Chapter 18 Jump the Gun
Amory, Mississippi
Sam stood in the middle of the attic, the pump action shotgun cradled lightly in his hands, watching the dust motes twinkle and float slowly through the shaft of sunshine that was coming through a hole in the shingle roof.
A few feet away, Dean wrestled with the steamer trunk, shoving boxes and suitcases off it randomly as he tried to yank it out from beneath the pile of crap that was covering it. The attic had stored the day's warmth and he could feel a trickle of sweat running through his hair. Goddamned thing weighed a ton and something was catching, under the pile … he lifted the end he had hold of, twisting the trunk slightly and felt the trunk move forward again.
"Would it bother you if I take a few days to get this clear in my head?"
Sam's face tightened as the memory jumped into his mind.
Don was on his way home. And he'd spent the last day doing nothing but think of what he should do, trying to force his emotions aside and look at the situation rationally. There was no right or wrong here. Only pain. Someone would lose out. He thought it would be him.
The temperature in the attic plummeted and Dean's head snapped up. He twisted aside as he felt the air turn to ice around him, a scent of dried up old leaves and dirt surrounding him, filling his nose and mouth as he dragged in a deep breath. The spirit solidified right next to him, and his fingers scrabbled for the shotgun that lay on the floor next to his knee.
"Sam!"
Cold fingers dug into his shoulders, leaving a trail of glittering frost over his clothes as they moved across his chest.
"SAM!"
The boom of the shotgun echoed around the closed space and Dean fell back to one knee, feeling the smooth wood of the sawn-off butt under his hand. His skin was goosefleshed where the ghost had touched him. He stared at his brother. Sam looked back at him, racking the pump on the gun, his face expressionless.
Dean turned away, mouth compressed, eyes stony as he hauled the trunk clear of the pile of stuff and knocked the rusted padlock from the hasp with the stock of the shotgun. He threw open the lid, looking down at the two mummified bodies that had been left in it. Picking up the canister of salt from the floor and pulling off the top, he threw the entire contents over them. Sam passed him a small can of gasoline and Dean turned back to the trunk, splashing it over the bodies, the back of his neck prickling strongly, forcing him to flick a look behind him as a cooler draught seem to eddy and swirl around the heated space.
"Sam, you see anything?"
There was silence behind him and he turned around sharply, seeing Sam's attention turned inward again, swearing under his breath as he pulled the matchbook from his pocket, tearing a match off and striking it, tossing it into the trunk.
The ghost manifested in between them, and the barrel of the sawn-off rose straight up.
"Sam, down!" he yelled, fingers tight against the triggers. Sam started, turning to look at him, and the ghost flickered. Dean felt the temperature drop around him and saw his brother's gaze focussing, the long barrel of the pump action coming up. He fell forward, twisting aside as the retort of the shot shook through the attic, pellets of rock salt peppering the walls and floor and ceiling. Biting back a shout at the ones that had hit him, he rolled over and squeezed the triggers as the ghost appeared again, this time consumed by flame as the bones burned.
"Are you okay?" Sam strode over to him, stretching out a hand. Dean looked up at him sourly.
"Aside from the fact that your head was somewhere else and you hit me with that last shot?" he asked, taking the hand and letting Sam haul him to his feet.
Sam looked away, jaw tight. "Sorry."
Dean opened his mouth and closed it again abruptly. There was no point to arguing about this now. The salt pellets stung like a sonofabitch and he could see blood seeping through his tee shirt. He needed to get out of here.
The bottle stood on the table, a little over a third down. He'd drunk it and chased down two painkillers before getting into the shower and letting the warm water dissolve the pellets in the wounds. Beat having his brother poking around and pulling them out one at a time.
Most of the pocked divots had stopped bleeding by the time he got out of the shower and had dried off. Dean sat on the edge of the bed, taping over the couple that were persisting. He looked up as Sam came in, two large paper bags in one hand, a six-pack in the other.
"I could've done that," Sam said, frowning at him.
He looked up and shook his head. "Quicker this way."
Sam heard the slight slur to his words and glanced at the bottle, shrugging. "Whatever you say."
Satisfied that he'd got the main holes, Dean pulled his shirt down over his head and got up slowly, walking to the table and screwing the lid back onto the bottle as Sam put the bags down.
He sat down as Sam did, taking the offered bag and pulling out a wrapped burger, hesitating as he looked at his brother.
"What happened to you?"
Sam looked up, one brow raised. "When?"
"When I took that all-expenses-paid trip to Hawaii," he said exasperatedly. "On the job!"
"I got distracted. It won't happen again," Sam said, unwrapping his food and taking a bite.
"You don't get distracted on a job, you fucking well hit me," Dean snapped. "What were you thinking about?"
"Nothing."
"Bull."
"I wasn't aiming for you," Sam looked at him defensively. "It was a reaction; I saw the ghost and I fired."
"Right."
Sam shrugged, taking another bite.
Dean watched his gaze cut away. The girl, he thought, looking down at the burger in his hands. Amelia. Whatever had happened, it was still ricocheting through his brother's mind. His feelings were mixed about talking about it. Sam had given up on him for that girl. Turned away from his responsibilities and gone normal and pretended that he had no family, no past. It still hurt that his brother had been able to do that.
But something had happened that had torpedoed Sam's intentions of staying in that life. And it was something big, something painful.
He finished his burger and twisted the top off the bottle of beer, washing down the last of the food. Like it or not, he needed to know more about it. He glanced across the table. Sam was eating mechanically, staring at the table top.
Dean waited until they were on their second bottle, the food cleared away.
"What went wrong between you and Amelia?" he asked Sam quietly.
Sam looked up at him, barely hiding the surprise he felt at the question. "Why do you want to know?"
Dean shrugged slightly, reaching mentally for words that wouldn't put his brother on the defensive, wouldn't antagonise or belittle his feelings. "You haven't talked about anyone like that since Jess."
He watched Sam's face close up as he looked away, and wondered if he'd been too blunt anyway. After a moment, Sam dragged in a deep breath and made a vague gesture.
"We were both running," he said, flicking a wary glance at his older brother. "I felt like – I'd – I was trying to forget everything, and uh, she – her husband had been reported killed, in Afghanistan, about eight months before – before we met."
He exhaled, and tipped his bottle up, swallowing a couple of mouthfuls before he put it back on the table.
"At first, it was – it was kind of like finding a life-ring, you know, something to hold on to, something to just – I don't know – give us an anchor, let us hold onto life, stop running, stop going over and over the crap that never let us sleep." He shook his head, and Dean's eyes narrowed as he got a sense of where Sam'd been, in the time between when he'd given up the search and he'd found her.
"We would talk around what had happened – to both of us. I couldn't – I couldn't tell her, not the truth, not about my life – and she, she was – she didn't know how to talk about what was really hurting her," he continued slowly, memories pressing up against him. He'd realised almost immediately that it wasn't just the grief and shock of losing Don, that had screwed up Amelia. There were things she felt guilty about, things that she'd hidden from herself. He'd thought that they would have the time together, time to go through those things. To get them out and stop them from poisoning her. He'd thought that maybe, given enough time, that could happen for him, too.
Dean listened, watching his brother's feelings flicker over his face, doubt and a yearning expression, a remembered warmth, and a look that was almost anger, edged by fear. Whatever had gone on in the patched-together relationship hadn't been easy, he thought.
"We moved out of the motel and found a house and we were just moving in there – we'd just moved in there, and she'd called her dad, and –" Sam hesitated, looking at the table top as he tried to make sense of what had happened next, shock still reverberating through his nerves at those memories. "She got a call that her husband was still alive."
Christ. Dean looked at Sam's face, understanding suddenly where Sam was, why he couldn't move past it, why his emotions were so all-over the place, sometimes so much stronger, then fading away.
"So you left?" he asked softly.
Sam nodded. "I thought – she – I thought it was the right thing to do."
"You don't now?"
"I don't know," Sam said tiredly. "It – she – I don't know."
Dean watched him drop his head, fingers running through his hair, frustration and doubt evident in the gesture.
"I don't know if anything I've done has been right," he said, lifting his gaze to meet his brother's.
Lifting his beer, Dean looked away. He'd figured that it'd been big. He hadn't realised that the real problem was that it'd been murky. Sammy had been swimming through the greys as well.
"You did the right thing, Sam," he said quietly, setting the bottle back on the table and looking at him.
Carencro, Louisiana
The darkness was cool, not like it would be in the summer months, when the air would feel like syrup and it would be filled with the constant whine and hum of insects. Benny scrubbed the pot in the sink, the hot water and white suds covering his hands as he listened to her moving fast around the board floors.
"I sent Anthony home, so the kitchen's all yours. And be sure to lock up the door and, uh, set the alarm ..." Elizabeth said distractedly, grabbing her coat from the coat hook and looking around the open room. "Turn off the A/C, check the burners, check the griddle –"
He turned around, wiping his hands as he looked at the tension that filled her face, hunched her shoulders. It'd taken him a while to find her, not knowing that she existed until he seen the gravestone. He'd had no idea that Alice had been pregnant when she'd gone. He'd wondered if she had known, or if when she found out, she'd looked for him. The speculations were pointless. It'd all been a long, long time ago.
"And clear off the cold table. I got it," he said, the soft Louisiana drawl pronounced, his expression warm and indulgent. "Go on, now."
"Thank you, Roy," she smiled at him, turning to the door and then turning back as another thought hit her. "Oh, and, uh ... don't forget to "Z" out the register –"
Benny nodded. "And batch out the credit-card machines. I know," he finished the sentence. "Darlin', it's not my first rodeo, all right?"
Elizabeth smiled ruefully. "I'll see you tomorrow."
She walked out through the screen door, the quiet bang as it hit the doorframe making her exit final. Benny looked down at the clean counter, mouth quirked at one corner. Girl took her responsibilities so seriously he wondered how she slept at night. A family trait, perhaps.
"Hell of a girl, that Elizabeth," Dwayne Mitchell turned slowly from watching the door back to him, sipping the black coffee in his hand.
"Yeah," Benny said softly. "Yeah, she really is."
He didn't know exactly what he was looking for here, contented right now to be close to her, to know their connection, to feel it fill him with a peace he hadn't felt in more than eighty years. He wasn't hungry when he was here. That'd surprised him, a little, at first. He looked back at Dwayne as the man put down his empty cup. "Refill?"
"Sure," Dwayne put his cup down in front of him. Benny went to the filter machine to get the pot, aware of the man's eyes on him as he came back. "You got designs?"
Benny looked at him for a moment, uneasy at the turn in the conversation. Dwayne was a regular, but not a particularly well-liked one.
"Nah," Benny said. He poured out the fresh coffee and looked at the man. "She's more like a little sister to me, you know?"
"So you don't mind if I take a shot?" Dwayne asked quietly.
For a heartbeat, Benny felt hunger throb through his veins. He looked at the man in front of him and there was nothing in his eyes but the cold-blooded calculation of a predator. He pushed that feeling down, keeping his expression impassive, and drew in a shallow breath. The day Lizzie went out with this loser would be the day he was washed clean of the monster inside of him.
"She's all yours, chief."
He pushed the filled cup back across the counter to Dwayne, his hands steady. Julian had been right about him in one way, he thought caustically. He felt too much for what he was. Felt too deeply. All of those feelings, those messy, human feelings should have been petrified along with his cells the day he'd made his first kill. But they hadn't been.
"Hey." Across the room the man in the booth tapped his empty mug on the red formica table top. "Please?"
Benny looked over at the burned-out hunter sitting there. He'd made the man as soon as he'd walked in the door, the twitches and spasms singling him out, the clumsy questions that had followed confirming it. He wasn't sure why the man hadn't made a move yet, although it was possible that he was waiting for some proof. A corpse, maybe, with a hole in its neck. Benny picked up the coffee pot and walked over to the booth, filling the empty mug.
"Thanks," the man said, lifting his head and looking up at him.
Man would be waiting a long time – a long, long time – for that, Benny thought as he walked back behind the counter.
Every two weeks, he'd hopped on the 49 and driven the few miles down to Lafayette. Visiting the hospitals, he thought of it. It took less than an hour to fill the cooler and he didn't need much. Purgatory had reduced his … appetite … to a very reasonable level.
He put the glass jug back on the warmer and returned to the sink, finishing the pot in it and rinsing it off. Here, where he'd been born, with family and the easy life that wasn't quite as he'd remembered but which hadn't changed so much, not like the rest of the country, he was fine.
Hell, he was happy.
At midnight, he looked around the clean, empty room from the doorway, and hit the lights, turning off all but the neon signs that glowed softly in the front windows. All done.
His camper was parked around the back, and he thought he'd relax for a while. He'd picked up a load of secondhand books, the last trip into town, and reading had always been a favourite pastime, escaping into other worlds, other minds, other lives. He didn't feel the need for escape now, but the addiction of learning was still strong.
He pulled the front door shut, hearing the lock click loudly in the silence, the keys going straight into his pocket, and walked down the porch steps. The rustle, in the thick marsh woods to his left, might have gone unnoticed by a human. To him, it was as loud as a brass band, and as out of place. The faint and distant scents that came on the thin, night breeze were equally out of place.
Blood.
And flowers. And rot.
Turning in the direction he'd heard it, Benny felt his hackles rise along the back of his neck.
Behind him, he heard the footfalls of the inept hunter who'd been shadowing him and he grimaced. Desmond had upped the ante and the idiot trailing him was almost certainly going to get the wrong impression.
He ghosted through the trees, leaving no trail behind and not even disturbing the foliage as he passed through. Copper-sharp, the smell gave him warning and he looked down in the darkness of the shadows under the trees at Dwayne's body, blood spilling out and soaking into the ground beside him from the ragged tear in the side of his neck. Goddammit.
Behind him, a twig snapped, accompanied by the soft slurring sound of leaves pushed together, pushed aside.
Goddammit.
He slipped away, his eyes piercing the darkness easily. A shining hair, caught in the leaves of a shrub to the right of the path caught his attention, and he sped up, following the barely-there trail away from the body.
Behind him, he heard a thump and muttered swearing, a harshly indrawn breath. He thought the hunter had probably discovered Dwayne.
I-20, Mississippi
Creedence played softly through the car's speakers as Dean drove west, the beat underscored by the rhythmic sound of the tyres as they crossed the concrete seams on the freeway.
He watched the road, aware of the engine, of the steering, of the feel of the car and the feel of the road and of his brother, staring out through the windshield beside him.
He hadn't known what else to say to Sam, back in Amory when the silence had stretched out between them. I'm sorry? Maybe it's all for the best? At least you found out? This is why hunters don't get involved with chicks on a long-term basis? Those things had rocketed through his mind and he'd rejected them all, knowing that nothing he could say to Sam would help. Sam had gotten up and gone out. He'd been gone for a couple of hours, and when he'd let himself back into the room, the sorrow had mostly gone. In its place was a simmering tension, one wrong word away from anger.
I-55, Mississippi
"Bacon-cheese, chicken-salad, sodas to go?" The girl at the window held up a cardboard tray and looked around expectantly. Dean nodded, taking the tray and turning away from the counter, walking back to the car. He was starving and the smell of the burger was infiltrating his immediate airspace, making saliva gather in his mouth.
He opened the door of the car and slid into the driver's seat, glancing at Sam as his brother stared straight ahead, his cell pressed tightly against one ear, listening to the caller.
"Yeah," Sam said tensely. "And you're certain? You sure? Okay. Great. Just, uh, just hang tight till you hear from me, okay?"
"Who is it?" Dean whispered hoarsely, shifting the tray to his lap.
"No, listen to me," Sam snapped at the cell, holding a finger up to his brother. "I said hang tight."
He hung up and shoved the phone back in his jacket pocket, his exhale gusty.
"We got to get."
Dean looked down at his food. "Can I at least finish my burger?"
"We got a vamp kill, Dean," Sam said sharply, then turned to look at him. "Carencro, Louisiana."
Sam watched his brother's shoulders drop, relaxing as memory flooded in.
"Huh. Been a while since I've had étouffée," Dean said with a smile. He picked up his burger. "Who's the source?"
"Martin Creaser."
Dean stilled, the burger in his hands arrested halfway to his mouth as he looked at his brother. Sam looked back, his face expressionless.
"Sorry – for a minute there, I thought you said Martin Creaser," Dean said, feeling his appetite disappear as Sam continued to stare back at him. "Crazy Martin from the loony bin?"
Sam looked away. "He checked himself out of Glenwood Springs a couple of months ago," he said shortly. "He wasn't committed, Dean, he was in there voluntarily."
"And?" Dean snorted. "Shouldn't he be assembling toys in a padded room? What's he doing back on the job?"
"I asked him," Sam replied, an edge along his voice.
Dean turned in his seat. "You what?" he asked, disbelief filling his voice.
"Look, I called him from Missouri. I was looking for other hunters –" Sam said defensively.
"Missouri." Dean voice was flat. Sam's gaze cut away and Dean felt the widening between them again, stretching out thinly. No trust. No commitment. No bond.
Sam shrugged. "Martin called me when he got out, asked if I had anything for him that might help him ease back into the game. He seemed okay – mostly – so I said yes. He found Benny four weeks ago. He's been keeping an eye on him."
Dean looked out through the windshield. Unbelievable. Fucking unbelievable. He seemed okay – mostly – what the fuck was that? He turned back to his brother as Sam mentioned Benny. Sam looked away.
Alright, pull it back, Dean told himself. Sam was irrational about the vampire and he knew that. Didn't realise until now just how irrational.
"You put 'mostly okay' Martin on Benny?" he said slowly. Sam's mouth tightened a little in acknowledgement.
"What is 'mostly okay' doing hunting at all?".
He watched his brother's face harden up as Sam looked away, his frustrated exhale hissing out between his teeth. "Not hunting, Dean – tracking. Observe and report only. I was crystal clear about that."
"Wow. I can't believe that," Dean looked away. Had that been the reason for the truce between them? Sam organising a whacked-out Martin to follow his friend around to – what? To prove that Benny was staying on the straight and narrow? Or to prove that he'd been wrong and rub his face in it? Fuck this, he thought tiredly.
"Really, Dean? You don't believe that?" Sam snapped at him, the disappointment in Dean's face, in his voice, escalating the anger inside. Disappointed again, because he hadn't just taken Dean's word for the vamp's good will? Fuck this.
"Because Benny's a vampire. And any hunter worth his salt isn't gonna let one just walk around freely. So I had Martin keep tabs on him. And right now, it's looking like I made the right call."
Dean looked at him, keeping his face expressionless. "So Martin's saying Benny did this?"
Rein it back, Sam thought, clamping down on the desire to yell at him, don't blow up or he'll never believe it. "Yeah."
Dean nodded slightly, looking away. "Okay."
Sam stared at him. He hadn't expected that simple capitulation. Hadn't expected it at all.
Beside him, Dean heard his brother's surprise in the silence. It had been meant to trap him, he knew. Meant to force him into admitting that he'd made a bad choice. But it could work the other way. There was no way Benny was drinking people down there. He knew that too. His trust in the vampire went as deep in him as it could possibly go. So, it would be a chance to show Sam that he'd been wrong.
"Okay?" Sam asked finally, not sure if he'd heard that right at all.
Dean looked down at the cooling burger in his hands. "If Benny's in Louisiana draining folks ..." He turned his head to look back at his brother. "We should look into it."
He met Sam's eyes steadily for a moment, then moved the cardboard tray on his lap to the seat beside him, dumping the burger in it and leaning forward to turn the key. The Impala's engine rumbled into life and he pulled out of the slot, turning right and letting the car idle down to the interstate service road.
He could feel Sam's doubts and uncertainties filling the car. For a long time, the dynamic between them had remained the same. He'd been the act-first, think-later brother. Sam had been the one who'd cautioned, who'd waited, who'd thought about what they were doing and why. He didn't know, exactly, when that had changed. Or even what had changed it. Sometime in the last three years, he'd thought.
Sam had been through the wringer and somewhere, in all that torture, in the mess that the hallucinations had left behind, he'd had to pull it altogether and keep going because at the same time, his big brother'd been close to giving up completely. Dean pulled in a deep breath, fingers closing around the wheel a little more closely. It hadn't been the first time, either, he acknowledged morosely to himself.
Yeah, well, you're a hypocrite, Dean. How did you feel when dad sold his soul for you? 'Cause I was there. I remember. You were twisted and broken. And now you go and do the same thing. To me. What you did was selfish.
He smiled a little, not a shred of humour in it. Sam'd been right about that. He had been. He'd been tired and heartsick and he hadn't given a damn about how it was going to end. He'd had a whole year to figure out how much worse it would all get.
He straightened up a little in the seat, his fingers clamping hard around the wheel as the recognition of when and how the changes had come fell into his mind, complete and inarguable and resonant.
Carencro, Louisiana
Dean pulled off onto the two lane and followed it into town, glancing at the flat land and single-storey homes, a collection of frame and brick mixed cheerfully together and defying a classification of the people who lived there.
"Where are we heading?" He turned right toward the centre of town, slowing down as a woman led a group of children across the road in front of him.
"Corner of St Charles and Bateaux Streets," Sam said stiffly, gesturing to the right. "Another right and we should be there."
Dean nodded, ignoring the tension in his brother's voice. He turned and pulled into the forty-five degree angle parking space, stopping the engine, pulling out the keys and getting out in a single smooth action.
The Beaudelaire was a walk-up four storey building in clay-red brick, a deep-green front door set back a little from the sidewalk by a single step. Beside the door, a weathered sign gave the details of the rooms for rent.
"Room?" Dean started to climb the stairs, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Two."
They came onto the landing and turned down the hall, number two was at the end. Raising his hand to knock, Sam froze as the door was pulled open.
Martin glanced at Dean and looked up at Sam. "You said look for an eruption. How's Mount Vesuvius?"
Sam walked past him, feeling his brother's scepticism rising at the melodrama of the hunter's announcement. Maybe it hadn't been a great idea. But it had still worked, he told himself firmly, walking past the bed to lean against the wall between the two windows.
"Sonofabitch took me three weeks to get a lead on, but I got into town about a week ago. Up until last night, nothing. He's been clean," Martin said, looking from Dean who by the bed, to Sam and back.
"Doing what?" Dean looked at Creaser. Martin had looked better the last they'd seen him, he thought critically. He was hyped now, his body giving little twitches as if he was brushing against a stray live wire.
"Just minding his own business." Martin shrugged. "Working at the gumbo shack."
"Benny's working at a gumbo shack?" Dean said, inclining his head in polite disbelief.
"Yeah," Martin said. "Slinging hash, pouring coffee – the whole bit. And he may be Benny to you –" he added slyly. "Folks around here call him Roy."
Roy. Uh huh. "Martin, you sure you're running on a full charge?" Dean asked quietly.
Martin laughed nervously. "Yeah. L-l-little s-shock therapy in the morning, and I-I'm good to go," he said, frowning as he looked back at Sam.
Dean's face smoothed out as he turned his head to look at Sam.
Sam ignored the look. "Tell us what happened last night."
"So, I followed him home, just like every night. He turned up a path. I hear a scream. I catch up. Then – there he is. The old coot that Roy was eyeballing at the joint – vamped," he said, gesturing as he spoke.
"Wait – did you actually see Benny kill the guy or not?" Dean asked, unimpressed by the theatrics.
Martin flashed a look at Sam and looked back at Dean defensively. "I saw enough."
"Well, then, how can you be sure it was Benny if you didn't actually see him do it?" Dean pressed, watching the man shift across the floor closer to Sam and back again.
"B-b-because I saw Benny turn up the path, and then two seconds later, I trip over a body with its throat ripped," Martin said, shaking his head. "Look, man, you – you ever hear of Ockham's Razor? 'Keep it simple, stupid'? It's not that complicated."
Dean leaned back against the bed frame, relaxing a little as he watched the other hunter. "There're a lot of holes, Martin."
"Holes?" Martin said disbelievingly, his gaze shifting from Dean to Sam. "The only holes we should be looking at are in the vic's neck."
"This sound like the Benny you know?" Dean asked his brother quietly.
Sam looked down for a moment and shook his head. "I don't know Benny."
"The Benny you know?" Martin's face screwed up as he looked at Dean. "Say what? Why am I getting the distinct impression that your brother is vouching for a vampire?" He shuffled sideways toward Sam, spittle coming out with the words as his agitation levels rose.
"Guys, let's not argue," Sam said quietly. This wasn't how he'd thought it would be, he thought uncomfortably. Dean wasn't defensive, he was certain. And Martin … Martin wasn't really mostly okay.
Dean shook his head. "Nobody's arguing, but if this is Benny – and that's a big 'if' –"
"Oh, it's him," Martin interjected.
"I got history with the guy, okay?" Dean looked at Martin steadily. "I'm not signing up for a witch hunt," he said, looking at his brother. "I owe him more than that."
Martin shifted his feet nervously in front of Dean, as he looked between the brothers. "What in God's great creation could a Winchester possibly owe a vampire?" he said, staring at Dean. "Am I hearing this right?"
"Look, until we get the facts, we stow the bloodlust and we work this case right, or we work it separately," Dean said clearly, repressing his annoyance with Martin's twitching and with his brother for bringing such a loose cannon on board.
"Doing it right would be separating his head from his shoulders," Martin muttered, his hands closing into fists involuntarily.
Dean straightened up and looked at Sam. "I just need some time, Sammy."
"Oh, yeah. Let the fang take another life? I don't think so," Martin exclaimed to no one in particular, swinging around and pacing away.
"How much time do you need?" Sam asked, ignoring the agitated hunter.
"You're not actually considering this?" Martin turned to him.
"Couple hours, max," Dean said, his voice as quiet and low as Sam's.
Martin spun back to him. "And what if it turns out to be Benny?"
"Then it's Benny, and I'll deal with it!" Dean snapped, losing his patience with the man's fear-driven irrationality.
"Couple hours, Dean. No more," Sam said, taking a step toward him.
Dean looked at him for a moment then turned away. "I'll be in touch."
He walked out of the room, hearing Martin's footsteps behind him. Martin Creaser. At least when he'd been in Glenwood, he'd understood his own fears, his own limitations, he thought sourly, pulling the door closed behind him. Now, he was over-compensating in every direction, making him not only suspect in his conclusions but dangerous to be around.
"H-hey. Oh, look. Hey, uh –" Martin followed Dean to the door, turning back as it shut in his face.
"You're joking, right? We're doing this as soon as he pulls away." He looked at Sam.
"No, we're not, Martin," Sam raised his voice a little as he looked at the older man. "We're gonna give him a little bit of time."
Martin backed away. "Hey, it's your brother. It's your call." He sat down in the chair next to the small table. "How long are you gonna let him go on like this? It's staring him right in the face."
Sam exhaled sharply. "Martin, shut up. You don't know anything about the situation, about what's happened or what it meant. So just … leave it."
He pulled in a breath and stalked to the window, lifting a slat on the blinds and staring out. Was he doing the right thing? Had he ever done the right thing? He thought he had – he thought he was – he had no fucking idea … "Sometimes it's not easy to see things for what they are."
The café was plain and clean and cool, the tables widely spaced and enough customers to tell him that the food was good. Benny slinging hash. The thought brought a small smile as he sat down at the polished timber counter.
A tall, slender woman walked past, long nut-brown hair straight and loose over her shoulders. She put a menu down in front of him, carrying the coffee pot back to the corner of the open kitchen. Dean watched her.
"Actually, I already know what I want," he said, and she turned around, walking back with the pot still in her hand as she looked at him.
She smiled. "Let me guess – gumbo?"
Dean acknowledged the hit with a half-smile. "Was gonna be the gumbo till I saw –" He looked at the pie stand at the other end of the counter and clicked his tongue. "Pie."
"Well, the special's pecan," she said, following his look.
"'Course it is," Dean said, nodding happily. Pecan. "Let's do that."
He loved Louisiana. The food. The people. The easy way of doing things. He glanced around and caught sight of the photograph, taped to the register. Benny and the girl who'd served him. The vampire looked … happy … contented … he thought, a little amazed.
"Bad news," she said, stopping in front of him. He looked up at her, knowing what she was going to say.
"You're out of pecan." He looked aside with a small sigh. "Story of my life."
He rubbed a hand tiredly over his jaw. Was a trick of the universe that he didn't ever get what it was he wanted, only the next nearest thing?
"Uh, that's all right," he said, looking back at her. "Maybe you can make it up to me. I'm actually looking for an old friend of mine. I heard he's kicking around these parts. His name's Roy."
She straightened a little. "Well, Roy works the night shift here. I mean, if we're talking about the same Roy."
"Uh, yeah, he, uh, putts around in a – a beat-up camper," Dean said, trying to remember the things that distinguished Benny aside from him being a vampire. He looked up. "Thing looks like a rolling death trap."
The description surprised a laugh from her. "Yeah, I thought I was the only one who gave him trouble over that piece of junk."
She had an infectious laugh, and for a second, he had a strong wish that he didn't have to lie, could just be a friend of Roy's, down visiting, nothing else on his mind. Stop it, he told himself. Never going to happen so get it out of your head.
"You wouldn't happen to know where he's parking that thing these days, would you?"
She turned away, returning the coffee pot to the burner. "Well, he, uh, was parking it out back," she said, turning back to him. "But just called to tell me he's gone up the road to Mill Creek for a few days."
"Okay. Uh, did he say why?"
She looked away blankly for a second. "Oh ... fishing … I think."
Fishing? Right. Dean took a slip of paper from the counter in front of him and snagged a pen from beside the register.
"He really deserves a break. He's been working doubles for the last two weeks straight." She looked down, watching him write.
"Um, listen, I, uh, I tell you what," he said slowly, writing his name and number on the paper. "If he pops up before I can find him, you do me a favour and just have him give me a call. Or ..." He slid the paper over the counter to her and looked up with a smile. "Could just drop a dime yourself."
"Sure thing," she said, picking up the paper and reading it. "Dean."
Dean stood up. "And, uh, you are ...?"
"Elizabeth."
"Elizabeth. All right," he said. "Take a rain check on that pie."
"Definitely." She nodded, looking up at him. Her eyes were a mix of colours, he noticed suddenly, blues and greens and greys, the iris circled by a deep blue. Pretty.
He rapped his knuckles lightly against the side of the counter and turned away, walking out, feeling unaccountably more cheerful despite no Benny … and no pie as the screen door jingled behind him.
He headed for the car, pulling out his cell phone and dialling the vampire's number again.
"Leave a message at the beep," the vampire's soft drawl said, following by a sharp beep.
"Benny, I got a body here in Carencro with two holes in it, and I just found out you went fishing," Dean said, his face tightening as he spoke. "Do I need to tell you what this looks like?"
He pressed the end button and looked down at the phone thoughtfully. Chances were good that the vamp would have it with him. Time to go tech.
Benny stood in the close darkness and closed his phone. Dean. Here. His gaze drifted along the ground to the body a few feet away, curled on the bank, the scent of the woman's blood reeking in his nostrils.
The half-wit had called in reinforcements, and he wasn't sure if Dean being here was a good thing or not. He'd listen, he thought. He'd listen to what he had to say. But if he didn't believe … that would be much harder.
What they'd done together, been together, in Purgatory, defied most explanations. Brothers came closest to the bond that had grown over a year of running and fighting, back to back, no quarter given or expected. Kill or be killed, that year had been, and there'd been more than a few times that he'd thought he wasn't going to make out it with the man. It'd come as a shock to him that Dean had slowly begun to trust him, slowly begun to talk to him. There were things in the man's past that had seemed insurmountable to him. Things that couldn't be lived with, no matter what else happened. He'd seen … he'd seen … he'd seen inexplicable things. Terrifying things. Seen the hunter who'd become a friend do them.
He shook his head impatiently. Dean would listen. He would make him understand that it wasn't him, killing these people. He would have to.
The first of dawn's light was filtering through the canopies of the trees as Benny tamped down the loose soil over the grave. He looked around, listening to the bird and insect song that filled the open woods around him. He was alone.
For the moment, anyway. He picked up the shovel and walked back through the quiet woods to the truck, stopping again as he reached the clearing. He couldn't hear anything and the noises hadn't ceased. He thought he might still be alone, but the awareness, born in him with the deep fill of a vampire's blood, and honed to a razor's edge over fifty years of fighting for his life, told him otherwise. Something was watching him.
The tank was little more than a deep sink, corrugated iron, holding clean water, pumped up from the stream. He put his hands into it, washing the blood and dirt from them. There was no noise, no change in the surroundings. He felt the life force of the man who stood behind him, and, as the light morning breeze shifted direction, he smelled him.
"It's not me, Dean," he said softly, staring down at the clouded water.
Behind him, the familiar deep timbre of the hunter's voice sounded sceptical. "Now, which 'me' are we talking about – Benny? Or Roy?"
Picking up the towel, lying on a stump beside the tank, Benny dried his hands, glancing over at the hunter. Dean stood a few feet away, his face impassive, his hands behind his back.
The vampire looked down at the towel. "I'm just trying to blend in."
"Blend in?" Dean looked at the towel. Even from this distance he could see the tell-tale darker marks where the vampire was wiping off the blood that hadn't washed off. "Who'd you plant, Benny?"
"Victim number two," Benny said readily. "If you're concerned about the missed calls, I didn't want to get you involved."
He put the towel back on the stump and let his fingers touch the handle of the long, curved knife that was embedded in the top of the stump. "Now ... want to safety that thing, talk a little bit or what?"
Dean looked down at the knife and let his hands drop, the machete he held winking as a stray beam of light caught the blade.
"I'm all ears," he said, looking at Benny. He wanted an explanation. A good explanation. He wanted it more than he could have expressed in words.
Benny studied him and nodded slightly, letting his breath out in a gusty exhale as his hand dropped away from the haft of the knife.
"Rogue vamp," he said quietly. "Came into the café a couple nights ago. Youngster, goes by the name of Desmond." He looked down. "He, uh, he remembers me from the good old days."
Dean raised a brow. "The good old days?"
Benny's gaze cut away. "I know it's hard to believe, but I haven't always been this cute and cuddly," he said dryly.
"He's chasing a memory, Dean. That's all," Benny continued tiredly. "He said he was crewing up a new nest. Asked me to join up. I told him no."
"All right." Dean nodded. "So far, so good. Let's get to the part about the blood."
Benny walked slowly to the truck. "Didn't want to take no for an answer. He's trying to roust me out, leaving dead bodies in my wake till I sign up."
He leaned on the doorframe, elbow through the open window, his face becoming stony as he watched his friend taking it in. "Two bodies in two days. No amateur is gonna kick me out of my hometown, Dean. Not this time."
"Hometown? You grew up here?"
"Born and bred," Benny allowed, a flicker of pride lifting a corner of his mouth. "With Andrea gone, and you hunting again, seemed like the right time for a homecoming … you two being the only ones who keep all my ducks in a row."
He looked at Dean. "Got a regular job at the café. I even found someone to hold myself accountable to. Best kind of someone, Dean. Family."
Dean thought of the photograph in the café. How the vamp had looked it, arm casually slung around the girl. "Elizabeth."
He felt the last of the suspicion dissolve at the vamp's confession and slid the machete back into the sheath at his hip.
"My great-granddaughter," Benny said contentedly.
Dean stopped next to the trunk of a tree as the ramifications of that filtered through. "Really?"
Crap, he thought, wincing as his musings on Benny's great-granddaughter returned to him. No breaks. Ever. Not for him.
"Took me a while to find out, just a lucky break, really," Benny said from behind him. "Alice had been pregnant when she left, and she came back when the baby was born."
Sure, you get the breaks, Dean thought sourly, looking down at his feet.
Benny looked at his friend's hunched-up frame, his brows drawing together. "Now, hold it, now. You didn't –"
"Uh, no." Dean said quickly as he turned back to the vamp.
"No," he repeated, shaking his head disparagingly. He looked down as another question occurred to him. "Does she know?"
"Nah." Benny shook his head. "No, as far as she's concerned, I was just another drifter." He looked back at Dean. "I'd like to keep it that way."
"It's been tough walking the line here. After all those years in Purgatory, not having to deal with the hunger," he said, hoping that Dean would understand. It'd been more than tough, it'd been excruciating, and there'd been too many times he'd thought he wasn't going to be able to stop himself.
"But Elizabeth ... she keeps me honest." And sane, he thought, but didn't say out loud. She kept him feeling human. Being human, maybe. He'd thought about it a lot, the way he was, the way he could be, if he could find a key to it all. "I finally feel like I got a handle on this thing."
Dean stared at him. "Handle on things? Benny, you've got two stiffs on your hands and two hunters on your ass."
Benny turned away. "Oh, please. The half-wit who found me at the café? I'll take my chances with him."
"That half-wit was sent by my brother, and trust me – my brother's not someone you want to mess with," Dean overrode him. Especially not now, he thought uneasily. Sam wasn't going to buy this. He needed … something. A leash. A stopper of some sort for him.
He watched the vampire turn back to him, nodding slowly, thoughtfully.
"I don't have time to worry about them, Dean," Benny said softly. "I didn't think Desmond had an ounce of steel in his spine, but I was wrong about that. So now I'm gonna do what I should have done two days ago, which is put him back where he belongs."
Dean buttoned up the flash of frustration he felt at the vampire's stubbornness. "You know there's only one way to do that, right? And that is for you to sit on the sideline while I convince Sam and Martin to go after Desmond," he said, hoping Benny would listen, knowing that he probably wouldn't.
"They see you out there, they don't care if you're gonna be collecting for the March of Dimes. They are gonna slice first and ask questions later. You know that."
The vampire looked at him, his expression bitter. "You really think they'll go for that?"
They'll have to, Dean thought, letting his breath out tiredly. He would have to convince them because there was no other way to do this. Not and have it all come out right.
"Benny, you trust me?" he asked, looking at the vampire.
"I trust you, cher."
"Garth? It's Dean, I need you do something for me, pretty much now," Dean drove back to the town, holding his cell against his ear.
"Anything, amigo, what's the problem?"
Dean explained what he needed. He wasn't sure he'd need to use it, but it was a hell of a lot better to be prepared than wishing you were.
"Let me get this straight," Martin said, leaning against the refrigerator, his gaze shifting between Sam and Dean.
"I follow your boy ... down a freaking path and trip over fresh vamp kill, and then you practically catch him in the act ..." He opened the 'fridge door and pulled a tray of ice cubes from the freezer. "... of burying a second body, and you're still taking his side?"
Dean dragged in a deep breath. Whatever brain Martin had gone into Glenwood with, it hadn't made the trip out with him.
"Vampires pick people off from the outskirts of town, okay?" he said, watching as Martin stabbed the tray with a fork.
"Pfffft!"
"Not in the cafés that they work in with their great-grandkids," he added, turning to look at his brother. "In fact, killing any human – it's not his style."
"Not his style?" Martin sputtered derisively. "Not his style?"
"Listen, Dean, we came here on a dead body," Sam said carefully. "You asked for some time, and now there's another dead body. Are we just going on trust here?"
Dean glanced over at Martin, then back to his brother. "Yes."
Sam looked at him. "Okay. Because we've killed for a lot less, and you know how these things turn out for us."
"Yes, I do – too well," Dean agreed. He knew what Sam was talking about, knew exactly what his brother was doing. "In fact, every relationship I have ever had has gone to crap at some point. But the one thing I can say about Benny – he has never let me down."
He didn't think about what he was saying until the words were out and he saw Sam's reaction.
"Huh. Well, good on you, Dean. Must feel great finally finding someone you can trust after all these years," Sam said bitterly, staring at him.
He looked away, not sure if he'd meant to say it to his brother, or if it had come out on its own. It was the truth, but not the whole truth. And he'd let Sam goad him into an angry response with the veiled barb about Amy, instead of staying cool, had given his brother a reason to ignore him, instead of convincing him.
"All I'm saying is that Benny is innocent," he said quietly.
"No," Sam said, getting to his feet. "You're too close to this."
Dean heard the decision in Sam's voice and looked away. He'd blown it. He stepped out in front of Sam.
"You're not gonna find him. And if you do, I'm gonna tell you this. You'll be lucky to get out alive," he said, knowing that it was a waste of his breath, needing Sam to know anyway. "And you –" he looked at Martin. "You go with him, you're a dead man – period."
Martin turned his back and drained his glass, setting it down on the nightstand. He picked up the knife that lay there, wrapping his fingers around the heavily weighted haft.
Sam looked at his brother. "These are innocent lives we're talking about, Dean. And you're willing to risk that on Benny's word alone?"
Dean looked down, wondering if this was another chance. He would have bet his life on Benny any day or night. He would risk any number of people that the vampire had been straight with him. "Damn right I am."
Behind him, the boards creaked a little and he turned his head, sighting Martin from the corner of his eye as the hunter raised his hand and slammed his fist, with the knife in it, into Dean's temple. The protruding metal end of the haft hit the bone and he watched the elder Winchester fall to the floor. Not so tough now, he thought.
Sam stared at his brother's limp frame for a moment, then turned to look at Martin. "What!? Was that?"
"Dean m-made his choice," Martin stammered, looking at Sam worriedly. "Let's go do our job."
Sam looked back down. It solved the problem of further arguments. They would be able to finish Benny, without Dean's help or interference. And his brother had been right, he thought regretfully. Benny was the only one Dean could trust.
Martin picked up his gear bag and pulled on his jacket and hat, slinging the bag over his shoulder as he pulled the room door closed behind them and began to walk down the hallway.
"Glad your dad wasn't around to hear that. He'd have a mind to take you both out the woodshed and show you what's what. Half inclined to do it myself," he muttered, half to himself.
Sam turned, faster than Martin could've imagined and the older man felt himself lifted slightly and slammed into the wall.
"You listen to me. I brought you into this. I can bring you out just as easy," Sam said furiously. "So the only thing you're gonna be inclined to do is shut up and follow my lead." He looked at the keys in Martin's hand and grabbed them, turning away and striding down the hall.
Was he really going to walk with out with this asshat and leave his brother lying on the floor of that room, out cold? Cuffed to a goddamned radiator? Was that he'd come to? He shoved the thoughts aside but they returned, swooping through his justifications of killing Benny before the vampire could kill again, disrupting the smooth logic that he'd felt only a few minutes ago.
Those weren't mistakes, Sammy. They were choices.
He didn't hear Martin's mumbled response behind him.
He pushed the front door open and looked around for Martin's ride, walking around the Impala and crossing the street. Martin hurried to catch up.
"Just saying – brother chooses a vampire over a brother? I know how I'd feel," the hunter said, his tone sharp again.
Sam stopped at the car. Was that what Dean was doing? He didn't know. It had seemed that way, a few times now, but a lifetime of his older brother having his back was hard to overlook. If he was, if he had, then he deserved to be lying in the room, Sam thought, brows drawing together. But if he was just trying to make sure they got the right killer, not the one he wanted it to be … did he want Benny to be a killer, so that he could kill him? Was he trying to justify revenge for Amy's death? After all this time?
Martin was still muttering to himself as he came around the rear end of the car, and Sam looked at him. This wasn't the time or the place, he thought suddenly. Martin was a loose cannon, and he'd brought him into this. He had to stay focussed. Had to stay clear, because he had the idea, at the back of his mind, that Martin might turn on him next if he thought there was a weakness there.