#i wanted to draw all three of em going like :D and being happy piled on top of each other but alas

[peppermint2d]

F#$%ing uh Calm After the Storm cuz the Storm Thing

guys this is 10k words already ripppp

chapter 1, chapter 2

Chapter 3

The emergency lantern was still on, dimly illuminating the room. That's when you spotted the alcohol from last night or perhaps lack thereof. The bottle was completely empty. Luckily it was not that large or both of you would have died from alcohol poisoning. (Drink responsibly!) The terrible hangover symptoms make a lot more sense now, normally you barely suffer from a night out.

You snuggle into the bed as much as your constraints would allow, the warmth and comfort easing your headache. As you move, you feel something crumble on your neck. You use your burnt arm to lightly touch what it was, only to find it to be dried snot. Ew. You were going to need a shower later. 2D lightly snores his head by your shoulder like how it was last night, not that you remembered. A trail of dried snot fell from his nose, and the thought that he sobbed on you tore you up. At least he looked at peace while he slept. With the soft light from the lamp, his eyebags were barely visible. His worry lines disappeared completely. His big, lost eyes were closed. He looked innocent and untroubled, how you imagined him to be were it not for Murdoc. You appreciated the rest of his face too. His button nose twitched while he slept. The clean line of his jaw. His thick eyebrows, surprisingly, do not make him look angry but adorable. It was about time that you admitted, to yourself at least, that you found all of him adorable, not just his eyebrows. His smile, his clumsy movements, his accent, his habit of being so attentive, it was all adorable. You liked adorable. You liked drawing adorable, you liked watching movies with adorable, you liked holding hands with adorable, you liked getting drunk with adorable. Hell, you even liked having hangovers with adorable, so long as you got to wake up captured in adorable's embrace.

Adorable, adorable, adorable.

His whimpers and flinching snapped you out of your trance. He frowned, "No...no..." he whispered, sounding in pain. "Lemme out! I'm in 'ere!" He started to shout and thrash around, messing up the covers, and even hitting you a couple times (only slightly less adorable than normal). None of which helped your hangover.

"2D, wake up. You're having a nightmare." You gently pushed him. That did nothing to change his behaviour. "D!" you said more forcefully. He calms down and then opens his eyes.

He sits up and rubs his eyes. "What's, What's goin on?"

"You were having a nightmare. How are you doing?" It was awkward. You didn't know if he was aware of how you two were sleeping before his nightmare. Would touching him be inappropriate right now? You refrained from doing so.

"From one nightmare to anofer, this 'angover will be the deaf of me." he grumbled.

"At least only one is real." You stand and go over to where he took out the ibuprofen yesterday. You open the drawer and find it filled to the bring with drugs. Thankfully, most of the bottles were empty, but 2D had enough pills here to turn quite a profit. Most had unpronounceable names and were completely foreign to you. Why does he have so many painkillers?

"Bof were real for me. I was relivin me coma." He said nonchalantly. He saw you shuffling through his pills. "Jus bring the lot of 'em ofer, I take make me mornin mix."

You grabbed as many as you could and brought them over. You wanted to ask about his experience, but if it bad enough to give him nightmares, then perhaps it's best left alone. "I guess it was a good thing I woke you up then?"

"It's always good to wake up to yew." He dumped around six pills into his hand and dry swallowed them like a professional. You were concerned about his drug habits and confused by his forwardness.

"Yeah, thanks for letting me crash here."

2D's grin slightly fell as he looked at you. He reached out and touched your neck with his finger, brushing away some of the dried goop on there. "Sorry for cryin on yew last night."

You lightly chuckled and you could still feel his ghosting over your skin. "I thought that might have been you."

"Yew don remember what 'appened?" He pulled his hand away.

"Should I?" Did something important happen last night? You worried that you were forgetting a pivotal moment.

"No, it's fine. I'll take yew to the showers to wash up." He got up and stretched, the shirt rising to expose his stomach, causing you to flush and turn away. You hoped you would remember if you made any advancements in that department. He leaves his outfit from last night on the floor, adding to the piles of clothes already there, as he walks to his closet. "Do yew need somefin to wear after your shower?"

You flush even deeper. You had forgotten about that. "Yes, please. Sorry."

"Don apologize! I 'ave enough for the bof of us." He pulled out a white tee and some loose black shorts. "These are the cleanest clothes I 'ave. I'll throw yours in the wash."

You grab them from him. "Thanks, D."

He leads you to the showers. "I'll be waitin in the kitchen for yew. See if I can grab us some breakfast."

You thank him and step inside. You set the clothes down and lock the door, stripping down now that Murdoc won't accidentally enter. 2D insisted that Murdoc doesn't even shower in the first place, but you still felt apprehensive. You nearly screamed when you turned on the water and it was ice cold. You fiddle with the knobs a bit. Burning hot, freezing cold. You start to understand Murdoc's position better. You finally managed to get it slightly not cold and reached for the soaps, finding 2D's cedarwood and vanilla scent.

It was so intimate. You felt like you were violating his privacy like you were borrowing a piece of his identity, his scent, at least until it wears off. You were secretly thrilled by it, smelling like him. Would he care? Would he notice? Would others notice? And, as Russel had before, suggest something that you desperately wanted? The smell washed over you like it did the first night you were with him. Only two days ago, you wanted nothing more than the interview to be over, to be finished. But now, you had made a great friend, and, you selfishly hope, something more.

After you finished rubbing your neck raw, you step out and put on the clothes 2D gave you. You took off the bandage he wrapped, and the edges of the burn had started to scar. He forgot a towel, so you were soaking wet. You left a trail of droplets as you navigated the halls you have memorized by now.

You were shivering by the time you reached the kitchen, your soaked through clothes doing little to help with the heat. 2D saw you enter and turned slightly red at the sight of you in his clothes. He wouldn't tell you, but it was the first time since Paula that someone else was wearing his clothes. He then noticed that you were shivering. "Yew cold again? Russ managed to get the stove on wifout anyone burnin so I'll bring you a cuppa."

"When you and 2D disappeared halfway through yesterday, Noodle got worried and thought y'all were kidnapped. She'll be glad to see that I was right about what really happened to you." Russel said, sitting on the couch, smirking again.

You blush furiously, getting his implication, and join him on the couch. "Russel! We didn't do anything!" You say in hushed tones, hoping 2D in the other room doesn't pick up on anything.

"Who said I said about you to doing anything?" He raised his eyebrow and grinned. Checkmate. You groaned and shield your blushing face from Russel, causing him to chuckle. "You know, I haven't seen 2D this open since-" He stopped himself.

"Paula?"

He nodded. "I'm surprised he told you about that. Look, you two are very close, hell you're wearing one of his favourite shirts and you smell like him. You seem to bring out a new version of 2D, he isn't even that worried about Murdoc anymore. I like this 2D. But, I gotta warn ya, other people may not. A broken person is easier to control than a happy one." Russel looked at you knowingly. "That being said, if you make him broken again. I will break you. Understood?"

You nod vigorously. "Crystal clear!"

"What are yew talkin about?" 2D comes over with a tray of food and two steaming mugs.

"Weather!" You blurt out as Russel says "Politics!"

2D looked confused as he set the food down. "Right. I brought us some oatmeal and I 'ope yew like peppermint tea."

"What? Come on, why does she get some, but when I want to use just one teabag, you smack it outta my hands!" Russel complained, throwing his hands into the air.

"It was the last one in the box!"

"You and I both know that you keep three boxes in Kong" he grumbled.

"Some pretty special tea then?" You ask.

"I drink it whenefer I need a pick-me-up!"

"Explains why you drink it so much," Russel said.

"To fink I was gonna give yew a cup too!" 2D feigns hurt as Russel vehemently apologizes. 2D eventually concedes and leaves to make a cup.

"See," Russel turns back to you, "two weeks ago he slapped me. Now, I get the tea. Not much has changed here other than you."

You blush. "I really didn't think I was doing anything."

"You help remind him of the outside world. That is doesn't always have to be how it is in Kong. This place can really suck the life out of you. You should stay in contact, even after you leave."

"Are you doing okay, Russel?"

He avoided your gaze. "Not really. But it helps to have a new face here. Somethin to shake things up a little."

You saw 2D approaching again. "Well, then I hope his tea is as good as he promises."

"What are yew talkin about dis time?" 2D said again, as if on repeat.

"Politics." you say as Russel goes "Weather." You look at each other and start laughing.

"We really need to get that down." You insist. 2D sets down Russel's matching mug and sits by you. "Always loved tea. It reminds me of Austen's writing."

"Friendship is certainly the finest balm for the pangs of disappointed love." 2D recites in a posh accent. You all chuckle at his poor imitation of it.

"I didn't know you could read!" Russel jests.

The conversation then shifts towards literature and you learned how well-read your companions are. It goes unspoken that 2D remembered the quote because of Paula's disappointed love.

The impromptu book club breaks up when Noodle and then Murdoc enter the kitchen. Noodle grabs a box of cereal and starts eating from it. "Ohayo!"

"Good morning!" You call back. Russel and 2D both look surprised. "You're telling me that you've been living with someone who exclusively speaks Japanese and you haven't tried to learn any?"

They both grumble. "We... make do." Russel finally manages.

"Hello, pet." Murdoc gently whispers, suddenly appearing by your ear, causing you to yelp. His presence scared off 2D who went to the kitchen to refill the tea. He breathes in. "You smell like the Face Ache." He growled. "I know what you're trying to do. You can't take my singer away from me."

He then stepped away from you and walked to the windows, saying loudly: "Would you look at that, the storm's slowing down."

You got his hint. "Right. Then I best pack my things."

2D looked crestfallen. "What? Yew's leavin already?"

"Yeah, sorry D, but I think I may have overstayed my welcome."

"I'll 'elp yew pack up then." He sighed and led you to where your clothes were.

It was a rather anticlimactic packing up. You kept trying to drop hints ("Your bed was so comfy, I'd love to sleep over again." "Your hair was so soft last night, I'm sure I dreamt it up") which he kept avoiding ("Yeah, it's a nice bed, innit." "Nah, it's normally pretty soft."), so you decided to stop altogether.

When you reached the front door, the rest of the band was waiting. Noodle acted first, giving you a hug "Sayonara!" You wished her farewell in return.

Russel was next and gave you a bear hug. "Don't forget our agreement." He whispered into your ear. "Wouldn't dream of it." You whisper back.

You hold out your hand for Murdoc to shake, but he just scoffs, so you move on to 2D.

"I'm going to miss you."

"I'll miss yew more, love!" He gave you a tight squeeze. You two were slow to pull away, but when you did, you caught sight of tears in his eyes that matched your own. He hands you something. "'ere's me number so yew can call."

"This won't be the last you hear from me, D." And with that, you got back into your rusty company car and left Kong Studios, but couldn't leave behind the thought of a blue-haired singer.

#gorillaz #2d gorillaz #2d stuart pot #stuart pot #stuart 2d pot #gorillaz fanfiction #gorillaz fandom #stuart pot x reader #2d x reader #stuart 2d pot x reader #i love russel so much #russel hobbs #murdoc sucks #murdoc is his own warning

[supernatural-schism]

Episode 3: Thêatre Des Vampires

Click here for content warnings

Four of hearts, five of diamonds, seven of hearts, jack of spades, two of hearts.  They were cards that had seen a lot of gritty, sweaty hands, a lot of beer spills and peanut salt.  The red  of the hearts and diamonds had faded to a dried-blood brown, barely distinguishable from the black.  Dean stared at the battered, yellowed cards on Bobby’s coffee table like his life depended on it, resting his elbows on his knees.  He didn’t need to look at his own cards again.  Four of spades and two of clubs.  Two pair.  Not a bad hand.

Staring placidly at absolutely nothing, haloed by afternoon light slanting through the window behind him, Sam sat on threadbare the couch on the other side of the table.  Half of his substantial bounty of plastic chips was in the pot.  Whatever Sam had, or was pretending to have, it was a little more than not bad.  Nearly sweating, Dean flicked his gaze between the cards and Sam’s face, searching for a tick, a tell.  Anything to let him know if Sam was bluffing, or if he really did have a flush or a straight.

Mostly, Sam looked bored.

“What in blazes are you doing?”

Dean nearly jumped out of his seat at the sound of Bobby’s voice.  He looked up from the game.

“Texas hold ‘em, what’s it look like?”

Bobby approached the game, staring at the cards in disbelief.  “Well, I’ll be.  How’d you rope captain coma into that?  I can’t even get him to fill his damn pits in.”

Dean grunted, turning back to the cards on the table.  “Two good hours of mind-numbing debate.  Told him I’ll help him dig if he wins.”

“It took two hours for him to agree to that?”

Sam blinked, and Dean scoffed.  “The guy can connect point A to point B without trouble, but once C and D and E get involved, he goes back to digging his pits.”  Dean’s fingers drummed against his arm.  “What took two hours was convincing him that if he stopped digging now, he might be able to dig faster later.”

Bobby nodded, watching the game.  After a few moments of silence, he asked, “So how are you losing?”

Dean slammed his hand down on the table.  “Have you seen this asshole?  He’s got the poker face of a brick wall!”

“Uh huh.  And what’s the bet if you win?”  Bobby’s eyebrows rose as he looked at Dean’s pile of chips.  “Not that there’s much danger of that.”

“Shut up.  If I win, he... plays another game.”

Bobby nodded.  “ ... So you can lose that one instead?”

Dean snarled and tossed three of his chips into the pot.  “Fine!  Call!  I fucking call your raise!”

Sam was still staring at the far wall.  Dean waved his hands.

“Move!  Go!  Your turn!  Show your damn hand!”

Sam looked at Dean, then at the pot.  “Raise,” he said tonelessly, tossing five more scratched-up chips into the pot.

“Damn it!”  Dean thumped his fist onto the table again.  “No!  I’m not busting out over your goddamn flush!”  Dean shoved his cards forward.  “Fold!”

Sam stared at Dean’s hand for a moment, then scooped the heaping pile of chips in the pot, dragging it towards him.  Dean drummed his fingers tensely against the table.

“Well?” he snapped.  “What’d you have?”

Sam lifted his eyes slowly, looking half-asleep.  “I don’t have to tell.”

Dean snarled in exasperation and rubbed his hand roughly over his face.

“Well, god bless, I see Sam’s knowledge of poker rules remains intact,” Bobby mused.  He squinted as Dean gathered up the cards.  “Don’t deal again.  We need to talk.”

“We definitely don’t need to talk,” Dean grunted, expertly splitting and shuffling the worn deck.

“Dean.”

“Bobby.”  Dean choked out a weary laugh.  “I spent two hours convincing him to do stop digging holes and play poker.  Let me have this?”

“You need to get out of the house, Dean.  Ain’t good for you to stay here.”

Dean’s shuffling slowed, his eyes sliding out of focus.  “ ... Nowhere else for me to be.”

“Sure there is.”  Bobby gave Dean a firm clap on the shoulder that made him sway.  “Rufus has a job in Chicago.  Lots of missing people.”

Dean grunted.  “Isn’t that just Chicago being Chicago?”

“Rufus thinks it’s vamps.  And you’re going with him.  I’ve already got one vegetable in the house, I don’t need two.”

Dean’s face hardened.  He twisted his shoulder away from Bobby’s hand.  “Even if I was going to start hunting again, which I’m not, the last thing I’d want to hunt is -- ”  Dean turned back to the deck and started shuffling, agitated and quick.  “ ... Not vamps, Bobby.  I’m not messing with vamps again.”

“Like hell.  You go willingly, or I’ll have Rufus tranq you and throw you in the back of his car.”

“Bobby -- ”  Dean rubbed a hand over his face, gritting his teeth.  “Please.  I promised Sam I’d stop hunting.”

Bobby glanced at Sam, who was giving the wood grain of the floor a deeply troubled look.  “Yeah... I got a suspicion that he don’t care.”

“No, I mean... before.  Before the swan dive.”  Dean limply dealt another round.  The old cards slid across Bobby’s scuffed coffee table.  “Before Sam said yes to Lucifer, I promised I’d give up the life.  It was his dying wish, Bobby, I can’t.”

Bobby watched as Dean picked up his hand.  Sam stared at his own cards blankly for a moment before following suit.  Bobby sighed.

“Well... at least you’re admitting he’s gone.”

Dean winced.  Without looking, he tossed his ante into the pot, and Sam did the same.  He yelped when Bobby smacked the back of his head.

“Then don’t be so damn dense, boy!” Bobby snapped.  “Why exactly do you think Sam wanted you giving up hunting?  It was to make you happy!”  Bobby growled and shoved his hands in his pockets.  “God knows, you’ve damn near gotta be forced!”

Dean rubbed the back of his head, glaring at Bobby.  “Ow.”

Bobby shoved one gruff finger in Dean’s face.  “You listen here, kid: I’ve known Sam near as long as you, and I know that this right here -- ”  Bobby gestured at the poker game.  “ -- is not what he wanted for you.  Sam wanted you to have a life, a family and a god damn normal job, so you’d move on from his death.  And you’re sitting here playing poker with his corpse.”

Dean stared at Bobby.  His gaze dropped down to the stained cards in his hand, the chips in the pot, and finally shifted up to Sam’s vacant eyes.  Dean blinked as if seeing him for the first time.

Bobby gave Dean another clap on the shoulder.  “Pack up this evening, take whatever supplies you need.  Rufus is swinging by in the morning, and you’re leaving with him.”

----

Rufus’s car rolled up Bobby’s dusty driveway at the wee hour of eleven forty-three in the morning.  It grumbled across the gravel, grumbled to a halt, and then Rufus grumbled his way out of the car and grumbled up to the porch where Dean and Bobby were waiting.  Bobby had a whiskey bottle dangling from his hand, but hadn’t touched it all morning.  Dean was favoring coffee.

“This thing goes deep, Bobby!” Rufus declared by way of greeting, stomping up the creaky porch stairs.  He snatched the whiskey bottle out of Bobby’s hand, unscrewing the cap.  “Chicago’s an ant nest; the more I dig, the more I find, and the nastier it gets!”

Bobby gestured at the whiskey bottle as Rufus took a long, deep draw on it.  “You’re welcome.”

Rufus lowered the bottle and gave it back to Bobby, letting out a relieved sigh.  “So,” he began as if speaking to them for the first time, “I hear you’re tagging along, Dean?”

Dean grunted and took a sip of coffee.  “Yeah, seems that way.”

“Great.  Good.  This case is gonna need all the muscle it can get.”  He gave Dean a dismissive wave.  “Even if that muscle is coming from your dumb ass.”

Dean snorted into his coffee.  “Great to see you too.”

----

Rufus was insistent on bringing his truck.  He wanted to know if they were driving together, and if he’d “have to put up with Dean’s face for the entire ride.”  The company was tempting, even if the company was slightly bonkers, but Dean knew that if he was going to get back into hunting, he had to do it right.

He felt a little guilty about the thrill that went through him seeing Baby’s shiny trunk all loaded up with hunting supplies again.  He couldn’t keep a smile off his face when he climbed in the driver’s seat and twisted the key in, pulling a hungry growl from her engine.

“Going hunting again, girl,” he murmured, giving her a little more gas than necessary as he pulled out of Bobby’s lot ahead of Rufus.

----

It was raining outside the Sleeping Beauty café, water pouring off the red awning in sheets.  It was a cold rain, a relentless rain, promising the kind of chill that soaked into the bones and would not be banished.  The sun had risen a scant hour ago, but not a trace of it was visible through the thick, dark clouds, leaving the Chicago streets dark and dreary.

Even though a dull neon sign in the Sleeping Beauty café’s window proclaimed “OPEN,” two people huddled just under the awning, making no move to go inside and get warm.

“If Jack doesn’t bring someone out out in the next twenty minutes, I’m bailing,” the taller one snapped.  Her dark, sodden hair hung in wet ropes around her pale face.  “I’m a vampire, not a fish.”

Her soggy companion hissed, looking over his shoulder nervously.  “Keep your voice down!”

“Why?  No one’s gonna believe it.”  The taller vampire grinned.  “Or if someone does, it’ll be because they want me to take them out back and give ‘em a nip.  Hm?”

“You’re gonna get us killed.  You don’t know if any of these people are hunters.”

The vampire grumbled, but fell silent.  The wind roared, rain poured down, and the early morning commuters whooshed by on the wet roads, windshield wipers pumping, sending up cold mist behind them.

“Twenty minutes,” the taller vampire muttered, sullenly watching rain water drip from her hair.  “Jack has twenty more minutes to seduce the scarf off of some human and bring them out.  Then I’m bailing.”

“We’ll wait as long as we have to,” the other vampire growled.  Unlike his partner, he had a hood pulled up to keep off the worst of the rain that was blown under the awning by the wind.  “No one’s gonna want to come out in this weather, it may take Jack some time.”

“I don’t want to be out in this weather.”  The taller vampire shifted her feet on the wet cement.  “I’d rather be somewhere nice and dry with a tasty, warm body to -- ”

“Shut up.”

The vampire fell silent, turning her pale face towards the street.  Two men were running down the sidewalk through the pounding rain, and as the vampire watched, they came to a stop under the awning outside the cafe.   The older one wiped rain off his forehead and mustache, giving the sign on the door a suspicious look.  

“Sleepin’ Beauty?” he read out loud.  “This place got coffee at least?”

“It’d better,” the younger one grunted, pulling his sodden leather jacket tighter around himself.  He glanced at the two vampires for a moment, his breath short from running.  His hair was plastered against his head with water, droplets running down his face.  The taller vampire grinned at him brightly.

“It’s got coffee,” she assured him.

The man gave her a crooked smile.  “Awesome.  Thanks.”

“I don’t care if it’s called Pretty Pony Teatime,” the older man grunted, wrenching the door open.  “Let’s get the fuck inside.”

After a moment, the younger man followed, and the door swung shut behind them with a friendly chime.

The vampire nudged her partner, watching the men find a seat through the glass of the window.  “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

Her partner wasn’t looking, but he was smiling.  “Mm-hm.  I think the Boss is gonna love him.”

----

At least it was warm inside the Sleeping Beauty café, Dean thought.  Even if the decor looked a little...

“What would you call this?” Dean grunted, gesturing with his cup of coffee at the low lighting and the red upholstery.  “Porno-chic?”

“I’d call it warm and dry,” Rufus replied.  His coffee was already half-gone.

Dean glared at their surroundings, hunkering over his mug.  Everything was either red, black, or pink.  Dean was no interior designer, but even he could tell that this is what the word “clashing” had been created for.

Rufus was hands-down the oldest person there, and Dean thought he might be the second oldest.  It was early, and there weren’t many patrons seated at the jet black plastic tables, but none of them looked old enough to drink.  Seated at the table closest to Dean were a young couple, a girl and an older-looking boy, wearing equal amounts of eyeliner.  The girl was dressed in few pounds of black lace, right down to a lace choker with a cross dangling from it that she tugged on shyly.  The young man, if anything, had even crazier fashion.  Dean didn’t know what you’d call that thing with all the ruffles, but it looked a few generations out of its time.  Or maybe centuries.  Dean caught the phrase “people just don’t understand me” before he tuned out with a scoff.

“Come on, no one’s voice is naturally that low and gravely,” he grumbled.

“We here to hunt or not?”

“Okay, fine.  Catch me up.”

Rufus wiped coffee out of his mustache, keeping his voice low.  “Bout a week ago, Gravel tossed me a Chicago case that looked fishy to them.  I got to digging, and of course there’s tons of unsolved murders and missing persons in Chicago, but a mighty suspicious number of them looked like they could be vamp-related.”

“Big nest?”

“Oh yeah.  Real big.  Biggest I’ve ever seen.”  Rufus took a sip of coffee.  “Big enough that we’re gonna have to be clever.  Can’t just barge in guns a-blazin’ or our asses are gonna be vamp chow.”

“Rats,” Dean grunted humorlessly.  “That’s my favorite strategy.”

“I’m bettin’ it’s got a leader like any other nest,” Rufus continued.  “The biggest, baddest vamp around.  With a nest this big, that’s gotta be one scary motherfucker.  But I’m thinking if we take the big one out, s’gonna be chaos.  All the second biggest, baddest vamps fighting for control.”

“Could fracture the nest,” Dean picked up.  “We take ‘em out one by one after that.”  He leaned back in his chair, flinging one arm over the velvety back of the chair, staring thoughtfully into his coffee.  One big bad vamp.  Newly turned vampires were no threat to an armed, skilled hunter -- barely stronger than a human, overwhelmed and disoriented by their recent transition -- but the older ones were forces to be reckoned with.  Dean sloshed his coffee around in his cup.  If the nest was as big as Rufus seemed to think, they could be dealing with a seriously old, seriously scary vampire.

A breathy little gasp from the couple behind them made Dean groan in exasperation.

“For fuck’s sake,” he said loudly.  “She’s probably, like, fourteen.  Knock it off, man.”

The couple at the table stopped talking, but the girl gasped again, this time in offense.  Dean leaned over the back of his faux-velvet chair to glare at them.

“Well?  You’re sure not eighteen, are you?”

“I’ll be eighteen in October!” the girl retorted hotly, her cheeks flushing.

Dean rolled his eyes and shifted back in his chair.  “Awesome.”

The young man swept out of his chair, extending a pale hand to his date.  “We don’t need to stay here and be judged.  Come, let’s find some place more... secluded.”

“But... the rain!”

“I will give you my jacket.  And you will look lovely even with wet hair.”

“Oh... your hand is so cold... ”

“Yes... like my heart.”

Dean rubbed a hand over his eyes.  “Jesus fuck... ”

The couple left the café, the girl shooting Dean one more glare over her shoulder.  A blast of cold, wet air gusted through the café as they left, before the door swung shut behind them.

“Drink up,” Rufus grunted, lifting his own cup of coffee to his lips.  “Soon as the rain lets up, we’re gonna find us a motel and catch you up on the details of this case.”

----

There wasn’t much to be said for the decor of the motel they found, except that at least it wasn’t the Sleeping Beauty café.

On the coffee table of their room, Dean sorted through Rufus’s collection of newspaper clippings and printed articles while the other man showered.  Rufus had scribbled over the faded old pages in red pen, underlining sentences and circling words, scratching barely-legible notes in the margins.  There was a thick packet of articles stretching back decades that all involved some mangling of the neck.  Some even involved decapitations.  In a sticky note on top, Rufus had written “head chopping: hides neck bites.”

Dean put the stack of articles aside, picking up the next packet.  On top was a photo from a security camera, showing a dark parking lot and a clear view of a young man walking across it.  Stapled to the photo was an article from 1988 with pictures of the same man, claimed to be missing.  Dean squinted at the timestamp on the security camera photo.  The year was 2009.  If anything, the man looked younger.

Rufus’s research contained a handful of other clear examples of a missing person showing up years later, completely un-aged.  Dean pursed his eyebrows.  He set the photos and articles aside, picking up a different stack of paper: Rufus’s master list of missing Chicago denizens with potential vampire connections.  Dean sorted through the pictures, his frown deepening the more he looked.

The bathroom door opened and Rufus stepped out, damp but clothed.

“One of us has an admirer,” he announced.  “S’probably me.”

Dean tossed the stack of papers down.  “Got another pattern.  Nearly everyone that you’ve got on your list here is between the ages of eighteen and thirty-five.”

“You don’t say?”

“Not just that.”  Dean gestured at the stack of papers.  “There ain’t a girl on this list that isn’t eye-catching.  And the guys... I don’t even swing that way and I can tell they’re lookers.”

Rufus pursed his eyebrows.  “You’re sayin’ the vamps are targeting young hot people?”

“Not just targeting.  Turning.”  Dean leaned back in his chair.  “They’re gathering a vampire army of... young hot people.”

Rufus sniffed.  “Well, Dean, you know what this means... ”

“Not really.”

Rufus pressed a hand to his chest.  “This means I ain’t safe.”

Dean chuckled, skimming an article.  “Yeah, you’re a real... ”  Dean trailed off as something caught his eye.  “Hang on... ”

The article was about a missing girl, age nineteen.  Right there on the page were the words “last seen at the Sleeping Beauty café.”

Dean pointed.  “That’s where we got coffee this morning.”  He leafed through the stack of missing persons, noticing a prevalence of eyeliner and black clothing that he hadn’t pieced together before.  A sudden image of the couple in the café swam into his mind, and Dean rubbed a hand over his face and groaned.  “Shit... Rufus, I think that weird-ass café is vamp hunting grounds.  And I think we let one get away.”

Rufus’s look darkened.  “You think that boy was a vamp?”

“Yeah.”

“ ... Shit.”  Rufus walked across the room and flopped down in an armchair.  After a moment he grunted, “Well, can’t dwell on it.  We’ve got a big-ass vamp nest to take down, and now we know where they like to hunt.”

“Well, it’s something, at least.”

“More than that.  I think we’ve got our in.”

“Yeah?  How d’you figure?”

“Our admirer.”  Rufus gestured at the bathroom window.  “Someone chick’s been standing on the opposite corner, staring into our window.  Looks like the girl outside that weird-ass café, the one who got all friendly with you.  And she’s not too keen on stepping out of the shade, if you get my drift.”

Dean frowned.  “I’m being stalked by a vamp?”

“Nah, like I said, she’s probably stalking me.”

“Rufus -- come on, man.”  Dean tossed the article down on the pile.  “I’m in the age bracket, they clearly want me for their hot person army.  I’m missing the part where any of this is good news.”

Rufus chuckled.  “Dean, see, I think I’ve got a plan to take out our big boss vamp.  And you’re gonna hate it.”

----

Several blocks from the Sleeping Beauty café, in a narrow alley swathed in shade and rain, a teenage girl wearing a black lace choker was fixing her eyeliner in a handheld mirror.  Between the dumpsters, leaning against the wet brick wall and groaning faintly, slumped an older boy dressed in something that looked a few generations out of its time.   His head was fallen to the side, raindrops washing blood from the ragged bite in his neck.

The girl snapped her mirror shut at the sound of footsteps.  Someone was walking down the alley, his hoodie pulled up to keep off the rain and the pale light of dawn.

“You took your bloody time with him, Jack,” the approaching man called.  “The sun’s up.  Itches like crazy.”

Jack brushed her wet hair out of her face, giving the unconscious young man a glance.  “He felt the need to spin me some poetry, take me on a little tour of the city.  It all worked out in the end.”

When he got close enough to inspect the boy, the vampire grunted.  “You actually turn him this time, or just drain him?”

“Turned.  I know my job.”  Jack snapped her mirror open again, re-analyzing her makeup.  “Not that I’m convinced he’s worth it.  Can’t say much for his personality.  But Boris does love a pretty face.”

“Speaking of pretty faces... ”  The other vampire cocked his head in the general direction of the Sleeping Beauty.  “Did you see pretty boy in there?  Leather jacket, bedroom eyes?”

“I saw.”  Jack sighed into her mirror.  “We won’t be seducing that one, though.  He’s not into the whole ‘vampire’ allure.  Tell Oscar to do it.”

“I don’t care how we acquire him.  Boris is gonna want that one.”

Dean heaved, gripping the sides of the motel toilet, staring down into the clear water and willing his stomach to retain its contents.  The sound of his own ragged breathing filled the small room.

He could do this.  Rufus may have come up with the single least appealing plan Dean had ever run with, but by god, he could do this.  He just had to...

Dean lifted his gaze, staring out into the main room of the motel where he knew a plastic gallon jug was waiting for him, full of dark milky red --

Dean turned back to the toilet urgently, hyperventilating.  

... He just had to not throw up.

The motel door clicked as it opened.  Dean licked his dry lips and called out weakly, “Hey, Rufus.”

“Bitch, I know you ain’t throwing that up.  Just because we’re in Chicago don’t mean that food-safe corpses grow on trees.”

“Nah.”  Dean laid his arm across the toilet seat and rested his forehead against it, closing his eyes.  “Haven’t started drinking yet.  Just picked up the jug and... got a whiff.”

Thick, metallic, nauseating.  All the same, he could have bit his tongue and toughed his way through that.  What made Dean run for the bathroom was the memory of Baby’s trunk full of dark red gallon jugs just like that, and the guilty greed in Sam’s eyes when he looked at them.

“ ... You mind not watching this?”

Dean forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to slow his breathing.  He could do this.  He heard Rufus entering the bathroom and forced himself to look up, nearly doubling up again at the sight of another gallon jug in Rufus’s hand.

Rufus caught his expression and lifted the jug, shaking it.  “Open wide.”

“Fuck off,” Dean rasped, pulling himself away from the toilet and standing up.  Rufus held out the jug, and Dean took it gingerly.  The handle was sticky.

“We’re lucky to even have this much,” Rufus reminded him.  “Everyone else in the morgue already had formaldehyde.  Don’t wanna be chugging that.”

“Yeah,” Dean added, eyes locked on the jug of blood.  He pulled the cap off, cringing as he stared down into the thick red liquid inside.  “D-do we even know this will work?”

“Nope.”  Rufus gave Dean a firm clap on the shoulder before turning and walking out of the bathroom.  “But it’s what we got.  Imma find another morgue to hit up, just in case you don’t keep that down.”

“Yeah.”  Dean cringed, still not bringing the jug to his lips.

Rufus peered back into the bathroom.  “You better keep it down, though.”

“I know.”

“More y’drink, more likely this pipe dream is gonna work.”

“It had better fucking work,” Dean breathed, and with that, he raised the jug to his lips and took a deep, sickening gulp.  He gagged violently but managed to swallow, cringing and wiping the back of his hands over his lips.  It left a red smear.  He was pretty sure the taste was permanently branded onto his tastebuds, sour and metallic and heavy.

Rufus gave him an approving nod.  “Atta boy.”

“Tastes like chicken,” Dean grunted weakly.  The blood felt weird in his stomach.  Despite his gulp, the bottle still looked distressingly full.

“Hey.”  Rufus pointed a stern finger at Dean.  “You pace yourself, y’hear.”

“Yeah.  Gotcha.”

“Don’t you throw that up.”

Dean rolled his head, raising his eyebrows as he stared down into the bottle.  “Yeah, I’ll do my best.”

Rufus walked away, his footsteps thumping on the carpeted floor.  The door clicked shut as he left, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut and downed another thick gulp of dead man’s blood.

----

Nightfall saw Dean sitting next to a table bearing three empty gallon jugs, all staining brown as the blood on them dried.  A forth one dangled from his hand, just a few sticky sips left at the bottom.  Dean couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt this physically disgusting.  The blood filled his belly like a too-rich meal, making him queasy.  Dean didn’t know how, but he’d managed to keep down every gulp.

Rufus sat on the edge of one of the beds, sharpening a machete.  The only noise in the room was the slow scrape of whetstone over steel as the sky darkened outside.  Dean braced himself and downed the last gulp of blood, knocking it back like a shot.  The taste clung to his tongue regardless, harsher than whiskey.

Dean set the bottle down and wiped his mouth off.  “S’dark enough outside,” he declared, extending an open palm towards Rufus’s machete.  “Pass it over.”

Rufus made no move to hand him the blade.  “Nah, you can’t go in with a weapon.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re fang bait.”  Rufus scraped the whetstone across the blade again.  “Fang bait don’t bring weapons.”

Dean pulled his hand back, scowling.  “Have I mentioned that I hate this plan?”

“Yup.”

“Hate it.”  Dean stood up and jabbed a finger at Rufus.  “You better not lose sight of me.”

“You’d better get the big bad somewhere alone.”

“I’ll request a romantic little back alley,” Dean snapped dryly, grabbing his jacket and pulling it on.  “Complete with mating cats and the faint stench of piss.  That’ll get me right in the mood for blood loss.”

----

Mating cats it lacked, but the alley certainly smelled like piss.

Dean tugged his jacket tighter around himself as he walked further down the dark, dingy little street.  His boots splashed through greasy puddles in the uneven concrete, oily rainbows dancing on their surface.  There were no lamps in the alley, but a buzzing neon sign oozed a sickly glow over the cracked pavement.  Rather than illuminating the alley, it only served to accentuate the shadows.

Something rustled in a soggy dumpster, and Dean’s whole body went tense before a cat leaped out with a yowl and ran away.  Dean huffed with unease.  It was a struggle to not constantly scan his surroundings, to keep his body relaxed.  He had to look like easy prey.  He certainly felt that way.  With no weapons weighing him down, his belt was uncomfortably light on his hips.

Rufus was tailing him, he tried to remind himself as he kept walking.  Ready to jump in at the right moment.  The thought wasn’t nearly as comforting as a good bit of steel would have been.  Dean shuddered, trying to keep his eyes on his feet like some idiot civie who didn’t know how dumb it was to walk down an alley alone at night.

Even though his ears were straining to pick up any hint of sound, the firm hand that suddenly grabbed the back of Dean’s jacket caught him by surprise.  The stained brick wall seemed to fly up to meet his face as he was thrown against it.  A powerful hand twisted in his hair, yanking his head back, exposing his neck.

“No talking,” a crisp voice commanded.  “No need to make a mess of this.  Hold still, and it will barely hurt.  Or something.”

“Are you a vampire?” Dean spilled out in a rush, keeping his hands planted firmly against the filthy brick wall, fighting the urge to writhe against his assailant’s hold.

“Of course not.  Vampires aren’t real.”

Dean’s head was pulled back further, his neck aching.  “I-I’m looking for a vampire!”

There was silence for a moment.  Dean’s chest heaved, his scalp starting to sting from the rough grip on his hair.  

“ ... Go on.”

Dean swallowed, his throat bobbing.  “I -- I wanna find out what it’s like to get bit.  Hear it’s, y’know... ”  He winced against the sting of the hand in his hair.  “ ... titillating?”

“ ... Hm.”

The grip on Dean’s hair finally loosened and let go.  He rubbed the ache out of his neck and turned around.  The man facing him was tall, slim, and blond, wearing a nice suit and an impatient expression.

The man extended a hand.  “Oscar.”

Dean hesitated before taking his hand and shaking it awkwardly.  The vampire’s hand tightened around his, and before Dean could so much as shout he was yanked close, the vampire breathing into his neck.  Dean went tense with alarm when he heard the soft, wet noise of fangs sliding out.

“I don’t want any lewd moaning,” the vampire whispered against his neck.  “You hear me?”

“Wh-whoa, wait -- ”  Dean pressed a firm hand against the vampire’s shoulder, though he might as well have tried to shove off a ton of bricks.  “I-I don’t want just any vampire biting me!”

The vampire pulled back with an offended huff.  “I’m hardly any vampire, you uncultured whelp.  But very well.  Who, in your immaculate wisdom and taste, do you want biting you?”

Dean swallowed, his heart still thumping.  He tried to sound eager, wanting.  “ ... Someone powerful.  I only want the most powerful vampire in the city.  The big bad.”

Oscar the vampire sighed.  “Delightful.  That’s what the Boss’s ego needs, a groupie.”  He pulled a cell phone out of his pocket.  “No talking while I’m on the phone, or I will rip your throat out.”

He dialed a number, and held the phone to his ear as it rang.  Dean blinked.  Vampire nests had a social order, sure, but they weren’t usually cell phone organized.  This was just plain surreal.

“Hello, Boris.  ... Boss.”  Oscar rolled his eyes.  “There’s a human who wants to see you.  Yes, he --  Yes.  In that way.  That is in fact what I am implying.  Yes.  ... Please stop talking.”  Oscar rubbed a hand over his face.  “Okay, Boris.  ... Boss.  At once.”  He hung up, and gave Dean a weary look.  “Good news.  He’s very eager to meet you.”

Dean forced himself to smile.  “Yahtzee.”

----

Through the darkening streets of Chicago, under harsh white street lamps and down putrid alleys, Dean followed the vampire.  Dean had his fingers crossed in his pockets that Rufus was keeping up with them.  He wanted to look over his shoulder and check, but if he blew Rufus’s cover, the whole plan was a bust.  

Dean was just about to ask how far they were going when Oscar stopped in front of a big office building.  Dean craned his head back to look up the steely-black length of it.  He caught the words “Lioncourt Luxury Hardwoods” before a creak drew his attention back down.  Oscar was pushing open the open the black glass doors, stepping inside.

“Come on, boy.  Don’t keep the Boss waiting.”

Dean hesitated, a prickle of unease going up his spine.  This wasn’t right.  Vampires didn’t bite their victims in crowded office buildings.  Oscar stopped when he realized Dean wasn’t following.

“Come.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.  Dean swallowed and stepped inside.

Oscar led him through a luxuriant lobby.  Everything was furnished with black marble, dark hardwoods, and shiny brass trim.  Dean froze when they approached the elevators, falling behind Oscar.  

“Um --  When I said, private, I was thinking, maybe -- a hotel room or a gas station bathroom or something -- ”

Oscar ignored him, pressing the elevator call button and checking his watch.  The elevator’s elaborate wooden doors opened with a ding, and when Oscar stepped inside, Dean had no choice but to follow.  The shutting doors felt like the jaws of a trap closing around him.

“Um.”  Dean shifted from foot to foot, his hands clenching and unclenching, upsettingly empty.  “About this.  Privacy thing.”

“The Boss likes to dine in his office.”  Oscar reached into his pocket and pulled out a little brass key.  “Around here, you do what the Boss wants.”  His cold eyes darted to Dean.  “Even if what he wants involves taking precious time out of your day to deliver some human with atrocious acting abilities to his office.”

Dean’s lungs seized.  “Wh -- what do you mean by -- ”

“Honey, stop.  Just stop.  I don’t want to know details.  Whatever your game is, I don’t have time to deal with it.”  Oscar slipped the key into the elevator’s panel.  “But if it’s about getting in his pants, I assure you, the song and dance is unnecessary.”

The key twisted, flashing in the light, and Oscar pressed the button for the top floor.  Dean’s heart nearly stopped.  Shit shit shit.  They’d fucked up.  Rufus wasn’t going to be able to follow him here.  This wasn’t a nest, this was a fortress, and he was in here without a weapon and without backup --

“You seem concerned,” Oscar commented softly, eyes on his phone as he texted.

Dean hoped his face wasn’t too pale as he forced a smile.  “C-course not.  Just, uh -- ”  He gestured vaguely at the lavish interior of the elevator, his mind racing.  “Didn’t expect something this nice.”

He was completely fucked.  There was no way he’d be allowed to leave this building.  Dean swallowed and tapped his foot nervously against the black carpeted floor, watching the numbers on the elevator light up as they passed from floor to floor.  He prayed that Oscar wasn’t listening to his racing heart.

----

All too soon, the elevator doors chimed and slid open.  Oscar extended a hand, and Dean stepped gingerly out into a lobby.  No machete.  How do you kill a vampire with no machete?  Oscar brushed past him, striding briskly away.  Dean tried to take even breaths he was led down a black-carpeted hall.  How the fuck do you kill a vampire with no goddamn weapons and moderate to severe blood loss -- ?

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin when Oscar grabbed his shoulder, halting him in front of a pair of heavy, dark doors.

“This one.”  Oscar gave him a little shove towards the door.  “Go in.”  He crossed the hall, stopping in front of a much more modest door.  “This is my office,” he explained, rapping his knuckles against the door and speaking slowly as if afraid Dean wouldn’t be able to keep up otherwise.  “That one is the Boss’s.  Unfortunately, neither of these doors are soundproofed.  Make my life easier.  Don’t be a screamer.”

Dean couldn’t find words as Oscar opened the door to his own office.  

“Go in,” Oscar pressed impatiently before slamming his door shut.

Dean gulped, turning to face the huge wooden doors.  His hand was shaking slightly as he grabbed the shiny brass handle.  The door creaked as he pushed it open.

Dean poked his head inside.  “ ... Hello?  Mr. Boss vampire?”

The dark room was vast, lavish, and an entire wall was a floor-to-ceiling window, showing a sweeping view of the nighttime city.  But as far as Dean could tell, it was empty.

Dean slammed the door behind himself and stalked through the room, scouring the walls and furniture.  Black leather upholstery.  Dim ceiling lamps.  A huge, heavy desk with a big metal skull on it.  The whole place was like something out of a gothic porno, but absolutely nothing could be turned into a decapitating weapon.  Dean cursed, circling the room, craning his head back to search the walls.  He just needed something, anything that could potentially be used to chop a head off.  Come on.  Novelty swords.  Convenient metal sculpture.  A fucking letter opener --

The door creaked, and Dean’s spine went rigid.  He turned around slowly, trying to breathe.

A man was leaning against the doorframe, framed by the brighter light of the hallway.  He leered, so overtly and greedily that his eyes felt like hands.  Dean’s skin crawled.  Nothing about the man’s greasy, bushy black hair or stained wifebeater shirt or ragged leather jacket said “CEO” to him, but something told him this vampire was the Boss.

“Wow.”  The man grinned, needle-sharp teeth sliding out.  “You’re pretty.”

Dean took a step back as the vampire stepped into the room.  “You’re -- you’re the Boss, right?”

The vampire closed the door behind himself.  “And you must be my treat.  Tasty.”

Dean flinched as he heard the door lock with a click.  The man started walking towards him, and he forced himself not to back away like his legs were begging him to.

“S-so this is a nice joint you’ve got here,” Dean rambled as the vampire approached with a hungry grin.  “Kinda fancy shmancy for a vamp nest.  I mean, if that’s not rude.  Why don’t you.  Um.”  Dean swallowed and wavered back a step as the man walked right up to him.  “ ... Tell me all about it?”

Boris’s thick fingers grabbed Dean’s chin, silver rings digging into his jaw.  Dean struggled to breathe.

“The fancy shmancy skyscraper is a neat little mask,” Boris drawled, tilting Dean’s head from side to side and assessing the quality of his neck.  “We don’t hide in the dark.  We stand out in the open and look pretty, and the pretty people come right to us.  A modern Théâtre Des Vampires.”  Boris cocked his head.  “Do you read Anne Rice?”

“C-can’t say I have,” Dean wheezed.

“Mm.  Shame.  I suppose no one is perfect.”  Boris’s thick thumb rubbed against the flickering pulse on Dean’s neck.  “My pretty boys and girls bring me more pretty boys and girls.  So I get a nice constant stream of pretty boys and girls to keep the theater going and do... well, whatever else I want them to do, really.”

Dean swallowed, his throat bobbing against Boris’s hand.  “O-oh?”

Boris chuckled.  “We’re not some little nest, cutie pie, we’re big time.  I’m big time.”  He leaned towards Dean’s bare neck, fangs out.  “But I hear you like big time -- ”

“Whoa there!”  Dean squirmed and managed a shaky grin.  “Wh-what, no foreplay?”

“Oh, you want a kiss first?”  Boris slipped a hand under Dean’s jacket, wrapping it around his waist.  “Nah, you want something a little heavier, don’t you?”

Dean’s eyes widened and he flinched back.  “E-easy there -- ”

“I like to do ‘em up against the window.”  Boris cocked his head towards the glass wall, the city sprawling below.  “My toys say they like the view.”

“Nope!  No, uh, no need!”  Dean laughed nervously, reaching back for something to brace himself on and finding the solid wood of the desk.  “W-we can just -- uh -- dive in!  ... With the biting!  Just the biting.”  Dean swallowed, drumming his fingers anxiously against the desk and trying to scan the room again.  Come on, anything, anything --

Boris blew out an impatient breath.  “Closeted.  It figures.  Well, we’ll see if you change your mind after a little kiss... ”

The hand on Dean’s jaw tightened.  Dean cringed as his head was forced to the side.  No breath against his skin when Boris leaned in.  A wet tongue scraped over Dean’s neck and he flinched.

“You taste a little funny, pretty boy.  Haven’t been eating garlic, have you?”

Dean tensed in alarm.  Dead man’s blood.  He grabbed a handful of Boris’ thick black hair, trying to drag his face in.  

“B-bite me,” he panted, “bite me now, come on!”

Boris didn’t seem to need further urging.  Dean felt the pinpricks first, a dozen needle-sharp points against his skin, lingering there for just a second before the fangs punctured and Boris bit down hard.  Dean clenched his teeth on a hiss of pain.  The first ferocious tug of suction on the wound made his head spin, his knees nearly give out.  Boris’s mouth pulled the blood out of his body in deep, hungry swallows, gulping him down like a cheap beer.

Dean’s knuckles whitened against the rim of the desk, his heart jackhammering in his chest as the vampire slowly drained him.  There had to be something in this room.  Anything with a sharp edge, he’d take a paperclip at this point --

Boris tore his fangs out of Dean’s neck with a gag, reeling back.  He wiped a hand slowly across his bloody mouth.

“That’s no garlic there,” he panted, staggering slightly, watching the slight tremble in his hand.  His cold eyes rose to meet Dean’s.  “Not garlic at all.  The hell did you take?”

Boris looked even less steady on his feet than Dean felt.  Dean slipped out from between Boris and the desk, trying to put some space between himself and the vampire --

Boris reached out with startling speed, making a crude grab for Dean’s shirt.  Dean staggered back, an aching spike going through his head at the sudden movement.  The blood loss had left him disoriented, wobbly.  

Boris snarled, his bloody fangs bared.  “What the hell did you take?”

Dean’s fist cracked into Boris’s jaw, delivering as much power into the blow as he could.  He was still shaking the sting out of his hand when Boris returned the blow, hard enough to knock the wind out of him and send him staggering back.  Then there was a powerful hand grabbing his shoulder, turning him around and throwing him towards the empty air of the city --

Dean grunted as he was slammed against the glass of the window, face pressed against it, a several hundred foot drop stretching out before him.  Boris had him pinned in place, one hand twisted in his hair, the other grabbing his arm and wrenching it behind his back --

The joint twisted painfully and Dean cried out.

“Tell me what you took,” Boris snarled into his neck.  “And when I play with you, I won’t break you.”

“A big hearty dose of fuck you,” Dean shouted back.  

Gripping Dean’s hair tighter, Boris pressed his face hard against the glass.  Dean kept his eyes squeezed shut, trying not to look down, trying not to imagine that the window was about to crack and break under the freight-train force of Boris holding him in place --

... Wait.

“You’re lucky you’ve got a pretty face,” Boris growled.  His body pressed up behind Dean’s, pinning him harder against the window and drawing a strangled gasp from Dean.  “I’m gonna leave that intact.  The rest of you, though -- ”

“Wait -- ”  Dean swallowed hard.  “Wait, I’ll tell you what I took, okay?”

“Tell me.”

Dean’s breath steamed against the cold glass.  “I’m a dead man walking.  Got dead blood in my veins and everything.”

Boris’s grip loosened, his voice softened by confusion.  “What?  How?”

Dean spun and twisted his arm away from Boris’s grasp.  The desk was only a few feet away.  Dean ran for it, and his fingers found cold, cast metal.  As Boris recovered and approached with bared fangs, Dean dug his fingers into the eye sockets of the fake skull and hurled it towards the window.

The glass shattered, a thousand thick, razor shards sparkling in the city lights before they fell.  The steel frame held jagged chunks of glass, ringing the windy opening like teeth.  Boris wasn’t distracted for long, turning his cold eyes back towards Dean.  Dean leapt at him, toppling them over, grabbing a thick handful of Boris’s hair and slamming it down onto the glass as they fell --

The glass made a sound like slicing meat as it drove through Boris’s neck.  Dean sprawled back across the floor, panting hard, the room spinning.  Boris was motionless, face-down with his head hanging out the window, blood seeping onto the glass and splattered across the floor.  Dean rubbed a hand over his aching head, his heart still pounding.  

A low, heavy noise of rage from Boris nearly made Dean jump out of his skin.  The glass hadn’t cut all the way through.

“Fucking vampires,” Dean grunted under his breath, pulling his jacket off.  He wrapped it around his hands before approaching the broken window.  The wind was frigid and harsh in his face, stinging in his eyes.  Dean grabbed a thick chunk of razor sharp glass, yanking until it snapped off, sending a dust of glass into the wind.  “Just once I want to have a machete with me when I meet a fucking vampire.”

He knelt down, and raised the shard of glass above his head.  It took several hard stabs before Boris’s head finally tumbled away, falling out into the cold open air of Chicago without a sound.

Dean collapsed back onto the floor, tossing aside the bloody glass.  “Never leaving the house without a machete again.  Fucking vampires.”

----

The heavy wooden door creaked loudly as Dean nudged it open.  He peered outside, half expecting to see Oscar and a platoon of vampire guards waiting in the hall.

The hall was empty.  The door to Oscar’s office was ajar, and there was a neatly written note taped to it.  Dean slipped out through the door and approached the note.

----

My respected Boss,

I CANNOT WORK IN THESE CONDITIONS.

I have gone downstairs to find some place more PEACEFUL to work as I keep this company afloat.  Learn to keep yourself and your victims QUIET.  If this happens one more time, I will fill your office with ball gags.  Fill.  It.

Good day.

- Oscar, your immaculate secretary, without whom we would have gone bankrupt decades ago

Dean blinked at the note.  Secretary?  Cautiously, he eased Oscar’s door open.

Oscar’s small office was filled floor to ceiling with exotic potted plants.  Aside from that, it was sparse and clean, with little more than a filing cabinet and a few chairs.  Perched on a simple desk, surrounded by a veritable forest of ferns and orchids, was an open laptop.

Dean pulled back, glancing down the length of the hallway.  All was quiet.  He looked back at the laptop.  Big secret vampire incorporation, huh?  There was probably a lot of useful information on that laptop.

Dean slipped into the office, navigating between the plants and grabbing the laptop.  He took off his jacket and draped it over the computer, holding it underneath.  His luck had carried him this far, maybe he could push it just a little farther.

----

The elevator ride was nerve-wracking.  Dean tapped his foot as the numbers dinged past.  He hoped Rufus hadn’t tried anything stupid in the past twenty minutes.  When the doors chimed and slid open, Dean darted towards them and nearly bumped into Oscar.

“Oh good,” Oscar said dryly as Dean grappled with the laptop under his jacket, trying not to drop it.  “He’s done with you.”

Pale-faced, Dean nodded.  “Uh, yeah, he -- he was wonderful.”

“Please, no details.”  Oscar brushed past him, stepping into the elevator and pulling out his little brass key.  Dean turned around and strode stiffly towards the door, fighting the urge to bolt.

The black glass doors opened against the push of his shoulder, and the night closed around Dean like a blanket.  He heaved out a deep sigh, striding away from the building.  The bustle of the nighttime city was comfortingly mundane.  He wasn’t sure if this would be one of the hunts he bragged about, or never wanted to mention again.

“Dean!”

Dean spun at the sound of Rufus’s voice.  The man was peering out of the alley next to the Lioncourt skyscraper, looking half panicked and half impressed.  He had a significant length of rope looped over his shoulder.

“What the hell did you do?” he hissed as Dean jogged over.  “I thought I was gonna have to scale the building and bust your ass out of there, and suddenly this vamp head nearly lands on me!”

“I’ll regale you with the details later.”  Dean shot a nervous glance over his shoulder.  “I stole the secretary’s laptop.  We gotta get out of here before they notice.  Or find the Boss’s body.”

Rufus squinted, then beckoned Dean to follow him down the alley.  “We’re getting in the car and then you’d better tell me everything.  Secretary vampires, jesus.”

----

Chicago city lights flashed by as Rufus drove them back to the motel.  Dean had the computer open in his lap, navigating through the different folders.

“Shit, Rufus.  You were right, this is huge.”  Dean’s eyes scanned the screen.  “Half of these folders want some kinda password, but even the ones I can open are just -- I never knew vamps could organize like this.”

Rufus smirked.  “You got somethin’ in your eye there.”

Dean rubbed a hand over his face.  “What?”

“Fire.”  Rufus gave Dean a grin.  “You’re havin’ fun, ain’t you?”

“On that job?  I don’t think I’ve ever hated a plan more.”

“Admit it, you missed the hunt.”

“Shut up.”  Dean’s face finally lost the battle with his grin.  “ ... I killed him with a piece of his own window.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  Room with no weapons, and I still killed him.”  Dean clicked on another folder, scrolling through the contents.  “I’m a complete bada-- ”

Dean froze, his smile gone.  The photo on the screen stared back at him like an accusation.

Rufus glanced away from the road.  “What?  Something wrong?”

Dean’s voice barely worked, his lips struggling to form the words a few times before any noise came out.  “ ... It’s Ben.”

There was no mistaking him, even with the dim lighting and grainy photo.  That was the dark hair that Dean used to muss up, the eyes that used to look at him with such awe.  Those eyes looked dead now, out of focus.  And between Ben’s parted lips, Dean could see fangs.

Rufus’s voice cut the silence.  “ ... Does it say somethin’ about him?”

“Nothing.”  Dean’s mouth was dry.  He tried to wet his lips, closing the file.  His hands felt numb.  “It’s just a photo in a folder.”

“What’s the folder called?”

“ ... ‘Gifts.’”

#supernatural #supernatural schism #dean winchester #Sam Winchester #bobby singer #Rufus