Sorry for the really slow update, guys! You probably don't want to hear the excuse, but here it is: I've been grounded from the computer. Bad grades. So I snuck on two days ago to e-mail this to myself, where I could pick it up on my iPod and work on it. Then had to sneak on again to edit and post it...but there you have it.

If it makes you feel any better, I'm already working on the next chapter.

Slinky: I'm glad you enjoyed it! I've only read the Wolverines, Wendigoes & Winchesters story by SciFiNut, but it was definitely a big inspiration for this story. So was The Meaning of Pain by BlackDewInTheMorning...you might like that one, if you aren't reading it already. I became a Wolvie fan from the movies-oddly enough from the Origins film, the one everybody seems to hate so much-but I've grown to enjoy the more feral comic version more over time.

Vicky: Thanks for the feedback...it's sort of an old roleplaying habit. I've gotten rid of the bold, and it won't be back again!

Enjoy!

Dean obediently led the way to the car, not willing to take his chances with grabbing the gun. Sam did the same, albeit with more caution; he'd seen this guy take two shots of rock salt to the head without blinking an eye. He wasn't gonna take his chances in messing with him. Whatever kind of monster this Logan was, he wasn't just going to roll over and die.

When they got to the car, the stranger bumped Dean's head with the barrel of the gun. "Keys," he growled shortly. Dean turned around to stare. "You have got to be kidding me."

"Boy, ya sound like a fucking woman. My finger's gettin' twitchy here."

Dean pulled the keys out of his pocket and slapped them into the man's waiting hand, muttering sourly to himself. Logan yanked the back door open and Dean climbed inside, settling down with a huff and tapping one defiant foot against the floor. Sam went around and opened the passenger door out of habit before Logan climbed into the driver's seat and Sam realized he was about to settle down next to a proven killer. He hesitated, one foot in and one foot still out on the curb, until the man growled, "Any day, kid," in a vicious tone. Sam quickly jumped inside.

An ominous silence stretched between the three men as Logan shuffled around with the keys to find the right one, the metal jingling coldly in the relative quiet. Suddenly the Canuck coughed out a low chuckle and a mirthless grin briefly flickered across his face. Sam glanced at Dean with a look that was much more than just worried; who was this lunatic that they were driving away with? As if he could read their thoughts, or more accurately smell their concern, the stranger said, "Cops're comin'." He stuck the key in the ignition and the Impala roared into action, pistons making the dashboard vibrate; he then paused to light a cigar before stepping on the gas. The car jerked abruptly forwards, throwing the brothers against their seats and earning a few curses from Dean as it did. Sam was about to wonder aloud whether the police were actually on their way when several sets of sirens sounded ominously through the streets.

Logan took the turns out of town as fast as was possible in the old car, the needle on the speedometer falling ominously towards a hundred miles per hour; Dean cursed even more and Sam held on for dear life.

After a while, the younger hunter realized that this man had no intention of slowing down. "Don't you think we can, y'know, slow down now?" he asked on a straightaway, before another wild curve made him suck in a breath. Logan chuckled again. "We're goin' ta Canada, boys, an' I ain't hittin' the brakes 'til we're north of Vancouver."

"How are we supposed to get across the border?" Dean asked in a sarcastic tone. "Think you can just whale on the Mounties until they get out of your way?"

In an undertone, Logan said, "Probably." but then he shook himself and answered in a louder tone. "Ya got more'n just Marshall's badges in here?"

Sam coughed quietly, eyes widening and brows furrowing at the same time to make for an interesting expression. He looked like a fish. Logan nodded. "Thought so. You better find one without a picture; I'll need it."

"Wait-hang on a second." Sam sputtered. He was mad now, and was glowering at this man who had the audacity to steal their car and now wanted their I.D.s, too. "Why are we helping you? We don't even know who you are, you just killed a person back there, an old man for god's sake, and you just want us to come along for the ride? Who the hell are you?"

The stranger grimaced, jerking away slightly when Sam raised his voice sharply. "Kid, I'd still like to be able ta hear myself think by th' time I get up North," he growled, the sound ominously loud in the night's silence. "'Sides, ya already know who I am. That damn sheriff told you plenty before ya even knew I was real."

Silence. Then Dean, in a suspicious voice. "You were in Vietnam?"

Logan's jaw tightened, brows furrowing in an anger that was much blacker than either of the boys had seen all night. "I didn't say a word 'bout Vietnam."

Dean glared suspiciously at the back of the killer's headrest; he was almost positive that the man's words were as good as any confirmation. Sam, sitting beside Logan and watching his reaction firsthand, was sure of it.

The motel was called the Blackline Resort. It was a collection of trailers, each one split in half by a sheet of steel. The rooms had a bed and a T.V...a rest stop-type bathroom was available outside. There was no shower.

All three men had stayed in worse.

The brothers took one half of a trailer, and Logan took the other. The decision to do this was unanimous, and on Logan's part, tinged with violence. Ya try to get out, I'll kill ya both. It was not an idle threat, and the boys knew it.

There hadn't been much conversation on the ride to the motel. It was mostly growls and muttered curses, as the boys tried not to watch the trees blurring by at ninety miles per hour, and Logan tried to ignore the boys. At first, the hunters had tried to press the question about Vietnam...or any question, really. But Logan apparently wasn't one for conversation, and they soon decided that it was better to keep quiet than to tempt the murderer's eyes off the road.

Dean was brave enough to try and turn on his music, and he even thought he'd gotten away with it. But Logan just waited until the hunter was done adjusting the sound before he turned the music all the way down...and pulled the volume knob out of the dashboard with a painful snap. If it had been anyone else, Dean would have kicked them out on the side of the road, but after a few good curses Logan let out a feral snarl and the hunter sat quietly back in his seat.

After that, there was nothing left to say.

Click. Squeak. Shuffleshuffle. Squeak. Click.

Logan's eyes flicked open and he rolled out of bed in one fluid movement, grabbing his jacket in another and then-quite suddenly-froze stock-still just inches away from the door. He didn't hear whispers, or more footsteps, or anything that reminded him of an average escape...instead, he heard the lid of a metal bottle being scraped off with a hard twist. And then another footfall. But nothing more.

He opened the door anyway. Might as well get out...that room had met about ten too many couples in the past week. It smelled like a whorehouse, and he hated it.

Logan's own door opened soundlessly, and he thanked his lucky stars that it didn't creak. The night was bright, especially for him, with a full moon that lit the bellies of the clouds like a spotlight. Booze and smoke were pungent here, but only from the other guests...the boy he'd come out to check on just smelled like car oil and dust, two odors that the old Canuck had gotten well acquainted with on the drive to this place. And, strangely enough, there was blood, too, with an oily tinge to it that didn't seem natural.

He held back the urge to recoil at the stench, grimacing and stepping up to the taller brother's side. He knew exactly when the boy had noticed him-the kid gave a little jump and grumbled to himself-but Logan didn't say a word. Just pulled a thick cigar out of his pocket and lit up. As soon as the smoke had covered up most of the oily-iron scent, he took a deep breath and turned to face the kid.

"Why you drinkin' blood, boy?"

His tone was laconic, tired, but Sam was wise enough to catch the suspicion that just barely seeped into his words. There was no way he was getting out of this one. But his eyes still got big and his brows still came down. Just like a fish. "I'm not drinking blood!"

"That sure ain't whiskey, kid, and you know it."

"How do you know it's not?" And then it was Sam's turn to be suspicious. "Y'know what, how do you know it's not whiskey?"

The hunter watched the murderer shift his weight uncomfortably, and a low sound nagged at his ear...he could have sworn it was a growl. Was this freak growling at him? The sound grew, shifting easily into words. "I got my ways."

Sam snorted. "Yeah, well, you're lucky you're not dead. And I'd really like to know how you figured out that this is blood." he hesitated, then added as an afterthought, "If it's blood."

The man growled again. "I got my ways." And from the look in his eyes, there would be no dragging the answer out of him.

"Fine." Sam was feeling snappish now; he'd come out here so he wouldn't be causing any trouble, and apparently he still was. "Then this isn't blood."

"Y'know...I'll just ask your brother about it in the mornin'. He'll tell me a shitload, 'specially since I've got a feelin' he doesn't like you drinkin' whatever's in that bottle." The murderer bared his teeth in a wolfish smile, and Sam tensed, adrenaline suddenly jolting through his veins. Where was his gun? "He won't tell you a thing."

"Wanna bet?"

And with that, the stranger went back to his room.