Cass interrupted. "Get to the good part, already."
This time, it was Bess who smacked him.
"Shush," she said shortly.
"I'm not sure there is a good part," Krissy said grimly. "Those vamps were all really fresh; new turns, not old blood. And they had help; the guy driving the tractor was a shifter. At least, it was a guy when it died."
"What?" Sam barked, surprised. "Vampires don't run with shapeshifters."
"Not that I've ever seen," she agreed, drumming her fingers on the countertop. "And like I said, catching up to them was too easy; almost like it was a trap."
"A trap?" Garth folded his arms across his chest and frowned skeptically.
"I've had some experience with freshly-made vampires being used to lure hunters in," Krissy said, chuckling darkly. "It felt like a trap to me."
"Hold on a second," Cass broke in again, holding up both hands to ward off his parents. "Are you saying that chasing us down and trying to kill us might have saved those douchebags' asses? Great; just fucking great."
DJ felt like his head was spinning, trying to keep up.
"Maybe," Krissy allowed, cocking one eyebrow and grimacing when the butterfly suture pulled. "So I need to know whatever you two know," she gestured back and forth between the twins, "so I can figure out what the hell is going on. Monsters don't cooperate like this; we've got to be missing something."
"Yes, they do," Bess said unexpectedly, drawing every eye in the room. "Not as much in rural areas, but in big cities? There are old families; long lines. Treaties that go back hundreds of years. It's not rare, but you're not likely to hear of it; they play things pretty close to the chest."
"Bess," Garth said quietly, something like a warning in his voice.
"What?" Bess snapped back sharply. "Our boys were nearly caught in that trap, Garth. Do you really want to leave this alone?"
"Something I should know?" Krissy queried, keeping her tone light to try to cut the tension.
Garth and Bess seemed to be having an entire conversation with just their eyes; it was Garth who finally looked away, sighing and gesturing towards Krissy with one hand.
"Go on then," he surrendered.
"When Gertie was about two," Bess began, "the British Men of Letters were killing hunters left and right, and we needed somewhere to lay low."
"I remember," Krissy replied. "Garth called and told us to stay out of it."
"Anyway," Bess continued, "We went to stay with my cousins in Chicago; it wasn't exactly a warm welcome, but they were willing to extend the courtesy because of my bloodline."
"Chicago?" Sam blurted, bewildered.
"We have more cousins?" Cass asked.
"Bloodline?" Krissy prompted, ignoring them both.
"My mother was a Duval," Bess answered. "That doesn't mean anything to you; it barely means anything to me, but in monster circles, that name carries weight. They're one of about five families that run Chicago's supernatural underworld; last I heard, they had a pretty good working relationship with the djinn. There's a longstanding blood feud between them and the Lassiters, though, so I can't tell you much about the shapeshifters there. I know even less about the vampires."
"You're telling me that Chicago is crawling with monsters, and not a single goddamn hunter is doing anything about it?" Krissy demanded, voice rising.
"Oh, they've tried," Bess smiled thinly. "Remember, Krissy, some of us are just trying to survive. Live our lives, raise our families; same as humans. We protect our own."
The younger woman averted her eyes, face coloring with shame.
"Sorry," she muttered, but Bess waved off the apology.
"I don't much care for the way things are run in Chicago, and I certainly won't defend their methods or their beliefs," she said, pursing her lips. "But I do understand them, and if I'm careful, I might be able to get you some information."
"Bess, no," Garth objected. "It's not worth it; we'll find some other way."
"Julian doesn't scare me," Bess scoffed. "Besides, with how much the pack's grown since then, we're way overdue for a sitdown."
Garth shook his head, visibly unsettled, but Bess didn't waver.
"I'd really appreciate that," Krissy said carefully, frowning concernedly at Garth even as she offered Bess her gratitude.
The older woman stepped forward to take Krissy's hand.
"I'll do what I can," she said, smiling. "For now, let's get you fed and settled in; DJ, you bunk in with the boys tonight so Krissy can have the guest room."
"Yes ma'am," DJ responded automatically; there really was no arguing with Bess Fitzgerald.
Just to head off any confusion: There's more than one town called Kearney. The Fitzgerald twins hunted vampires in Kearney, MO. Sam Winchester investigated a string of infernal murders in Kearney, NE. On that note, Google Maps is quite convinced that I'm planning a trip and/or to relocate to the midwest in the near future.