Chapter 2: The Family Business

The road to hell was paved with good intentions. Or something.

Dean watched his unexpected houseguest chug the entire bottle of water in one go. Snapping up the protein bars next, Daryl proceeded to scarf both down at the same time, his posture hunched as if he believed his meal could be taken away at any moment. He had a wild, unsettling look to him, like a dog that had been beaten one too many times.

Dean kept his gun close, feeling its familiar weight in his hand. Even though he didn't really want to shoot the guy – this beaten-down stranger, looking like he'd just escaped from an overlong stint in somebody's torture basement – Dean still would not hesitate to put him down if it came down to it.

Most people were just trouble waiting to happen. Wasn't that what he always told Sam?

Sure, now and then they would stumble on the odd peace-love-and-understanding, hippie-type commune. But for every kindly old prepper or humble goat farmer they'd encountered, there'd be ten psychos hanging around the corner, living up their wildest Mad Max fantasies.

It was a little embarrassing, honestly.

"So, Daryl," he started in a pointedly light tone, fingers tapping the desk briefly, "whatcha do to piss off the Savers?"

Daryl dragged crumbs from his scraggly beard and into his mouth. "Saviors."

"What?"

"S'what they call themselves," Daryl said in short tone.

Dean leaned back in his seat, ignoring the pain shooting up his leg. That made a bit more sense, he supposed. He thought the Saviors didn't seem like any of the many, many, many ultra-religious cults that had popped up like self-righteous mushrooms after the proverbial apocalyptic storm. Just the standard cult-of-personality, then. Cool, cool.

They still hadn't met this Negan guy. Honestly, Dean was a little disappointed. He and Sam had been hearing so much about him lately.

"What can you tell me about them?" Dean asked, watching the guy for any kind of reaction.

"They're assholes," Daryl grunted.

"Yeah, kind of already figured," Dean huffed. "So… what'd ya do?" Dean pressed, picking up his flashlight for another closer look at the human bundle of misery sitting before him.

Daryl narrowed his eyes, but did not inch his face away from the blinding light. His hands tightened on the armrests of his seat.

Dean switched the light off.

"Underestimated 'em," Daryl grunted after a long pause. He had a short way of speaking, clipped and strangely soft at the same time. "Didn't know any better."

Dean hummed, unconvinced.

He'd seen a lot of crazy these past few years, ever since he and Cas had sprung out of Purgatory, and he'd traveled halfway across the country this past year alone, searching for his wayward angel. He'd spent his entire life fighting all kinds of freaks and monsters, human and otherwise, dead, alive, and anywhere in between, gambled with stakes beyond human comprehension.

So this latest group, these Saviors? Didn't even crack Dean's top ten.

Still, what a mess. Just when he and Sam finally had a lead on Castiel's location, these assholes had to show up and fuck it all up. Even after they'd let Simon and that big lumpy lackey of his go, they'd just had to come chasing after them, guns blazing, drawing Dean and his brother into a drawn out fight they had no time for.

The compass was burning a hole in Dean's pocket, begging to be anointed again. The cuts on Dean's arm were beginning to scab over. He had to keep going. Cas was so close. He could feel it. The Saviors were human, Dean had argued after their second or third encounter, anxious to move on. Why couldn't anybody else deal with their mess?

Sam had strongly disagreed, steel in his voice and face splattered with someone else's blood, fresh off another roadside tussle. They'd left no survivors that time, not after they'd questioned the ones who'd surrendered. Sam and Dean had learned quite a bit about the Saviors' modus operandi that day.

They were hurting people. Sam was right – they needed to be stopped. The Saviors were human, but they were monsters all the same, and Winchesters slew monsters.

Dean sighed, long and hard. He holstered his faithful ivory-handled colt, hoping he wouldn't come to regret this decision. The injury in his leg sent a jolt of pain through his body, which he steadfastly ignored. The tension in Daryl's shoulders eased a fraction.

"Well, trust me on this one, they won't bother you for much longer," said Dean, trying and failing to imitate the soothing tone of voice Sam would've used with a traumatized victim.

That only seemed to irritate Daryl. "Yeah? And who the hell are you?"

Dean shrugged. "Just a guy doing a job."

Saving people, hunting things, the family business. His Dad had taught him that.

Daryl's gaze flicked to the letter opener on the desk, passing over all the spell ingredients Dean had painstakingly arranged before his uncalled arrival. Mouth pursed, Dean's hand returned to rest over his gun. A warning, nothing more. Despite his haunted and gaunt appearance, Dean had no doubt Daryl could put that letter opener to good use.

"A job," Daryl repeated quietly, eyeing him wearily.

"Look, man, I was just passing through the area," Dean said evenly, a sigh in his voice. "I'm just trying to find my – " he hesitated – "I'm looking for someone," he finished lamely.

It had been years since Dean had gotten over himself, embraced his bisexuality, and stopped giving a crap about what other people thought of his relationship with a man. Well, technically, a man-shaped angel, who Dean hadn't seen in over a year.

But then, everything about Daryl screamed redneck, and Dean wasn't really looking to be disappointed with anyone tonight.

The cavern left by Cas' continued absence rattled in Dean's chest. "His name's Cas," he said, because he needed to, "He, uh, he's got blue eyes, brown hair, always wears this ridiculous trench coat. He's kind of weird. Maybe you've seen or heard…?"

"No, man," Daryl said, frowning.

Dean let out a slow puff of air, resigned. "Well, like I was saying. I ain't from around here. My brother and me were just passing through when these assholes attacked us." He'd slipped up, mentioning Sam. Not that it mattered - Daryl was bound to wonder if Dean was on his own. "We've been mowing them down ever since. You're welcome, by the way."

Daryl's stare was more than a little skeptical. "Bullshit."

"Trust me, buddy," Dean said, smirking, "I'm used to a lot worse."

Daryl let out a small huff. "That why you limpin'?"

"That was a lucky shot," Dean shot back, no longer smirking. He didn't think Daryl had noticed. Shit.

It had been a lucky shot, in more ways than one. The Savior who had landed the shot had been fleeing, firing wildly as he ran. One of those bullets had missed Dean's femoral artery by an inch. Truth was, Dean had barely felt anything until he had Sam dig it out of his thigh, and by then he'd felt a lot. It wasn't the worst injury he'd ever sustained, but still, worst timing ever.

"So where's your brother?" Daryl demanded then, eyes narrowed.

Dean sighed. "Went for supplies. He'll be back soon."

"Hmm," Daryl said, unconvinced. "Area's crawling with 'em."

Dean shrugged. "Dumbass can take care of himself."

Sam had taken off without waiting for Dean, prissily huffing something about antibiotics. At least the idiot had taken a couple of hex bags with him. The camouflage spell worked pretty well, for as long as the effects lasted.

That was probably the best thing that had come out of Sam's latest relationship. They'd met the witch, Myrtle, following up on a lead they'd hoped would help them find Cas. She'd taught them all kinds of neat tricks, like how to make hex bags that shifted people's attention away from them, or stink bombs that weren't necessarily magical, but disoriented the dead like nothing Dean had ever seen before.

Too bad she'd broken Sam's heart when she'd tried to eat his dick. That kid had the worst luck with women. Dean should've warned him – nothing good could've possibly come out of a relationship with a woman named Myrtle.

"So, Daryl," Dean smiled in a way he knew people found charming and his brother found especially obnoxious, "what can you tell me about Daryl?"

The man let out a slow exhale through his nose. "What?"

"What's your story?" Dean pushed, not missing the way Daryl's eyes kept flicking toward the door. He wasn't Dean's prisoner, not exactly, but they both knew Dean wasn't gonna let him go unless he knew he was safe. "Help me figure you out, man. I meant it – I don't wanna shoot you." Dean waited, and when Daryl continued to say nothing, he prodded, "So?"

"Dunno what you want."

Dean sighed, rolling his eyes. "This ain't twenty questions, man. I can't let you go unless I know you're not a huge piece of shit. No offense."

Daryl grunted, which Dean took to mean 'that's fair'.

"Do you have a group or something?" Dean asked, figuring asking directly might work out a little better. "Any friends except those assholes out there?" He gestured vaguely at the window. As if on cue, another car drove by. They both froze, but it carried on without stopping.

"Hmm," was all Daryl said.

Dean rolled his eyes. It was like pulling teeth. "Is there somewhere you can go?"

Mouth set in a thin line, Daryl stared at Dean. "Not anymore."

Dean frowned deeply. "Did they kill your people?"

Daryl inhaled sharply. "Not everyone."

"I'm sorry," Dean offered.

"Everyone's got dead people," Daryl muttered, but his voice sounded too off to pass as calloused. "They'll look for me there," he added after a long pause, looking down at his lap. "They'll kill them, I can't–" he trailed off, breath shuddering.

"Well, shit," Dean said, rubbing at the crease between his brows. He sighed heavily. "Look, man, I get it. You can sit this one out here, if you want. I don't got much on me except what I already gave you, but my brother will be back soon. He'll have supplies."

Daryl eyed him mistrustfully. "Why?"

"I don't think you're a piece of shit," Dean told him honestly.

He didn't seem to know what to say to that.

"There's clothes if you wanna change," Dean offered, lifting a hand to wave at the door. "The church's got a storage room down the hall. Think there's a donation box for old clothes, or something. Honestly, I would if I were you. You smell really bad, dude."

Daryl gave him another long look before bolting to the door, probably never to be seen again. Releasing a long sigh, Dean shook his head. He hoped he was making the right call, letting Daryl go. For both their sakes.

Returning to what he'd been doing before Daryl had dropped in on him, Dean stuck the flashlight between his teeth and got back to work. Myrtle's hex bags were a pain and a half to prepare, but they really were goddamn useful, especially if they wanted to wrap up this thing with the Saviors fast. Really, Dean had other fish to fry. Mainly one specific feathery fish who had so much explaining to do.

The sun was peeking through the boarded windows by the time Dean was done, tying the hex bags together. He'd only had enough ingredients left for two. They were going to need to find more chicken feet, somehow.

"What's this crap for?"

Dean flinched, surprised that he hadn't noticed Daryl approaching. The man either had a teleporter or was obnoxiously good at sneaking. Either way, it was annoying.

"What?" Dean asked, looking up and spitting the flashlight from his mouth. Now that the sun was up, he didn't quite need it anymore.

Daryl watched him from the doorway. Dean was surprised to see him at all. He'd mostly expected Daryl to slink away the moment Dean had given him the opportunity to do so. And yet there he was, back from a leap into the donation pile looking a little more human than before.

"What's all this voodoo crap?" Daryl asked again.

"Oh, just me lucky charms," Dean said, flashing a grin. He picked up one of the delicate little feathers, knowing it would shimmer with residual angelic grace if he turned it just so –

"Huh," said Daryl, blinking.

"World's a strange, strange place, my friend," Dean said, piling up the feathers and placing them back in their little box. They were running low on angel feathers, too, another one of the hex bag's ingredients. Dean used to have a feathers guy, but he'd been running low on those, too.

Daryl gave him a long, thoughtful look. Quietly, so quietly Dean had to strain his ears to hear him, he asked, "You really think you can stop them?"

"Damn right," he said.

Daryl frowned. "Alone?"

Dean leaned back in his seat. "Could use an extra pair of hands." He pursed his lips thoughtfully. "You interested in a little payback?"

"You're crazy," Daryl said flatly.

Dean grinned. "Buddy, you have no idea."

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