Chapter title is from song by Bad Company.

20

Here Comes Trouble – Bad Company

Getting a hold of the C4 she needed was not a problem. Having Toby along, however, made the usual process interesting.

Everyone wanted to talk. It was like she had this new speaking appendage attached to her by the hip. Toby had questions. People had answers. He had questions at the tactical supply store. He had questions for Mack when he dropped off the C4. He developed an unhealthy interest in the dagger Mack carried concealed, the hilt of it showing above Mack's boot when he bent down to retie his laces.

"What kind of knife is that?"

Mack blinked. Stopped. Turned to face Toby head on.

She was used to Mack being kind of brusque. So she was surprised when Mack took the knife out of his boot and held it out to Toby, hilt first.

"It's a tactical dagger. Some folks call it a combat dagger."

"My Dad had one like this." Toby's voice was quiet, not touching the offered hilt. Then some uncertainty crept into his voice. "I think."

"Your Dad a Marine?"

"SEAL."

"Then it was probably a SOG blade. They're a little longer and wider. Remember?"

Toby frowned, concentrating. "Maybe."

She finally went over the case files in the evening, after getting them settled in Utica. It was a bit of a drive, but she wasn't taking any chances. The sawmill Toby had in mind was not far from where she had originally found him, but the site of the car accident was. Mother had taken some pains to get specifically him, thinking he was her Elias.

Toby abandoned the television and pulled up a chair.

"Whacha reading?"

"Files."

"What files?"

She reminded herself he was eight.

"Files."

"On the zombies?"

She looked up at him. "No."

"You're lying."

"No, I'm not. Go watch TV."

"TV's boring."

She tried to remember what being eight was like. She was pretty sure she hadn't talked this much. She closed the laptop and pulled out the map.

"Fine. Let's go over this again."

Toby stared at the map with distaste. They'd been over it and over it until he claimed could repeat what he was to do in case of emergency backwards, upside down, and standing on his head.

"Where'd you learn to use your swords?"

"Sword school. What's the first thing you do?"

"Run. Speed dial the numbers. Get to the car. Lock the doors. Why are you always checking them when you haven't used them?"

"It's a routine. You make sure your tools are in good shape. What do you do if you can't get to the car?"

"Hide. Try to mask my smell. What if I can't find a dumpster?"

"This is why you shouldn't come with me. No dumpsters in the woods."

Toby just gave her his disbelieving look.

"What if they get you?"

Her answer was dry. "The plan is to avoid that."

"I have the flare gun."

"Which you use, if you can't get to the car, if you can't hide. You only get one shot. You use it and you run."

This was going to be a sticking point. It was entirely worth avoiding capture because she would bet money Toby would not do what he was told.

"Why can't I save you?"

"Because you're eight."

A pout formed. "I can shoot straight."

"Yes. You can. But you only have one shot. I can't be worried about you if you're going to come with me."

The pout developed stubborn lines. He changed the subject.

"Where is sword school? Can I go?"

"Far away. Maybe."

"Do they teach you how to throw a knife like Mack?"

"Not really."

"Can you throw a knife like Mack?"

"Yes. How do you get away if you're caught?"

"Pick the lock."

"Show me again."

They'd spent a day on that alone. Complicated locks he couldn't do, but a basic padlock wouldn't be a problem for him.

He tucked the pick back into the lining of his jacket when they were through and yawned.

"Go get ready for bed."

He stared at her hard, blue eyes fierce. "Promise you're not going to leave me here tomorrow?"

He wouldn't sleep if she didn't say yes convincingly. It was only a scouting run, but she already didn't like it. She didn't want to put him in harm's way, but the safest place for him was by her side. Her voice was tight on the promise she wanted badly to break.

"I promise."

"Ugh. Zombies. Why does it have to be zombies? I hate zombies. They're creepy."

Dean looked out the window with a scowl on his face. Sam downshifted as he pulled up behind a truck towing a horse trailer. The snow-covered countryside was quiet as they rolled through Ohio. He looked sideways at Dean's unhappy profile in the passenger seat and said nothing.

The car was silent except for the sound of slush beneath the tires. It had been a while since Dean took the wheel. Since Geary, actually. At first he hadn't made anything of it. Driving gave him something to do, other than brood. The idea that Dean was actively avoiding driving was so foreign that it wasn't until Dean suggested they stop for the night instead of driving straight through to that job in San Pedro, trading time in the driver's seat like they always had, that Sam twigged to something being up.

Dean didn't need sleep. So why on earth were they stopping?

They stopped and he didn't ask. It was one thing on a long list of things he learned not to ask about. After Elijah's, even Crowley had given them a wide berth. There was no question in Sam's mind about who was at the top of the demonic pecking order. Not anymore.

"I mean, I get zombies are the new vampire, but seriously, they're gross."

That much was true. Zombies were a pita. There was so much stuff in the lore about how to kill them that it always came down to trial and error, which was no fun when you were being chased by the putrid undead. What Garth had said about these zombies, though.

Ghosts and gremlins were one thing. This was bigger fish. Sam swallowed uneasiness. He hoped this wasn't a mistake.

The truck in front of them slowed to a crawl going around a bend. Sam downshifted to accommodate the change in speed, looking ahead for a place to pass.

"Garth say anything else?"

Sam shook his head. Garth's information had been skimpy. But a hunter needed their help, and after all the people they had lost in the last few months, it seemed wrong to say no. So he'd said yes and watched Dean give him a slow, measuring look.

Do you really trust me now, Sammy?

He blinked and focused, concentrating on the fact Dean had turned around when he'd called to him back in Elijah's bar. Whatever Dean had been looking at, beyond human sight, the First Blade clutched in his hand, Dean had turned around.

That was all that mattered. He would do anything, anything at all, if it meant he could keep Dean from tipping over into the darkness.