A/N: A little passage of time now before we rejoin the good ship Baby...

The Pompatus Box (Chapter 14: Problems Surface) by frostygossamer

Weeks pass without incident. Things are a little slow and Baby is parked in orbit around Terra, waiting for any job to come up, legitimate or illegitimate. On the bridge, cogwheels whiz and instruments click, stutter and peep, ticking over.

Suddenly, a tiny bell on the console rings out in a tinkling soprano. Incoming intercommunicator traffic.

Dean rouses slowly from his doze. He's lying in bed. He has been there three whole days, apart from necessary breaks, and almost the entire time has been semiconscious. He slides out of the bed and wanders onto the bridge to check out the bell's tinny warning.

Plopping himself in his command chair, he pulls a lever that brings the 3-D image of Jo into the room. She suppresses an incorrigible grin.

"Hello, Dean. I wake you up?"

Her eyes have a way of scanning over him against her will. He's standing there in a less than completely clothed condition, glimpses of those sweet abs and a pretty hipbone on display. Dishevelled hardly describes it. His hair is a spiky mess. His neck is covered in bites. His bruised and used body is barely hidden by the silk robe he threw on. Only his face seems to have escaped the attack.

Jo can't help but giggle. "You get in a fight or something? You kinda look like you got hit by a tornado."

Dean rolls his eyes. "You got a message for me, Jo? Or did you call to subject me to your biting ridicule?"

Jo coughs and composes herself.

"Mom contacted me. The transport you escorted to Eno last time is making its return trip in a couple days. Mom's putting in a specific request for you to be assigned. She's got a problem that's a little more than she can handle and I told her you're the guy. You can make this run, right?"

"Sure, Jo. Copy me the rendezvous and I'll meet up with my favourite Convoy Commander as and when."

Jo wires the details straight to Baby's flight planner.

"If that's all, Jo, I'll..." Dean yawns disgustingly, "...catch up with you from the rendezvous point."

Jo takes that as a goodbye. "Yeah sure, Dean. I'll handshake you then. I'm out."

Her image vanishes like smoke.

=O=

Dean gets up with a small 'oof' and returns to his cabin, wondering vaguely what the panic is all about. He sits down on the edge of his big bed for a moment, chin in hand. Then he exhales and drags his fingers through his spiky hair, glancing over his shoulder at the large naked shape spread out on its belly across the mattress. He slips back between the sheets.

"Be making contact with the convoy in around one hour."

Beside him the large shape groans and rolls over on its back, snaking a long arm around Dean's waist under his robe. Dean shoves the arm into a more comfortable position with a huff. He's already half back to sleep but he can live without an elbow in his navel. He puts up with Sam pulling him closer and jamming his stupid mug in the crook of Dean's neck, purring darkly.

"An hour's a long time."

Sam's whisper is husky with sex. He makes yet another attempt to kiss his bed-companion on the face and Dean irritably moves his head out of reach.

"Hey! Quit it, dumb-ass. The agreement was no freakin' kissy-face and you know it."

No kissing. That is the rule. Kissing is for lovers. What they are NOT, and NEVER will be. Got it? This is purely business.

Dean held out against Sam's clumsy advances like some Amish virgin for about a week and a half. Then he realized that he might as well use his body as a pacifier to help Sam with his gradual Demonblood withdrawal, make it bearable for him. It wasn't easy for Dean to watch the guy suffer, and it wasn't like he wouldn't wash clean afterward. Another dirty task to be endured, nothing more.

Sam grunts and moves his mouth further down to suck on Dean's collarbone. Dean goes to his happy place. The same happy place he always used to visit back in the orphanage when bad things would need doing that he couldn't get out of, and when punishment had to be taken stoically.

This isn't such a big chore anyways. He has done nastier things in the name of a job than let a drug-addled hypersexual use his body to calm his cravings. If it helps the guy come off of his Demonblood faster, Dean will be able to get him back to his family in better shape. So probable bonus. All good.

It could have been something worse. There was that maggot processing plant in New Oregon, that lake of contaminated crap, the skip of rotting body parts he had to search one time...

Dean mentally shakes himself and deliberately clears his mind of everything but the money.

=O=

Baby catches up with Captain Harvelle's convoy as they clear Enoan space and lock on to their Terran trajectory. Ellen messages Dean to come aboard as soon as the convoy is deployed. Dean is by now feeling very curious about what it is she wants to talk to him about.

When Dean walks into the Captain's office, she jumps straight up from her desk and closes the door behind him. She ushers him to a seat beside her on the couch, so they can talk without being overheard by anyone outside. All very hush-hush. Ellen's tone is noticeably harassed.

"We have a problem, Dean. One huge damn problem."

"Not sounding good," Dean hazards.

"You could say that. Dean, you remember that guy Mr. Death, the Diplomatic Courier, and the fancy wood box he had in his big old bag?"

"Yeah. Sure, I do."

"Well, down on Eno, after he took possession of the key from Henriksen, he decided to check the box out before the handover ceremony. Cautious, I guess. And thank God he did. Turns out it was empty, Dean, EMPTY."

Dean considers a moment. "Do we even know it isn't MEANT to be empty. The way I heard, it's kind of a symbolic thing anyways."

Ellen dismisses that with a headshake.

"Oh, it isn't INTENDED to be empty, Dean. Death knows that much, though not much more. The thing IN the box is the symbol, not the box. The damn Pompatus, whatever the hell that is, not its carry-case."

"So you're thinking someone finagled the Pompatus out of Death's Gladstone sometime during the trip? One of the crew?"

Ellen doesn't take that suggestion well. Her crew were all personally hand-picked.

"No, no. I'll vouch for every one of my people, Dean."

So the alternative is who? The outriders? Dean is equally adamant.

"And I'll vouch for the escort guys, Ellen. Victor Henriksen may have a stick up his butt but he'd sooner fall on his own sword than steal from a diplomat. Rufus Turner's a straight shooter. I'd trust him with my life. And Gordon Walker? He may be a dick, but I can't see him in the frame for a deal like this. He hasn't got the cojones."

Ellen chuckles dryly and heaves a weary sigh.

"Death was able to postpone the ceremony for a few days. Claimed he'd gotten a bad case of Eno's Revenge. Fortunately for him, the powers that be were cool with a short delay. But he needs the damn thing back in his hands stat."

There is only one other group left for them to investigate. Dean says it first.

"Then I guess we gotta check out the passengers?"

Ellen nods. "Personally I never liked the looks of that Miss Masters, a shady lady of business if I ever saw one. What do you think?"

"Kinda got that vibe from her too. There's more to that one than meets the eye."

It's not only Lisa's doubts about Masters' orientation that trouble him. Heck, if it were only that he's always up for a challenge and, the way he looks, he's probably in with a chance with almost any woman. But there is something about that particular lady that he instantly disliked. Rare for Dean with an attractive female.

Ellen continues. "She's back aboard right now. What if I offer her a tour of the flight deck? Maybe you can do a recon of her quarters and see what shows up?"

Dean is up for it. Captain Harvelle has always been a prompt payer, and preventing a diplomatic scandal has got to be worth a bundle.

"Will do, Captain."

TBC

A/N: So Dean's off to rummage in Meg's panty drawer. What will he find? More shortly.