A/N: I didn't get to reply to every review, so here's a shout out to anyone who got the brunt of my complete inability to function as a human being. Also, thanks to LeeMarieJack, SocerersScone, CaraLee934, I'd-Rather-Be-A-Winchester, LyleRay, floralisette, and Murakami no Kitsune for reviewing and to the lovely people who've started following, favoriting, and/or casually reading! Okay, here's the chapter that took me the longest to write. When I think of this chapter, I get really frustrated because I rewrote it five times. The sad thing is that I'm not exaggerating. Ugh, it makes me unhappy just thinking about it. But this is the finished product, so let's hope it's all good. Here ya go, ya filthy animals.
When Hardison said, "We are lea-ving," what he really meant was, "We're going to tail these freakshows in the rental van." Parker would have been disappointed by anything less. Which is what brought the team to where they were now, parked just out of sight of Sal's D'er in the empty lot behind the motel.
"So," Hardison broke the silence. "Hellhounds. That's new, right?" He watched the tracking device he'd placed on the Winchesters' vehicle blip away, unmoving in Sal's lot.
The team sat quietly in the van, isolated by their thoughts and experiences. Each was dealing with their first foray into the realm of the supernatural in different ways. Sophie sat in the front seat like a statue, cupping a thermos of tea that had gone cold some time ago. Hardison was talking to his tablet, which was odd, but not entirely out of character. Parker could be found in the back near Eliot but not talking to him. In fact, she wasn't talking to anyone. When asked what had happened after the warehouse, she had thrown a key ring at them and told them "to ask her husband".
And Eliot… Eliot wrapped up his shredded torso and downed half a flask of cheap whiskey Parker had lifted from God-knows-who, but to be fair, he had just been attacked by a mythical creature.
It had been a rough day.
"Yes," Sophie cleared her throat and lifted her eyes from the murky liquid in her thermos. "Very new."
"Unexpected," Hardison continued.
"Impossible."
"Incredible!" the hacker countered, unable to keep down his excitement. "Do you have any idea what this means? Magic. Real magic!" he said, eyes sparkling like a kid waking up on Christmas to find Santa hog-tied under his tree. Sophie bit her lip and cast a sympathetic gaze towards the hitter sitting behind her.
"Hardison, I don't think now…" Eliot pushed back his chair and stormed out of Not Lucille as best as he could with the gauze around his torso. Sophie weakly finished, "Is a good time for that." She furrowed her brow at the hacker. "Now look what you've done."
"What'd I say?" Hardison said, tapping away utterly clueless. "Did I say something?" He sounded as if he was the offended party in this scenario.
"Fix this," Sophie commanded, snapping her fingers to get his attention. Parker unfolded herself from the fetal position and somersaulted out in the same direction Eliot had taken.
She found him leaning one shoulder against the side of the old motel; arms crossed, closed off to discussion, watching the exterior of Sal's with a frown firmly in place. His body language told her to "Buzz off" and his expression told her "Now", but the thief crept up until she stood directly behind him.
"Why are you glaring at cars, Eliot?" she asked. Eliot started, kicking himself for letting her sneak up on him.
"I'm not," he said as she moved into his line of sight. Parker turned so her back was resting flat against the wall and watched Eliot carefully.
"It'd be okay if you were."
Eliot smiled a little at that. "I know."
"So," Parker pouted dramatically, reaching out to grab his face and moving his mouth in time with her words. "Why so sad, Mr. Grumpy Face?" He whacked her hands away and shook his head.
"Something's wrong with you," he grumbled under his breath. "I'm not sad, Parker," the hitter continued gruffly, pushing away fingers that were now trying to prod his bandages. When did the thief get so touchy-feely? "I'm just… thinking."
Parker wriggled uncomfortably. She was never good with situations like this: the kind that called for Sophie's expertise. Parker was better with locks than with people, though she had been told that the two were more similar than she thought. But Parker didn't see how. People were complicated, with their feelings and desires and needs. Locks were easy. Simple. And they didn't talk back.
She awkwardly patted Eliot on the shoulder in a way she hoped came off as sympathetic.
"You want to know what my dad said when I was afraid of the monster in my closest?" Eliot said, half to get her to stop, half to get what was weighing him down off his chest.
"You had a monster in your closest?" Parker said, impressed and a little jealous.
"No, Parker, I didn't have—" Eliot cut himself off. "No. Remember how I told you I used to be scared of the dark? It's like that, there wasn't anything to be afraid of, but I was still scared until I did something about it. Got it?" Parker nodded (still a little confused as to where the monster came into play).
"Good," he continued, "anyway, I was about seven, maybe eight, when I told him to check for the monster in my closest. He said he wouldn't and when I asked why, he said 'Eli'—that's what he'd call me – 'Eli, the only monsters in this world are the people in it. You don't have to be scared of the thing in your closest or under your bed because there's a very real human being out there who's ten times scarier than anything your imagination thinks up.'" Eliot let a long pause hang between them, not caring if Parker up and left. He almost hoped she would. When she didn't, he summoned up his courage and went on.
"And I believed him. After everything I've seen and everything I've done, I know exactly what he meant. I've seen monsters, men and women in my line of work," he took a breath, not meeting Parker's invasive stare. "Myself, before Dubenich hired us and this whole crazy thing started. But real monsters, Parker?" Eliot shook his head. "Hellhounds?" He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but couldn't find the words to describe the helplessness he was feeling.
Parker remembered how she'd thought Eliot would just punch something if he found out about the monsters. She could have handled that, but this was an entirely different man; she had no idea how to deal with him. She twitched nervously beside the hitter. Her mouth went dry and she felt like she was going to hurl.
"Eliot," she said, stalling for time. She knew she should say something to help, but what? An idea came to her. She bolted away, as the hitter had hoped she would.
Now that she had fled, Eliot felt relieved. He was glad it was Parker who found him and not Sophie, if only because he could rely on the thief's rusty (read: nonexistent) communication skills to keep her from trying to comfort him. Parker was a marvelous listener in that way, even with her short attention span. Imagine his surprise when the blonde tore back from the van with a leather-bound book in her hands.
"Here," Parker said and thrust the journal in his face.
"What is this?"
"I forgot I did it. It was an accident."
"What?"
"Lifted it from the guys," she replied vaguely, but Eliot knew exactly who she was talking about. "It says a lot of stuff. It might… help. Or something." The phrasing was clumsy, but the heart was all there. Eliot took the journal and mumbled a "thanks." Parker just shrugged in response and took back her spot next to him. She stared at lazy Sunday drivers, letting him read in his own time the nearly illegible scrawl that filled the journal's pages.
Eliot held the book in his hands, uncertain what to do with it, exactly. Obviously Parker thought it was important enough to steal from people who could kill hellhounds, but then again, she had thought stealing the cotton candy machine from a carnival had been important too.
"I guess I should probably do something with this too," Parker sighed, pulling Dean's wallet from her waistband. Unaware of Eliot watching her with confused eyes, she rifled through the wallet, snorted at the paltry number of crumpled bills in it, but stuffed them into her pocket. After all, money was money was money. She then wound back her arm to toss the wallet away.
"Hey!" Eliot caught her wrist before she released the leather wallet. "What do you think you're doing?"
She blinked at him, at the wallet in her hand, then back at him. "There's nothing in it but fakes." And the money, Eliot, she wanted to say, what else is there? The hitter snatched the wallet from her and stalked off towards the rental.
"Damn it, Parker," he growled, demonstrating that all vulnerability he had revealed was locked up tight, buried cement, and tossed into a river. "Next time you lift the wallet of the guy we're tailing, give it Hardison. Understand?"
Parker mimicked his scowl. "'Next time you lift a wallet, Parker,'" she mocked in a parody of Eliot's voice. "Nyah, steal your own wallets." She stomped back to the rest of her crew.
"Here," Eliot said, opening Hardison's door and tossing the wallet in his lap. "Work your magic, Iceman."
The hacker narrowed his eyes. You're dead to me, the expression said. Nevertheless, he flipped open the leather and groaned in agony at the prime example of amateur forgery. "This is terrible. Really, bruh, why would you show me these? It's like- like seeing a three-year-old's interpretation of the Mona Lisa. Adorable, but terrible. Just awful. I mean, this should be illegal—well, it is, I guess, but still—"
"Hardison," Eliot smacked a finger down on a fake driver's license made out to one James Hendrix. "Picture. Search. Now."
"Right," the hacker stopped his spiel and cracked his knuckles. "Let's do this thing."
"We've checked out every run-down warehouse and abandoned building within a fifteen mile radius of the town and still nothing."
Dean raised an eyebrow over his heart attack in a sesame seed bun. "Shut up and eat your rabbit food, man." Sam rolled his eyes and pushed his veggie omelette around his plate. Dean waited for his brother to take a bite before releasing him from a stern stare. Sam did that sometimes, the thinking aloud thing. It was annoying as Hell, though Dean couldn't complain with the results. But there was a time and a place. Sal's D'er during brunch was neither.
"We're missing something," Sam said for the fifth time. He paged through a musty history book of the town that looked so old, it probably came over on the Mayflower. It belonged nowhere near an eating establishment. "There has to be…" Dean reached over and slammed the cover shut. His brother gaped at him.
Dean tore a bite out of his burger. "Eat," he commanded around the mouthful.
"I'm not hungry."
The elder Winchester swallowed. "Your growling stomach says otherwise. Look, Sam, we've been hunting this bastard for two weeks. A five minute pit stop isn't going to kill you."
"Dean, this isn't a joke—"
"Am I laughing?" he asked, brow creased.
Sam made an exasperated noise. "Every minute we waste is lessening the chances we find anyone alive. Come on, Dean, you're always telling me that saving people is what we do. Well, this—" he gestured to the diner, "doesn't look a whole lot like saving anyone."
"Christ, man, who pissed in your cornflakes?" Dean held his arms over his head in mock surrender. "You know, you've been bitching at me since the blonde chick stole Dad's journal. Just calm down, Sundance, we'll get it back."
Sam's lips thinned and he stabbed at his food. "This isn't about the journal."
"Then what the Hell is your deal, Sammy?"
"Hiya, fellas," Shelly the waitress stopped by their booth on her way to the kitchen."How's the food?"
"It's great, thanks, Sheila," Dean answered distractedly.
"Shelly," the waitress sounded hurt. "You guys have been coming here so often over the past couple weeks, we're starting to think of you as regulars. Thinking about staying in town?" She got over her wounded feelings and bounced back to welcoming hostess. Sam started to answer negatively, but Dean cut him off.
"Why?" he smiled, laying on the charm. "Know any places for sale?" Shelly thought for a moment.
"I know old Marge Weaver's place has been empty for a while. Not sure what the family's going to do with it," she shrugged. "But it's like I said when you boys were asking about the old motel, empty places don't stay empty for long in this town." Shelly beamed. "Guess we're just blessed like that. Want any dessert today? Pie's fresh out of the oven."
Dean looked sorely tempted, but it was Sam's turn to interrupt. "Not today," he answered swiftly.
"Okie dokie," Shelly tapped her pen against her notepad. "Give me a holler when you're ready for the bill. See you around, boys." Dean sighed forlornly, watching her sashay away. He finished the last bites of his burger and played with his fork, all the while eying Sam's leftovers.
Sam pushed away his cold omelette and set up his laptop. "Okay, so from what I've gathered, the Djinn has been feeding off of locals for years. Decades, even."
"So what, we're not looking at old enough ruins? We've been round this before," Dean caved and scrapped eggs and vegetables onto his plate. "I mean, that warehouse had been abandoned for over twenty years." He glared pensively out the window. "How long do you think Stevie was in the backseat?"
"Focus, Dean. We need to think bigger. Older," Sam continued, typing into the search engine, "more permanent. Got it," he grinned, turning the laptop screen towards his brother. "Limestone quarries. I don't know how I never thought of it before."
Dean looked impressed. "That would have been good to know two weeks ago," he said, skimming the information Sam had pulled out God-knows-how. "It fits, right location for a little genie snag and snack." He scarfed down Sam's leftovers. "What do you say we gank us a genie and steal us a thief?"
"We aren't kidnapping Stevie again, Dean," Sam replied with an astonished look on his face. "Why do I even need to tell you that?"
"Glad we're on the same page," Dean said, ignoring him.. "Hurry up, we need to pick up an order of lamb's blood."
Sam dug into his pocket and emptied it, taking out several odds-and-ends as well as a wad of cash. He counted out enough bills to cover the meal and tip.
"Whoa, Sammy," said his brother, picking up a small pouch from the pile he'd placed on the table, "you working hoodoo without telling me?"
"What?"
"The mojo bag?" Dean asked, shaking the dark cloth pouch knowingly. "It's pretty advanced rootwork. Didn't think you were into that kind of thing."
Sam frowned. "I'm not. Are you sure it isn't a hex bag?" Dean raised an eyebrow at him.
"Dude, don't you think I'd know witchcraft when I see it? Look," he sighed, realizing he was going to have to spell it out for his genius brother. "See this?" He pointed to the opening of the pouch. It was stitched shut. "This is hoodoo. The stitches seal in the mojo, right? The zig-zags look sloppy, but this pattern helps with protection charms. Witches aren't thorough like rootworkers. They just tie their bags off and plant 'em. They don't give two shits if the hex doesn't last long, they just need it the once anyway."
"How do you know all this?" Sam questioned suspiciously. His uncertainty was understandable, considering how much Dean hated witchcraft. And research.
Dean looked insulted. "Hey, I know things too, Sammy. You don't hold the monopoly in that department." Sam gave him a look."Okay," the elder Winchester admitted, "I had a fling with this girl in Alabama whose granny knew a thing or two."
"Why am I not surprised," Sam said drily.
"But the question is," Dean squinted at the mojo bag, "who do the hoodoo?"
"Uh, guys?" Hardison said, an odd hitch in his voice. "We've got a problem." His tablet blipped. "Make that problems. Plural."
The team crowded around him to see what they were dealing with.
"This," Hardison turned his tablet towards the other three so they could see the mug shot, "is Dean Winchester. He's dead. Thrice. This guy is honest to God, reported by the F-B-flipping-I, dead to the power of three. Wanted from everything to grave desecration to cold-blooded murder." Hardison tapped on another page showing a different face. "And this is little Samuel. Emphasis on little. Also dead, apparently. Wanted as an accessory to most of his big brother's crimes. Aiding and abetting a known criminal. That kind of thing."
Sophie whistled. "Their parents must be so proud." Hardison let out a bark of laughter.
"Ha! Dear ol' Daddy Winchester's rap sheet is twice the size of both brothers' put together. Their mom died in 1983 in a freak home fire. Guess they got it from his side, then."
"Hmm."
Parker looked bored. "Duh, Hardison. Of course, they're criminals; they kill monsters that hunt people. They're the good guys. Like us."
"Parker, these guys are dangerous," Hardison warned. "Right?" He looked around desperately for support.
"Can't say I'm in any position to judge a man on the length of his file," Eliot said with a small shrug. "God knows I've done worse things than dig up a few dead people."
Sophie pursed her lips. "I have to agree with Hardison on this one, we don't know anything about these Winchesters."
"Thank you, Sophie," Hardison said, making a show of his gratitude. "It's good to know at least one of you hasn't joined Team Evil Wonder Twins."
"Who are the Wonder Twins?" Parker whispered to Sophie. The grifter shrugged.
"Batman and Robin, I think?" she replied uncertainly.
"And you want to know the worst bit?" Hardison powered through the interruptions. "They're on the move."