Chapter Three: Know Your Enemy

They didn't speak right away; Dean was focused on the road and Sam had withdrawn into his own thoughts. The man in the backseat might be dying. He had been bleeding too much. Maybe he wasn't bleeding from the wound alone, but also internally from getting hit by the car. Sam felt ill as he looked down and saw his hands and clothes stained with fresh blood. Any form of fatigue had been erased from his system, yet all he wanted to do was crawl into the sweet oblivion of sleep until all of this was over. The man was also unconscious; for all they knew, he was in a coma.

The man's well being was not the only reason Sam was anticipating the total extent of any injury; the police were going to charge them with a crime. The ER wasn't going to take someone who'd been run over and not notify the proper authorities. They were going to be arrested, sent to jail.

Well, no, that wasn't quite true, the youngest Winchester realized darkly, he hadn't been driving the car. Sam gave his brother a sideways glance. Dean was focused on his driving, completely awake and alert.

Dean had said that the man was bleeding before he'd gotten hit. But deep down, in the pit of Sam's stomach, surrounded by a thin membrane of guilt, there was doubt. Dean had hit the guy after all. For the sake of self-preservation, it was a natural reaction to conceal at least part of the damage.

"All right, look," Dean said out of nowhere, his tone brisk and business-like, "We'd better talk now, cause I don't know how much privacy we'll get once we get to St. Mary's."

Here it comes, Sam thought as he chewed on the side of his lip. Get the story straight. Let Dean do all the talking and follow his lead. If questioned, answer to the same effect but not the same words.

But instead of giving instructions on how to cover up the situation, Dean said in that same matter-of-fact voice, "The dude that jumped on me? He had fangs."

"Oh. Yeah, I saw," Sam replied, coming out of his thoughts, "Saw his eyes too." He could still see them blaring out at him from the dark: a pair of glowing green eyes.

"Yeah," Dean went on, "And with the hickey on our friend back there, doesn't take much to figure out what we're dealing with." Sam agreed, but at the same time he didn't. He knew what Dean was thinking, but he hesitated to go along with him. Dean snapped his fingers a few times impatiently. "Come on, Sammy, I thought they taught you how to think quick in college."

"We don't know for sure that it's a vampire," he stated evenly.

His brother looked at him dubiously. "The hell we don't!" he snapped. He often reacted this way when Sam didn't agree with him on something that, to him, was obvious. "Fangs, glowing eyes, bleeding neck, those freaky animal sounds, the speed and muscle power-"

"Muscle power?" Sam asked, raising an eyebrow.

Dean shot him a look. A silent argument passed between the brothers. The topic: Was Dean so vain as to think that just because a guy beat his ass, the opponent must therefore have some sort of demonic strength?

"You shot that guy four times before he decided to get his ass out of there. He kept coming. That's not something just anyone can do," Dean stated, before adding harshly, "And I know from personal experience."

Sam winced as if Dean had slapped him. The Dr. Ellicot thing again. Sam knew that Dean would never let that one go, and he didn't blame him. He just wished that his brother wouldn't use it just to win arguments. It was a hit below the belt. Though, what Dean said was true; just one shot had sent him flying through a wall.

"Look," Sam explained, his tone calmer, "I just want to be sure. I mean, plenty of demons can have those qualities. We need something more concrete."

Dean shrugged. "So we play 'Buffy' and ram a stake through the guy's heart. If that doesn't work we come up with a plan B."

"No," Sam said firmly. Dean gave him a wide-eyed angry look, like he couldn't believe that Sam would keep arguing like this. Dean always came up with the plans. He was not used to being told otherwise. "I'm sick of plan B. I want to know what we're hunting, so we can stop it as soon as we find it."

Dean started, "What's wrong with-"

But Sam cut him off, his voice now very angry, "Because the last time we did trial and error, people got hurt, all right? Some people almost died! I don't want that to happen again, you got it?" Then his voice got very quiet as he looked away. "I want us to be right so that no one dies."

At the Drake Hotel, only one person had died from the demon's attacks, and that had happened before the Winchesters had gotten there. But while they had been running around trying out exorcisms, many people had come close to joining him. The only way that Dean knew the way to St. Mary's at all was because of all the times the brothers had gone there in the past week.

"Okay then," Dean said. His voice was quiet too, but underneath it there was anger. "How are we supposed to help people, Sam, if we're just sitting around, huh? How else are we going to figure out what we're dealing with if we don't go out and look for it?"

Sam didn't answer as he pressed his hand to his temple. They couldn't keep doing this, not tonight. Both brothers were anxious, stressed, and tired. Plus, they still had the police to look forward to.

Behind the Impala, a black DeSoto cruised along. The headlights of the car were intentionally turned off, despite the darkness and the rain. Behind the wheel was a young man with long auburn hair. His face and hair were messed up and wet. On his left cheek was a large, egg-shaped bruise colored blue and purple. He was wearing a heavy black coat and fingerless gloves. His clawed hands were gripping the steering wheel.

Dean was correct; the attacker was indeed a vampire.

His eyes were now blue, appearing like a normal human's. Nevertheless, they burned with unholy fury as they watched the Impala and the two figures in its front seats. His face was contorted with rage.

"Well let's just say, hypothetically, we are dealing with a vampire," Dean said grudgingly, irritated that he had to speak hypothetically about something that he knew to be true.

"But-" Sam started, but now Dean cut him off.

"But let's just play make believe, okay, Sammy? 'Cause I'm pretty sure we'll give people the wrong impression if we start babbling about what does or does not make a vampire while we're sitting in the waiting room." Sam paused, then concededly nodded. "All right," he went on, "Basically, anyone who's seen a Dracula flick could pull this off."

"Stakes, crosses, sunlight." Sam agreed.

"Oh, I got something better than stakes," Dean said, getting more relaxed. Now he was comfortable. Just talk hunting. That was his zone. Sam raised a puzzled eyebrow at him. Dean gave a grin. "I'll show you later. Don't wanna ruin the surprise."

Sam gave a short laugh. Dean could always flip emotions like a coin if it involved some new toy.

But before the car lapsed into the foreboding uncomfortable silence, Sam said it. It had to be said, and before they got to the hospital. "So, what do we say?" he asked simply, his voice tired.

Dean looked at him, not seeming to understand. "About…?"

"To the cops," Sam took a breath, "What are we going to do? The man's in a coma."

Dean gave him a doubtful look. "He's not in a coma," he scoffed.

"Well, he could be. Or go into one."

"Oh, so now it's 'could be'," Dean jeered, "How do you know he's in a coma?"

"How do you know he's not?" Sam asked pointedly.

"I bet you five bucks he's not in a coma," Dean said confidently.

Sam looked at him incredulously. "I'm not betting!"

"'Cause you know you'll lose."

Sam shook his head. "I am not betting on whether or not this guy is in a coma."

"Pussy."

"Bitch."

Dean turned to Sam straight on. "Okay, then put your money where your mouth is, college boy."

Sam hesitated, chewing on his lip. What the hell were they doing? They had just run over a guy, gotten into a fight with a supposed vampire, performed some fantastically quick emergency aid, and now they were betting on whether the man bleeding to death in the back of their car was in a coma? What the hell was wrong with them? If he wasn't so pissed at Dean, he would've laughed. Or signed them both up for therapy, but given the way their lives were going, the latter was inevitable anyway.

"Fine," he said, just wanting to end the discussion.

"All right, look," Dean said briskly after they'd quickly shook on the bet, "Back to your original question…" He shrugged. "We tell them the truth. I hit the guy." Sam looked at Dean, surprised at the responsibility he was taking on. That is, until Dean continued, "…After he was chased into the road by another guy. Hopefully they'll be more concerned about that and the fact that our man in the back had his throat ripped open. And we tell them about him jumping me. I mean, we obviously skip the part about him having fangs, but if we don't tell the cops that we fought, they'll think I got beat up while I was fighting this guy. Then they'll think I'm the one who got him in the neck, and that'll make things even worse."

Well, Sam thought, that was a good point. Given their track record with the police, it was best not to take any chances. If they ended up in jail, the vampire or demon or whatever it was could run rampant around Chicago.

The rain was coming down harder now. It pelted the windows. Taptaptap. It was a loud enough racket to wake the dead.