A/N: You'll have been wondering about Sam? Well, here's a taste. And a bunch of main players make their first appearance here also. Plus a guest reference (although he is a namecheck from the show). :)

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 8: Nine for Dinner) by frostygossamer

Once the convoy makes it into Lunar space, it's the custom to invite escort captains aboard for dinner. This gives the transport's passengers the opportunity to meet with and thank their protectors. It's one of the perks of the job and Dean never turns down an invite to a good meal.

He's busy stripping down ready to change into his dress blues. Rocking a little to a favourite AC/DC track 'Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap', he hears banging from inside the Auto-Decontaminator suite.

Dean uses the wall lever to expose the viewing window. His guest has evidently released himself from his restraints and is slapping the shatterproof glass with his palms, demanding attention. This guy could turn out to be a pain in the butt.

The guy's eyes fall on Dean, who is standing there barefoot in shirt and drawers with his dress pants in his hand. He shouts, his voice muffled by the glass.

"Hey, man! When are you gonna let me outta here? Who the hell are you anyways? Where the hell is this place? And what the hell is that freakin' noise?

That attitude isn't going to endear him to his rescuer. Dean is sensitive about his music.

"That NOISE is Classic Rock. Not exactly the marching band Sousa you're used to, I guess."
Dean surveys him for a moment. He doesn't exactly carry an air of royal authority, standing there totally bare-assed and dripping wet, his long hair plastered to his face. Unconcerned, Dean gets on with stepping into his pants.

"My name is Dean. Captain Dean. You're aboard my ship. And you're gonna stay in there until the program has finished. Then I'm gonna take your ass home to Gramps."

"The hell you will!" the guy yells, then asks more nervously, "What freakin' program?"

Dean slips on his blue-black jacket and proceeds to do up its many fiddly buttons without looking at him. He already knows what a naked guy looks like.

"Decontamination program. When I picked you up on Luna you looked, and smelled, like crap. And I'm not gonna let any funky douchebag foul up my Baby. She's a classic rocketship, practically one of a kind, worth one hell of a lot more to me than you. But you, my friend, are worth big bucks if I can get you home to your ever-loving grandpapa in one wholesome piece. So suck it up, dude. You're gonna get tumble-washed, fluffed and folded, like it or not."

Finishing up his buttons, Dean pulls the lever to re-close the window. The inmate follows the panel along as it moves over the glass.

"Hey! I am so NOT gonna go home to my freakin' grandfather. And the name is Sam. Remember that. Sam."

Dean guesses they probably get trained that way. It's to encourage kidnappers to think of them as a person.

He shrugs. Good luck on that.

=O=

When Dean walks into the dining room of the transport ship, he finds the officers, passengers and guests standing around chatting and sipping cocktails. There are four passengers this trip, three young ladies and a slim gent in a dark tailored suit carrying a black leather portmanteau. Dean's practiced philanderer's eye takes in the ladies in great detail with a single glance.

A petite brunette, from her laid-back manner somewhat self-important, dressed in a dark red velvet gown of French couture, is communing with Walker. She's dripping with jewels. Genuine ice. This is a wealthy lady. A taller blonde in a demure little black dress hovers close by, dancing attendance. Evidently a lackey of some sort, possibly her Personal Assistant.

Walker, that fast mover, breaks away to move in on a slim, raven-haired beauty standing a little apart from them in a khaki waistcoat and skirt over a linen shirt. A sportive type, Dean guesses hopefully, as the lilting sound of her laughter drifts toward him.

They haven't noticed Dean yet.

He coughs and the room falls silent for a breath as everyone turns and eyes him appreciatively. He smirks a little inside. He's used to having this effect on people.

Some guys have just got it.

He winks at Turner and at Henriksen, who averts his eyes and walks away. The moment she spots the new arrival, the Convoy Commander, Captain Harvelle, excuses herself politely and comes over to greet him.

"Captain Dean. At last you're here. We're almost ready to sit down and eat."

Dean notes a slight reprimand in her voice, but he likes that she's already talking food.

"Chef Fieri in the galley tonight?"

"Uh-huh. He was so psyched to hear you'd be joining us. Chef loves a discriminating diner."

"Oh, I'd discriminate in favour of his cooking anytime," Dean quips.

He has been a fan of Fieri for the longest time. As well as being an excellent cordon bleu, he can knock out a gourmet cheeseburger with all the trimmings at a moment's notice. Dean would be glad to marry the guy, if he only swung that way.

Which he would like to point out he does not.

=O=

Captain Harvelle leads the way to the long banquet table decked out with crisp linen, fancy silverware and even candlesticks. The escort captains are seated alternately with the guests, Ellen at the head of the table. Henriksen, the stiff-backed military escort, occupies the captain's left while her most important passenger, Mr. Death, occupies her right. Death is, Ellen informs them, a Diplomatic Courier conveying a diplomatic pouch between Terra and Eno. He dips his head politely in acknowledgement.

Dean is ushered into the chair beside elegant gent Death, who bestows on him a gentlemanly smile. He's inclined to think the gray dude suits his name and is pleased to see the very attractive, sportive Miss Braeden take the chair on his right. She answers his smile with a flirtatious one of her own. OK, game on. Beyond her sits Walker, who isn't blind to her charms either. The two men exchange a quick look. May the best man win.

Left of Henriksen, and across from Dean, sits the wealthy and somewhat mysterious Miss Masters. She's a shrewd businesswoman with a sardonic manner to whom, for some reason, Dean feels a natural aversion. On her left is Rufus, looking hungry, and, at the end of the table opposite Walker, Miss Masters' companion and PA, the cool blonde Miss de'Mon, silent but missing nothing.

As the dinner progresses Dean pulls out all the stops to captivate his female neighbour. Miss Braeden, he discovers, is an explorer and has lately returned from extensive travel around India. There she spent some time studying the wisdom of the yogis, adding hatha yoga practitioner to her portfolio of talents. Dean is more than intrigued.

Walker's attempts at chatting up Miss Braeden amount to a few fairly funny jokes and a decent story about his experiences hunting down traces of Selenites, back when supposed sightings were still hot gossip. Under other circumstances he might come off as moderately cool, but not tonight. When Dean's pretty face has all the young woman's attention from the off, no dice.

Dean eyes her slim, wiry figure none too subtly.

"So, uh, yoga, Miss Braeden. Guess that's gonna mean you're good and supple."

She scolds him, but with a note of humour.

"Yoga is a serious discipline of the body and the mind. And do please call me Lisa, Captain Dean."

"Dean," he corrects her.

He uses the waiter serving the soup from Death's right as an excuse to lean into her space, his smile dripping with charm.

"So, uh, Lisa? Rhymes with teaser, hmm?"

A naughty comment but he gambles she can take it. He's seldom wrong. He's an old hand at this game.

Lisa giggles, responding archly, "Maybe."

Dean beams. Awesome. This is going so GOOD.

TBC

A/N: Note for Lisa lovers/haters: The lady will appear in a couple more chapters, but she is NOT a love interest, more another info source, so bear with me. :) More very soon.