A/N: Welp, I'm back! And here's the next (minimally edited due to it being super late) chapter! Thanks to everyone reading this and extra special love to Murakami no Kitsune, LeeMarieJack, Alice of Scots (Lovely Alice, yes, it's all very mysterious!), floralisette (You beautiful, wonderful soul, I'm so glad you haven't tired of my excessive love for cliffhangers), BranchSuper, CaraLee934, and Betsy Taylor (Hello, and thank you for being amazing!). Once again, all of your comments are so appreciated and cherished, so thank you! Anyway. Onwards.

In Eliot's experience, any man who carried a gun was a) paid to, b) forced to, or c) liked to, but always dangerous. And people wondered why he didn't like guns.

"Hey, cowboy, how 'bout you keep your eyes to yourself, huh? I don't swing that way."

Eliot narrowed his eyes. The Winchesters, frustratingly, refused to neatly fit any of those categories (though the last one was looking more and more suiting). There was Sam (obnoxiously tall, vocabulary like an English-to-Latin thesaurus), who looked like he could pick up the van over his head and fling it the entire length of at least two football fields. And then there was Dean, the trigger-happy pretty-boy suffering from an acute case of machoism.

Dean smirked and relaxed into his seat like he was perfectly comfortable being in a small, enclosed space (though the way his gaze clocked all possible exits every few minutes told Eliot otherwise). The van's once roomy interior was now cramped and stifling with three grown men—admittedly, two just a little more grown than the third—and one thief; even Eliot was dying to get out. The hitter snorted derisively and looked away. But it was like he said, they were always dangerous.

"Stev—er, Parker," came Sam's strained voice from the back. "Let go."

"Let go of my whistle first!"

"It's not—ow, Goddamn it, give it—"

"Watch it, Sasquatch!"

"Parker, what are you—Hey!"

Eliot raised an eyebrow and turned to the back of the van where Parker had seated herself next to the goliath. They were involved in what looked like some kind of wrestling match over the silver dog whistle which Parker had clenched in her fist and was waving wildly about. Her other hand clawed into Sam's hair and was pulling on it. Eliot raised a sympathetic hand to his own scalp with a wince. Sam reached a long arm over Parker's head and tried to pry her fingers open.

"Sa-a-am," Dean sang lazily, "you're doing it wrong."

"Does everything you say have to be an innuendo?" his brother said through clenched teeth, hissing at a cruel twist from Parker's hand. Dean shrugged.

"You're the kinky bastard getting his hair pulled by a Barbie doll, Sam, not me."

"Bite me."

Parker took it as an invitation and clamped her teeth on Sam's forearm.

"Gah! What the hell?" the hunter exclaimed incredulously. Just when he thought this hunt couldn't get worse, he winds up wrestling a violent nutcase over a stolen magic hellhound whistle. But wasn't that just typical?

Hardison gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles and kept his eyes on the road, and was definitely not sneaking glances in the rearview mirror. Sophie peeked over her shoulder to see what all the excitement was about. It was… not what she'd expected.

Parker squirmed under all six feet and four inches of Sam Winchester while snapping her teeth at him. He avoided her jaws as best he could as he reached for the whistle. Together, they managed to look not unlike a WWA match, but more similar to a pretzel wearing flannel.

"Well?" she said to the hitter after getting over the shock. "Do something!"

Eliot cleared his throat. "Parker, remember the jujutsu I've been showing you?"

The thief smiled and Sam braced himself. She lithely twisted herself from under him, rolling and arching through bendy positions until she somehow—it involved a well-aimed kick to a sensitive area—had the giant's neck in the crook of her elbow. Sam gasped and tugged at the noose-like grip around his throat, which only made the thief squeeze harder.

"Looks like she's got you by the short and curlies, Sam," Dean grinned, enjoying himself far more that he should have. "Someone hasn't been eating their Wheaties."

"Shut. Up." wheezed Sam.

"Parker," Sophie called from the front seat, "don't overwhelm the poor man." She glanced discretely at Hardison's set jaw and cleared her throat. "Maybe we should pull over," she suggested, "and figure out our next step?"

"There is no 'we', lady," Dean snapped, looking away from the woman—a content smile on her face—strangling his brother. "And there sure as hell isn't a 'next step'. What's going to happen, is you're going to pack your bags, get into your Mystery Machine and haul ass while my brother and I do our jobs. Capiche?"

Parker frowned stubbornly, watching Sam's face turn red. "But Nate—"

"If he's still alive, and I'm not promising he is," Dean interrupted, "then we'll get him out."

"Of course he's still alive," Parker scoffed. "He's Nate."

"Whatever floats your life raft, sweetheart."

"Okay," Sam gasped, "You can let go now. I won't try to take it from you."

"Promise?"

Sam nodded. Parker thought about it for a minute.

"Fine," she sighed and reluctantly released him. Sam pulled away, immediately putting distance between himself and the crazy thief who'd just had him—him!—in an honest-to-God, windpipe-crushing headlock.

"I'm never letting you live this one down," Dean grinned, "Barbie just kicked your ass, man."

He covered up a cough and ignored his brother. "You're insane. And strong. I don't remember you being strong." He shook his head in confusion. She hadn't been a match for him before, what changed?

Parker smiled, looking touched, reached out towards him. "Aw," she cooed. "That's so sweet." She ran her fingers through his hair. "Can I keep him?"

The van swerved sharply into a parking lot, throwing Dean and Eliot (who had been sitting on the floor) against the inside wall. Eliot sucked in a sharp breath, feeling his injuries open up again.

"Damn it, Hardison!" he glared up at the hacker. "You call that driving?"

But Hardison had bigger fish to fry. He got out of the van and slammed his door, leaving the rest of them exchanging confused looks. The side door slid open and there stood Hardison: arms crossed, brow furrowed, lips thinned. Behind him, Sal's run-down sign clashed with the watercolor sunset in the background, but cheerily declared, "Best in Service, Best in Town."

"Dude," Dean groaned, rubbing the spot where his forehead had collided with the door. "Cool it with the Evel Knievel act, will—" he was cut short as a hand grabbed his collar and dragged him out of the van.

Dean pulled himself upright and stared the hacker down with a small smile on his lips. Hardison hesitated, breathing deeply.

"Well?" Dean asked, not bothering to hide his eagerness. "Are you gonna hit me or just keep standing there looking pretty?"

"Hey," Eliot growled and stepped between them, "nobody's hitting anybody. Stand down." Dean hesitated, waiting to see if Hardison would obey. The hacker pushed Eliot aside and pointed a finger in Dean's face.

"First of all, we aren't amateurs. I've seen this girl—"he pointed to Parker, "crack a safe in less time than it takes to tie your shoes. If Sophie wanted, she could get you to hand over your wallet with a smile on your face. And Eliot could mop the floor with you and then wax it with Chewbacca here without breaking a sweat," Eliot nodded, shrugging modestly. "Second, we don't need your help to save Nate so get out of my van and get out of our way."

"Okay, sparky, whatever you say." To say he was underwhelmed would be an understatement. He'd known enough conmen in his life. It was always the same tricks, no matter how young the dog, and these so-called experts were no different. "No loss on our end. We're not baby sitters, it's not our job to help some wannabe A-Team get their Hannibal back."

Parker wrapped her arms around her torso and turned wide eyes on him. "Trade you?"

"Come again?" Dean asked as Hardison threw his hands to the sky with a "Hell no!"

"The stuff I took in exchange for…" she looked to Sophie for help.

"Services rendered?" the grifter supplied with a shrug.

"Seriously?" Hardison groaned. "Eliot, brother, come on. This is a bad idea, you know it is."

Eliot crossed his arms and stared at the Winchesters, then back at his team. That Nate-shaped hole in space had been empty too long. "I dunno," he said. "Whatever it takes, right? He'd do it for us."

"Throw in the Hell whistle and you got yourself a deal," Dean haggled. Parker frowned, then glanced at Eliot. As much as she wanted a pet hellhound, she didn't think it would be fair to the hitter after his first run-in with the creatures. She sighed, shoulders drooping.

"Deal," she spat on her palm and held it out. Dean blinked at the outstretched hand and wrinkled his nose. With a grumble, Sam spat on his own palm and shook the thief's hand.

Hardison's nostrils flared and he closed his eyes as if he couldn't even look at the sight. "You know what? I—I'm going for a walk," he announced, turning his back on them and heading for the diner. "Y'all figure it out." Parker wiped her hand on her jeans, eyes following him until he went inside.

"I'll go after him," Sophie said softly, noticing the thief's expression. "Carry on."

Eliot pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled deeply. This was all wrong. "So where's this… genie?" It felt weird saying it aloud. He might as well have asked where he could find a blue guy with a goatee and a voice like Robin Williams.

Dean smirked and shared a knowing look with his brother. "Glad you asked, cowboy. How do you feel about caves?"

Hardison stormed into the diner like he had a personal vendetta against the world. Who did they think they were, anyway, that they thought they could just waltz in and play the heroes?

"Heroes, as if," he muttered to himself, slumping onto a stool at the bar counter. "More like freakishly tall douchenozzles who—who wear too much flannel and… smell like... manly men."

A white cup slid into view, filled to the brim with steaming coffee. That waitress from earlier—what was her name?—leaned onto the counter. Hardison tried to nonchalantly glance at her name tag. Sheila? Cynthia?

"Shelly," she said, pointing to the pin. "Sorry, you looked a little down."

"Who me?" Hardison forced out a laugh. "Nah, girl. Is this coffee for me?"

Shelly shrugged and smiled sheepishly. "Well, you ran out so fast, I didn't get a chance to ask your name."

Hardison ran through the list of IDs he had on him. "The name's Smith," he decided. "Matthew Smith." Heh.

"Okay, Matt, why so glum?" she leaned her elbows onto the counter and gave him a searching look. "You alright?"

"It's nothing."

Shelly raised an eyebrow at him, but didn't press the subject. "If you say so. Where's your pals?" She laid her hand over his, eyes wide and concerned. He jumped a bit, staring at her hand like he couldn't figure out what it was doing there.

"Just—" he jumped again. Had she just rubbed herself all over shag carpeting? "Outside. In the parking lot." Shelly craned her neck to look through the windows.

"Oh yeah," she said. "They're with those two weirdoes who've been hanging around here for the last couple weeks. I think they're spelunkers or something. Boy, did they take a wrong turn!"

"Spelunkers? Why would you say that?"

Shelly bit the end of her pen thoughtfully. "Well, they kept on going on about the old quarries. Said they found 'It', whatever 'It' is."

Hardison looked down at the coffee mug, a smile growing as a plan came together in his head. "Shelly, could you tell where the exact quarries they were talking about are?"

"I can do you one better," she replied, untying her apron. "I can show you."

The waitress led him through the staff entrance in the back and into the empty parking lot behind the motel. "My car's back here," she explained.

"Right," Hardison glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of Not Lucille parked in front of Sal's. "Maybe we should get—"

"No," Shelly interrupted sharply. "I mean, this'll be fun."

"Fun?"

"Yeah," she said quickly, grabbing his arm. "You know, when you show them you can find him without their help."

That stopped him in his tracks. "Say that again?" Shelly tugged him a couple steps towards the motel, growing more insistent.

"Come on, Matt. Man up."

"You said 'find him.'"

Now it was Shelly's turn to freeze. "What? No, I didn't." She stubbornly placed her hands on her hips and glared up at him.

"Yes, you did," Hardison started to back away, arms stretched out with palms facing the waitress. "You know what, I'm just going to head back inside and finish that coffee. Can't waste good coffee, am I right?" He laughed awkwardly.

Shelly smiled tightly. "Right."

"And when you utilize the elbows—show 'im, Parker—you gain an advantage in close hand-to-hand combat," Eliot finished, slowly demonstrating an example of the technique on Dean. "Quick and dirty, gets the job done fast, no flowery showmanship."

"Huh, just the way I like it," Dean grinned. Sam rolled his eyes, distracted long enough for Parker to knock the wind from his lungs with an elbow to his sternum.

"Nice one," Eliot commented, covering his laughter with a cough. "But watch that left arm next time. Don't leave it so limp; protect that side." Parker nodded solemnly and Eliot knew he wouldn't have to tell her twice.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sophie come out of the diner and scan the parking lot as if she was looking for something—or someone. The grifter shook her head and hurriedly made her way back to the van. She was trying to keep a calm mask over her emotions, but there was a tightness about her frown and around her eyes that betrayed her distress.

"Did he come back out?" she asked, mouth a hard line.

"Did who do what?"

Sophie bit her lip. "It's Hardison. I can't find him."