Archive of Our Own ^beta

Three days had passed in a blur of sweats and chills and hallucinations. Three days hooked up to IVs, unable to keep anything down. Three days before Sophie had understood that she was dying; that this wasn’t a game or a mistake. She was going to die alone in a Catholic hospital in southern France, and nobody would know or care.

She’d had cons go wrong before, but she’d never been in danger of dying at a mark’s hand. Not like this.

°I can save you.”

The first time she actually understood the words being spoken, she thought they were a cruel joke – her fevered brain teasing her with the one thing that was completely beyond anyone’s reach. The second time she’d laughed and told the speaker to go away. “The doctors say there’s no cure.” They’d managed to confirm that her mark had poisoned her – so at least she knew how and why she was going to die.

That’s something, at least.

The third time he’d come, it had been late. Sophie had heard talk of a football game, and knew that the nurses and orderlies were gathered at the other end of the floor, crowded around the television in the day room. She supposed she could have called and someone would have come to check on her eventually, but what was the point? There was nothing anyone could do but pity her, and pretend like they were making a difference with their clucking and their fussing.

°This isn’t some role you’ve taken on you know.” The same voice again – soft and accented with the flavor of home. “You really are going to die.”

°What do you want from me?” The cry was weakness, and she hated herself for it, but it was enough that she was going to die in exactly the way she feared most. Did she have to go crazy on top of everything else?

The third time the speaker stepped into the light however, and it was a face she knew. “Sterling.” Her voice cracked on the name. “Come to gloat?”

He took her hand and she felt a thrill of fear lance through her. Why was everything so cold? “You don’t understand what you’re up against. I’m your only way out.”

*****

“How’s it hanging, champ?” A bottle of Eliot Spencer’s favorite beer thumped onto the wood table in front of him, top already gone.

Eliot looked up into dark eyes, framed by a wild mane of darker hair, and couldn’t help smiling. “Just thinking,” he said, raising the bottle and saluting her before taking his first drink.

Faith straddled the chair opposite him. “Well don’t.” She tipped her own bottle up, downing at least as much as he had in her first swallow. “That’s not what we’re supposed to be doing tonight.”

Movement near the door of McRory’s caught Eliot’s eye, keeping him from responding immediately. A small, boisterous crowd was blocking the door, but none of it seemed out of the ordinary at first glance. Faith tracked his gaze, scowling. “Holiday shoppers, tough guy. No assassins, no demons, no vampires.”

A stocky man in a battered leather jacket slipped around the crowd of normals, heading for the bar. Eliot inhaled sharply, the reason for his attack of nerves suddenly painfully clear. “Winchester,” he growled, pushing away from the table and heading to intercept the man.

He heard Faith swear, dimly sensed her following in his wake, but his focus was on the man now leaning on the bar and ordering a drink. “Dean!” he called sharply.

The stranger turned, his hand twitching reflexively towards the shoulder holster Eliot knew was hidden by his bulky leather jacket. When he saw who had hailed him, however, a smile lit up his face. “Eliot Spencer? Holy shit, dude – what the hell are you doing here?”

On some level Eliot remembered that this man was a friend of sorts – the closest thing he’d ever had from his days before Nate and the team. Unfortunately, his targets of choice made him dangerous; more dangerous than Eliot was willing to allow in his bar or around his people these days.

He stepped in on the other man. “I live here,” he said, pitching his voice low, with a menacing growl. “Whatever you’re hunting, I want no part of it.”

Faith laid a hand on his shoulder, reminding him she was there. Ever since his…accident…his responses could be dangerously unpredictable. “My kind of party?” she asked.

Eliot saw Dean’s eyes tick past his shoulder; saw the spark of interest when he registered Faith’s presence. “Could be,” Eliot said, “if he was staying.”

Dean’s eyes slid back to him. “Seriously man – I feel like I stepped in the middle of something here. Can I buy you a drink?” He glanced at Faith again. “Both of you?”

“Eliot.” Faith stepped into his field of view, drawing his attention. “Decaf time?”

“Yeah, man,” Dean said, sounding genuinely nervous. “Chill, all right? I just came in here for a drink. I didn’t even know you were in town.”

Eliot ignored Dean – the man didn’t…couldn’t…know that Faith had just fed him a code. Is this a Conduit thing? He could read the question in her eyes, and realized he didn’t know what the answer was. The Dean Winchester he’d known had been involved in exactly the sort of things Wolfram & Hart’s Conduit most concerned itself with, but he’d never seemed to Eliot to be more than a minor player on a major stage.

He looked at Dean again, this time forcing himself to relax – to see the man through his own human filter. Whatever he’s hunting, we need to know. That was basic tactical sense. Aside from Faith’s job responsibilities, the team was trying to avoid the supernatural as much as possible right now. And we can’t do that if we don’t see it coming.

Faith gestured at Tommy – the young man who was tending bar for Cora tonight. “Three of your best, T – at the table, okay? Mr. Winchester’s picking up the check.”

Eliot couldn’t help smiling at the look on Dean’s face as he realized what he had just let himself in for. Faith was very good at making people regret any and all variations on the phrase “let me take care of that”. Dean Winchester may have thought he was putting out for a couple rounds of beer.

He’ll learn.

*****

Sam’s gonna pitch a fit, Dean thought as he followed Eliot and his companion through the crowd to a table near the back of the bar. Their operating capital was definitely on the low side, and if he’d read the woman right his impulsive offer to Eliot was going to end up costing him big.

Still, if it saved him from getting thrown out before he’d had a chance to get what he came for…

“How’s your Dad?” Eliot asked as they took their seats.

Dean managed to keep his expression neutral, but it was a near thing. “He passed,” he said, meeting Eliot’s gaze squarely. “Couple years back.”

The other man looked genuinely sorry – which surprised Dean. John Winchester had never had a good word to say about his son’s friendship with Eliot Spencer. “He’s seen too much,” John had warned Dean one night when he’d come home late after staking out a nest of ghouls with Eliot. “You can’t trust somebody with that look in his eyes; I saw too many guys like him after ‘Nam. To a man they ended up eating their guns.”

Dean hadn’t believed it of Eliot at the time – now, looking at the man five years after the fact he knew his father had been right. “Eliot, man, what’s happened to you?” he asked. “You look like hell.” Internally, he winced at the unintentional comparison, trying to act like he didn’t know in every possible way exactly how bad hell looked.

Before Eliot could say anything, Faith leaned forward. “You first, Junior. What’re you hunting?”

He blinked, drawn up short by both the bluntness of the question and its source. “Why – you want a piece of it?”

She snorted. “You’re on my turf, sniffing around my people. I decide who ends up with what around here.”

Dean laughed – he couldn’t help it. “We don’t have ‘turf’, sweetheart…or didn’t you get the memo when you decided to start hunting?”

“She’s not a hunter,” Eliot interjected. He was leaning back in his chair, watching the exchange with no small amount of amusement in his eyes. Dean was grateful to see a positive emotion out of his old friend, even though what Spencer was saying didn’t make any sense at all.

The arrival of their drinks kept Dean from saying the first truly offensive thing to pop into his mind. Three glasses of whiskey were set on the table, and based on the color and consistency he actually thought he heard his wallet whimper in protest. If you gotta go…go big.

“So,” Dean said to Faith once the three of them were alone again, “if you’re not a hunter, are you professionally a bitch, or is it just a hobby?” He knew he was risking Eliot’s ire by being such a blatant asshole, but the woman had gotten completely under his skin.

To his amazement, Faith laughed. “Oh Junior,” she gasped, “you have no idea.”

“Vampire Slayer, man,” Eliot said when Faith’s giggles had tapered off somewhat. “And she can kick both our asses, so be nice.”

Dean tried desperately to haul his assessment of the dark haired woman around to something more flattering. “No shit, really?” he asked finally. “I thought you were a legend – some kind of vampire boogeyman.”

Faith tossed back the contents of her drink in a single swallow, and flipped him a lazy salute. “I am a legend, baby.”

Now it was Eliot’s turn to snort.

Dean picked up his own drink – even though Faith’s shot had been a clear invitation, he had no intention of wasting the best whiskey he was likely to ever be able to afford. Vampire Slayer, he thought, looking her over again and trying to recall what he knew about Slayer lore. Super strong, faster than normal human speed and reflexes, and accelerated healing ability. His attention ticked over to Eliot.

Something going on there too, he thought, taking another sip. Eliot had a look about him that Dean associated with hunters who’d been in the game too long – which was especially disturbing when he considered that Eliot had never been primarily a hunter. What the hell did we stumble into?

“Still waiting to hear what you’re chasing,” Faith said, breaking into his reverie.

He took another sip of whiskey and was getting ready to spill his guts when a young black man hurried up to the table. “Eliot, man – Nate says we’ve…”

Dean was on his feet – gun in his hand and aimed at the man’s head before he even realized he’d reached for it. Not possible. Not fucking possible. Even in the world he lived in, Dean Winchester had never thought to see that face again.

Everything had changed that night – Dean could hear Jake laughing again, even though everything around him had shifted into slow motion, and the man standing across from him still didn’t seem to remember who he was.

”Hey Lady – do me a favor. Put that gun to your head.

Sam swore to this day the Jake he’d worked with in Cold Oak had been a decent guy at first, but the power offered by the Yellow Eyed Demon had been too much to resist. He’d killed Sam to earn the right to that power, and when he had it… ”Once you give into it, there’s all sorts of new Jedi mind tricks you can learn.”

Dean’s finger was actually squeezing down on the trigger – in public, in a crowd of people - when Faith barreled into him, twisting the gun out of his grasp and forcing him to his knees. “You don’t understand!” Dean yelled, struggling to get free. “He’s a killer! He’s…”

He’s the man who killed my brother. And tried to kill Ellen. And single-handedly unleashed Hell. Dean craned his neck, looking up at the man he’d last seen in a cemetery in Colorado three years, his own lifetime and an apocalypse ago. Eliot had Jake Talley by the arm, and was speaking to him too softly for Dean to hear. Talley was shaking his head back and forth – a lost, almost frightened look in his eyes.

“Man, you really stepped in it,” Faith said. She was leaned in close to him, keeping enough leverage on his joints that Dean knew he would be risking serious injury if he continued to try and break free. “Alec Hardison is a lot of things, but he’s not a killer.”

Startled, Dean tried to turn and look at her, but her hold on him kept him immobile. “Alec Hardison? His name’s Jake – Jake Talley.”

“What did you just call me?” The young man took a half step forward, shrugging off Eliot’s hold.

Dean met his gaze squarely. “Jake Talley. It’s your name. You were a solider in Iraq, and you killed my brother in Cold Oak, South Dakota three and a half years ago.”

He honestly wouldn’t have been surprised if the man’s eyes had gone black at that point – at least it would have been an explanation he could have understood. Instead, his face was a study in confusion and fear. “You really don’t remember,” Dean said, stunned to realize his earlier assessment was true.

Jake’s hands were shaking now – fine tremors starting in his fingers and rippling up his arms. Eliot gripped his shoulder again. “Hardison? Alec?”

Without warning, Jake’s expression changed. “I know you,” he said; the confusion and trembling melting into an ugly, solid certainty as he focused on Dean. “I remember you.”

Throwing off Eliot’s hold like it was nothing, Jake took another step towards Dean. Eight hundred pound jeep, Dean thought, remembering his conversation with Sam about the former soldier’s supernatural abilities. Eight hundred pound jeep…oh God, this is going to suck. Unable to break free of Faith’s hold, Dean braced himself for the inevitable blow.

“Hardison,” Eliot said, “what the hell man?” Jake wasn’t listening to him – there was nobody else in the world for him now but Dean.

At the last possible second, Faith released her grip on Dean. Pivoting, she put herself squarely between him and the approaching Jake; shielding Dean with her own body. He felt her shudder against him, but she absorbed the blow and stayed on her feet.

“Get him out of here!” Eliot yelled over the rapidly rising chaos that surrounded them now. Before Dean could react, Faith balled a fist in his jacket, dragging him to his feet.

“Come on, Junior,” she muttered, propelling him towards the front door of the bar, “time to go.”

*****

What in the holy hell just happened? Now that they were safely outside and she had space to breathe, Faith realized that Hardison had dislocated her shoulder with the single punch he’d thrown.

Not possible. Not fucking possible.

Eliot didn’t hit that hard. Nothing human in Faith’s experience hit that hard.

“You all right?” Dean was breathing hard, bracing his hands against his thighs, but looking at her with no small amount of concern.

Faith grinned weakly. “Know how to set a dislocated shoulder?”

Swallowing, the hunter straightened up; pulling himself together. “Done it once or twice.” He closed the distance between them, cupping the injured joint in his hands. Green eyes met her gaze, and Faith detected nothing of the humor or sarcasm that had been so much in evidence earlier. “Thank you,” he said. His voice was low, warm and sincere. “I’m betting that would have taken my head off.”

“You’re welcome,” she said, trying and discarding half a dozen flip responses before settling on the most direct. “And you’re probably right. How strong is he anyway?” She felt his grip tighten slightly and braced herself for the shove.

“My brother said he could lift over eight hundred pounds. I saw him do some crazy shit.” With a small grunt of effort, he pushed in and up, snapping her shoulder back into place. Faith’s knees buckled, pain whitening her vision for a second. She braced herself against Dean’s chest, swearing a blue streak as she rode out the adrenaline suddenly flooding her system.

“That do it?” he asked. Faith nodded quickly, biting her lip and forcing herself to relax and breathe through the last of the pain.

“Thanks,” she said tightly, once she could trust herself to speak without screaming.

“We’re even,” he said. Stepping around her, Dean started for the bar again.

“Whoa!” Faith said, pivoting and grabbing his arm. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” She pulled the hunter around to face her. All the concern was gone from his eyes now – replaced by a single minded focus she knew all too well from years of trying to understand her own behavior and responses to situations. “Sorry, Junior. Not happening.”

She felt him tense reflexively, but it was instinctive; no real attempt on his part to try and break free of her. “I’m not letting this go,” he said. “That man is a murderer, and more dangerous than you people realize.”

“I know you think you know what’s going on,” she said, “but you don’t know him.” Neither do you, a voice in her head whispered. Not really. Swallowing hard, she wondered how well Nate and the rest of the crew really did know the hacker. Being a relative newcomer to the family, she’d never bothered to ask.

“Go home, Junior,” she said at last. “We’ll handle whatever’s going on here.”

Dean shook his head, anger leaking past the cold determination in his eyes. “No. No fucking way. You are not keeping me out of this – not after everything he’s done.”

“You’re not shooting anybody,” Faith said. “Least of all Hardison, and I promise you Dean you do not want to cross me on that.”

He was quiet long enough that Faith was half convinced he’d push the issue and damn the consequences. She was recognizing more and more of herself in the hunter, and that wasn’t necessarily a good thing. “Look,” she said finally, “I’ve got to get back in there. Are we cool?”

“I need my gun,” Dean replied, and Faith almost smacked her forehead in frustration. She’d disarmed him in the first rush of the confrontation, tossing the gun aside.

There’s no telling where it ended up, she thought, feeling the frustration rise up in her again. “Look,” she sighed. “Give me your number. I’ll get it back to you tomorrow – you have my word.”

He didn’t believe her; that much was obvious. Luckily, Faith could tell that he also understood in a straight up confrontation she would hand him his…admittedly cute…ass. Grimacing, he finally pulled out a card and passed it to her.

“Thanks,” Faith said, sliding it into a pocket without checking it. “Look, however this shakes out, I’m sorry about your brother.”

To her amazement, Dean chuckled softly. “Don’t be.”

“He got over it.”