fic: whiskey soaked (for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
werewolfbigbang) - 1/2
Nov. 11th, 2010 12:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
puchuupoetTitle: Whiskey Soaked
Author: Puchuupoet
Fandoms: Supernatural/Boondock Saints
Pairings: Sam/Dean, Connor/Murphy, Dean/Connor, Sam/Dean/Connor
Word Count: ~11,000
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, threesome, violence, implied werewolf sex
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened, completely fictional.
Summary: The Apocalypse is over, and almost all is right with the world. Sam and Dean are back to hunting the things that go bump in the night, in the hopes that it will fix the rift that's growing between them. A call involving an old friend of Dean's takes them to Boston, where a pair of werewolves are wrecking havoc on the town. While there they meet a pair of brothers much like themselves: a cursed bloodline, a tendency to find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time and the need to keep friends close and family closer. Post S5/Movie 1 AU.
Notes: Written for thewerewolfbigbang. So many thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
playthefool for all the encouragement, flailing and beta'ing ♥♥ Thank you to cloudlessclimes for the gorgeous mix ♥
Mix Post bycloudlessclimes
"Sam," Dean softly kicks at the chair leg. "We got a call."
Sam grunts in response, face pressed against cheap wooden desk. "What time is it?"
"Seven?" There's suddenly a warm palm pressed against Sam's neck, and he raises his head to glare at Dean. "Got you coffee and everything, man."
"How bad is it?" Sam accepts the paper cup carefully before looking up at Dean. "I mean, when was the last time you woke up this early?"
Dean shrugs, turning around towards his bed. His duffel's upright and packed, and when Dean sits it lists to the side.
"It's werewolves," he says, and watches Sam's shoulders. There's nothing, which worries him more than any slump or huff could. "I told the guy we might not be able to make it, but I guess it's getting bad out there."
"It's fine, Dean." Sam finally moves, and Dean huffs out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. Sam swivels around on the chair with a cool laugh that makes Dean's skin prickle. "If they're hot though, you're the one shooting them."
Dean twists to grab at his bag, hauling it over his shoulder as he stands. "I'm checking us out. See you in five." He carefully shuts the door behind him, sucking in a deep breath of the cold morning air. Fucking freezing in the woods in Bumfuck, South Dakota, but it was convenient and isolated. He glances back at the closed curtains before heading towards the Impala, the car covered in a slight sheen of mist and ice. He drops his bag off in the trunk, slamming it too hard when he sees Sam's face move from peering out the window.
Sam's words echo in Dean's head, the crisp bitter laugh clenching his fists. A couple months ago, the first time it had happened Dean thought Sam was drunk again, wasted away to the point of wanting to bring up the past, with all its mistakes and failures. But Sam had been clear-headed, and Dean had seen in his eyes that Sam knew exactly where and how hard his words were hitting. They had fought that night, about the angels and demons and how fucked up they all were, and whose fault it was for that. Sam brought up Castiel and then Dean mentioned how Sam might have been clinging a little too tightly to Lucifer's bitchy attitude, because at that point Dean was drunk, had to be to deal with this shit, and that's when Sam hauled off and punched him. Dean knew he heard a crack, didn't know if it was his jaw against Sam's fist or his head against the brick wall, but whatever it was, it fucking hurt. Neither of them brought it up since, and Sam had carefully taken care of Dean for the next week, but Dean can feel it simmering between them.
"Hey, you there?" Sam's suddenly next to him, fingers brushing past Dean's to grab at the keys and twist open the trunk again. "Everything set?"
This is what Dean hates, when everything feels like it's almost back to normal, that if they both went for it it could be, but there's too much of the past they're still clinging to. Sam's staring at him, jeans and plaid and boots, bangs starting to fall across his forehead, but it's the way he shifts, the way he stands and postures that makes Dean think that something hitched its way back up to the surface with him.
"Here," and Dean tosses the room key at him. "Need to warm her up."
Sam nods his head and heads towards the front office, and even from here Dean can see the girl at the desk perk up at Sam coming her way. Dean's stomach twists, and he slams the trunk shut again, not even caring about the noise this time.
By the time Sam's back and knocking on the window, Dean's already plotted the trip out. He drops the maps in the backseat before unlocking the passenger door, and settles his ass back in.
"You could have pulled around you know." Sam slumps down in the seat.
"And have you miss out on that amazing workout, walking across the parking lot? Come on now." It's this sort of joking that used to give Dean hope, until he realized that Sam reacted harder to it.
"So, where to this time? Sticking with the werewolves and the boonies?" Sam settles back in, and Dean can practically see his hackles lowering.
"Actually, Boston. Way the hell out there." Dean pulls into the street, a dinky two-lane, roughly paved deal that the town proudly proclaimed as Main Street.
"It's going to take a day or two, even driving all night." Sam eyes Dean, who's finding the surrounding attractions fascinating. "What's pushing you so hard on this one?"
"It'll be a day. Think it's something an old friend got caught up in before."
"How do you keep all your 'old friends' straight?" Sam teases, airquoting with one hand. "I've yet to come across a little black book in your belongings."
"His name was Rocco, hung out at a bar near an apartment Dad and I rented, back when you were in California." Dean pauses, reading over the highway signs, and he smoothly pushes the Impala over to the east bound lane. "Friendly guy, never knew when to shut up though. Knew everything about everyone in that town, even shared some of his grandma's folklore when he was really wasted."
"So your drinking buddy needs your help? How well did this turn out the last time we did it?"
"He's dead, Sam. Got involved in some mob shit that was too deep for him." Dean lets himself get distracted by the road so that he doesn't have to think about it anymore.
"Crap, I'm sorry Dean."
Dean just keeps driving, keeping to the speed limit til they're out of town and then he floors it, loose grip on the wheel and lets the car guide herself, sloping around curves, Dean nudging her back in place whenever she gets too close to the weeds running ragged on the edge of the highway.
---
It's not til they pass through Mitchell that Sam looks up from whatever he's reading and starts to shift around. Dean glances over at him, still annoyed enough to not make eye contact. It's bullshit, really, but things are different and they've been down this road before, of lies and betrayals and Dean just doesn't have the energy for it anymore. So as long as Sam keeps acting like Lucifer's pitchfork is still shoved up his ass, Dean's holding his cards close.
"So who was it that called then?" Sam finally stops moving around in the seat, settling himself back against the door so that he's facing more towards Dean.
Dean looks over at him before answering. "Honestly, guy sounded like an honest to god mobster. Thick Italian accent and everything. Never heard of him before, but he knew enough about Rocco and the situation to convince me it's at least worth checking out."
"And the situation is? 'Werewolves' is a little vague, even for us."
Dean settles back against the seat and lets his hand slide down the curve of the wheel. "I guess there's a pair of them out there, massive ones that aren't passing as stray dogs anymore."
There's no one on the road, so Dean takes the wheel with his left hand before he twists around and reaches for a folder in the backseat. "This has everything I was able to find online," he says, handing it off to Sam. "No one cared until people realized the mobs were taking the brunt of it, and now it seems like it's cause to celebrate."
Sam shifts through the printouts, brow furrowed. "They're still monsters though."
"Huh," Dean murmurs under his breath. "Yeah," he nods his head towards Sam. "But you have to say, it's not like they're doing a disservice to humanity right now. People are just as fucked up as monsters." He pauses for a moment. "You know that."
Sam huffs out an agreement. "Maybe so, but still. Saving people, hunting things, remember that Dean? If there's a risk out there, that someone innocent could get caught up in all this, we need to stop it."
Dean bites his tongue, doesn't want to fight now, doesn't want to start up something fresh. He's been to Hell, knows what it can be like, but as far as he knows Sam had the white collar view of the place.
"Despite their group of supporters, it looks like most people want the streets clear of rabid dogs. Hell, if only they knew what was actually out there." Dean chuckles as the road straightens out again and he bumps the car up to eighty-five.
"So, you know where we're headed then?" Sam drops the folder down in the footwell before doing his best to stretch out. "Other than Boston?"
"The guy gave me an address, but there's another place I want to check out first. Think we'll get a better feel of things there; social networking and all that, Sammy."
"Your buddy's bar?"
"Damn straight."
----
Between the weather and traffic, by the time they reach Boston it's early evening and the streets are getting dark quickly. It's been awhile since they've hunted in a city this size, and while Dean can feel his adrenaline pick up, Sam almost seems anxious about the whole thing.
"It'll be fine, man." Dean keeps an eye on the road as he manages to find a parking space, tucking the car away on a low-lit street. "This is the area they've been seen the most in, we'll scope them out, maybe get a couple shots in and then regroup. Just like always."
Sam looks at him for a beat before nodding. Dean shuts the engine off as Sam unfolds himself from the front seat and stretches his arms and back out. By the time Dean makes his way to the trunk, Sam already has the hatch open and is gathering weapons.
"At least it looks like this place is used to gunshots," he says, looking around, and Dean has to agree. There's a low count of lights lining the street, and the surrounding alleys seem like prime lurking spots. Occasionally shouts echo against the building walls, but it's normal city noise, nothing out of place since the last time Dean swung through.
"Here you go." Sam hands Dean his gun, and out of routine Dean checks it, counting the silver bullets inside. "Dude, I'm not going to lie, come on."
"Habit, Sam. You'd do the same thing."
"Not even. Especially now, after everything." Sam slides a knife into the sheath on his hip before turning to face Dean. "We're going to have to deal with this, you know that."
Dean shakes his head, makes himself focus on the pre-hunt check: guns, blades, backup holy water, as if that's going to leave a mark. "Not now Sam. Not here."
"Dammit Dean, this is bullshit..." A sharp crash drowns out the rest of Sam's words, and they both turn towards the direction the noise came from. A sharp wail follows, breaking down into breathless sobs the closer it gets.
Dean slams the trunk shut, barely missing Sam's fingers but neither reacts. They both stay close to the car, streetside with their guns held tight against their legs.
There's a meaty slap of flesh against asphalt, and out of nowhere a man bursts into the halo of streetlight. He's breathless, wide eyes that even Dean can see the whites of from across the street. The man's barefoot and as he moves through the pool of light he leaves bloody footprints, the frayed cuffs of his pants smearing the blood trail.
Dean's set to stay quiet, swears he can hear something else out there, something much bigger than an alley cat. But Sam reacts. "Hey," he whispers, way too loudly for Dean's liking and the man looks towards them both.
It's too silent, and Dean grabs at Sam's wrist, pulls him back just as the man starts towards them. There's a sudden racket, garbage can lids clattering down as a large brown object rushes past them to bowl the man over.
Years of training kick in, and Dean yanks Sam with him to crouch behind the Impala's rear end. He sits high enough to watch the wolf drag the man around, so that both the man and wolf are facing Dean.
The alley suddenly seems silent once the wolf's eyes meet Dean's, save for the whimpering and pleading from the man beneath it. One heavy paw is placed in the center of his chest as the wolf rearranges its grip, sliding its jaws over the man's throat. One last gurgling plea and Dean swears his heart stops as the teeth puncture the vocal cord.
Dean can hear the man die slowly, guttural gasps that whistle as the air passes over the teeth marks. The wolf's still watching , alternating between staring at Dean and tilting its head to watch the man's body shudder one last time.
"Jesus fuck Sam, did you see that?" Dean whispers, racking his mind for anything that could easily bring that fucker down.
"Dean." Sam's voice is low and urgent.
"Yeah?"
"Don't move."
Dean tenses when Sam speaks, and almost immediately there's a low growl coming from behind them. A soft crunch of gravel and glass and there's hot breath panting on the back of Dean's neck, humid and rank.
The other wolf whines, bored of the carcass in front of it and takes a few steps towards the Impala. A sharp bark and suddenly the presence behind Dean is moving, shifting from the shadows behind them to softly pad up next to the other one.
While the first wolf was a dark sable, this new one's lighter, more tan and grey, but they're both huge. They nuzzle each other, the sable one licking at the other wolf's mouth and Dean tries not to stare too hard.
A car backfires on the next street over and everyone jumps, the wolves' hackles bristling. The sable wolf growls at Dean and Sam before turning to lope back into the darkness. The grey stares a moment longer before following, its gait slower and jerkier than the other's.
"What the fuck was that?" Sam slumps against the trunk of the Impala, and even in the low light Dean can see the sweat beading on his forehead.
"Other than werewolves? Cause that's all I got right now." Dean stands up and checks behind the surrounding cars.
"Smart werewolves. Those were nothing like Mad-... Like before."
"Yeah... Let's follow them."
"What? They're like Shetland ponies with fangs and night-vision goggles Dean, we'd be screwed."
"Maybe, but did you see the second one? Could barely keep up with the other." Dean nudges Sam off the trunk, opening it up to rummage through the arsenal.
"You mean the second werewolf that got the jump on us and could have killed us?" Sam folds his arms and Dean can hear the bitchface without even having to look.
"Yeah, but he didn't."
"Still not finding that reassuring."
Dean slams the trunk closed. "Come on, the trail's getting cold."
---
One of the wolves had stepped in the pool of blood, and Sam and Dean make their way through a maze of back alleys as they follow the trail. Dean's grip on his gun loosens slightly when the streetlights become brighter and more frequent, but every single noise has them constantly checking behind and above them.
"Hey, up there." Sam gestures with his free hand. "That look like a bar to you?"
Dean squints at the windows before breaking out into a smile. "I've been here before."
"Really."
"Yeah, sure. This was where Rocco hung out." Dean tilts his head up to look around at the buildings surrounding them. "The old apartment should be a couple blocks to the west of here, if everything's stayed the same."
"Huh." Sam looks both surprised and slightly impressed. "Would it be good for information?"
"Possibly." Dean turns to grin at him. "Depends on how much they like us."
---
The bar's deafening the moment they open the door, and Dean sneaks Sam a thumbs up. Loud bars equal copious amounts of alcohol, and that's the faster way to get people to start talking.
The din dies down as more people get a look at them, and by the time Dean makes his way to the counter, all that's left is a low murmuring and some weird music on the jukebox. Figures they would get Rickrolled in an Irish bar.
"What can I get you?" The man behind the bar is old, a burst of white hair and thick glasses dominating his face.
"Whatever's on tap and two shots of Jack."
"Last call's coming up."
Dean checks his watch. "See, I've got us at 10:30, which is an amazingly early last call," he lets his gaze drag over the men sitting at the bar," for an Irish neighborhood." He can feel Sam walk up behind and lets himself relax.
"Still. If you think you can drink it fast enough, I'm more than happy to take your money. Fuck! Shit!"
Dean slides a couple of bills across the counter, smugly smiling when the glasses slide back. "It was odd, walking over here. Came across a couple of strays chasing people around in the alley back there." He tilts his chin in the general direction. "You know anything about that?"
The man shakes his head. "Not a th-th-thing. Dammit! Crap!"
Dean takes his shot, setting the glass down on the counter before picking up his beer. "Come on," he nods his head at a table in the far corner. Sam grabs the remaining glass before winding his way through the clutter of chairs and off-center tables.
"What do you think?"
"Other than him shorting me my change?"
"Maybe he thought it was a bribe?"
"Then he should have said something useful." Dean takes a sip of his beer. "At least this is respectable."
Sam rolls his eyes at him. "So this is your famous source of information. What next?"
One of the back doors next to the bar suddenly shakes violently, a heavy thump echoing throughout the bar. There's a slight pause, soft scratches against a wooden floor before a high-pitched whine and another glass-shaking blow against the wall.
"Fucking neighbors," someone calls out, and the thinning crowd laughs along. Dean narrows his eyes at the wall, staring long enough for Sam to kick at his leg.
"You suck at blending in tonight." Sam takes a pull from his beer. "Alleyway throw you off?"
"Bite me." Dean looks a moment longer before meeting Sam's gaze. "The reflection there on the floor, by the baseboard. Looks like blood from this angle, right?"
"So there's a secret door in the pub? Are you going for rumrunning werewolves now?"
Dean smirks at Sam. "No, but I'll bet you anything that's their lair." He leans back in his chair, shoving his jacket sleeves up to his elbows. "Fucking hot in here."
There's another loud noise, the heavy sound of a body hitting the wall, and Dean can see the door start to flex under the pressure. A sharp howl follows, the noise causing some people to shuffle out the door.
Dean stands up and heads towards the bar. "Okay, now. You can't tell me that you didn't see or hear that. What's going on?"
The bartender avoids Dean's eyes, reaching underneath the counter top to pull something closer to him, and Dean's pretty sure it's a rifle. "I'd suggest y-you leave now. For everyone's sake."
"Bullshit," Dean growls, and suddenly Sam's at his back, wrapping a hand over his shoulder.
"Come on man, let's not start anything," he says, leaning in close to whisper in Dean's ear. "You know we're outnumbered three to one here, right? Plus whatever does happen to be behind that door."
Dean just leans in closer, letting his jacket fall far enough away from his side. He can tell when the bartender sees the gun, the way his eyes go wide and his fingers curl tighter around the rifle.
"I can have this pointed at your head faster than it takes for any of these guys to reach me," Dean practically purrs, and is pleased when the old man's eyes flicker to the hidden door. "Just tell me what's back there and things'll be golden."
Sam's hand tightens on his shoulder, the only warning that Dean has before Sam's being pulled away and thrown to the side. Sam's immediately covered by two men, one pinning his arms behind his back while the other checks him for weapons.
Dean spins around, coming face to face with a lean man smirking at him. There's a familiarity there that Dean can't quite pin down, and he acts quickly, raising his gun in time to shoot the man in the shoulder. The noise echoes loudly in the bar, followed by a hush that implies that no one ever thought anyone would actually follow through on the promise of gunfire.
The man stumbles back from the hit, and leans up against one of the tables, his eyes closed. There's a steady pulse of blood leaking from the wound, staining the thin grey t-shirt and there's a sickly mix of liquor and copper in the air.
"Fucking a, what was that?" The man slowly opens his eyes, glaring at Dean for a moment before craning his neck to look at his shoulder. "Really man, is that any way to introduce yourself? Who taught you your manners?"
"Don't tell me. You're related to a douche named Patrick?" Dean lowers his gun, aware of the grip the two men have Sam in. "You have the same smug accent going on."
The man laughs as he stands up straight, rolling his bleeding shoulder around. "Not at all, but sounds like my type of man." He extends his arm, nodding his head towards Dean. "Connor."
Dean watches the blood race down Connor's forearm, following the curves of the muscles and he briefly shakes his hand before the blood reaches Connor's fingers. "Dean. And that's Sam over there, being lovingly felt up by your men."
Connor huffs out a laugh. "Not my men, but as long as he keeps his fingers away from those knives, he's welcome to join the conversation."
Sam glares at Dean as he shrugs away from their grip, turning his attention to the older man who's still grasping his rifle.
"Is this the conversation where you tell me what's going on around here?"
Connor shrugs and looks around. "All I see is a misunderstanding. I'd buy you a drink, but Doc here's itching to close the doors."
"Dean, come on." Sam's back again at Dean's back. "It's a dead end."
Dean doesn't care, doesn't want to fall back and regroup, giving the werewolves a chance to escape. He doesn't get why Sam's so eager to leave, and again the thought of bits of Lucifer floating around in Sam crosses his mind. Sam never did talk about what happened down there, and Dean almost doesn't blame him. But it was Lucifer, the fucking Apocalypse, and Dean knows that sort of pressure can only be tamped down for so long before something bursts.
"Just a second, Sammy," and Dean hopes Sam gets the message, cause before Dean realizes what he's doing he's launching himself towards Connor, pushing him back over on the table while reaching for the small of his own back. All of Dean's weight is on Connor's torso and even then that's almost not enough to keep him down. Dean has a decent grip on his knife, pressing the blade up to Connor's throat, just enough to watch the skin dip in.
"That was fucking stupid, you know." Connor's grinning underneath him, keeping his arms spread out away from his body.
"That's what I was hoping for," Dean murmurs, and it's just a heartbeat before there's a hard click against the floor; a slow gait and a heavy breath and it takes all of Dean's willpower to not turn his head from Connor's gaze.
"Dean..."
Dean knows that tone, that he's fucked up and the shit's about to hit the fan. He'd even admit to missing that I told you so whine, just because that means someone's got his back again.
"Grownups are talking, Sam."
"Yeah, well. Fido's joining in whether you like it or not."
There's a soft grunt before two massive paws land on the table, just inside Dean's scope of vision. There's blood on the nails, the fur tacky and matting together, and Dean realizes it's not just blood he's smelling as the wolf pants near his face, but flesh as well, muscles and tendons and gristle.
"Found one of you. And I bet the other's not far off." Dean punctuates the last few words by pressing the blade tighter against Connor's throat, a seam of blood appearing when he pulls it back.
At the sight of blood the wolf starts growling, nose pressing against Dean's bare arm and he can feel the vibrations from the teeth echo through the limb. His arm flexes as he adjusts his grip on the blade and before he knows it the jaws are sliding over his skin, small abrasions that start stinging immediately as the wolf starts to press down.
"Wanna call your dog off?"
Connor stares at Dean for a moment before giving a slight nod. "You pull your brother off, I'll do the same."
"If I move, will he bite?"
Connor grins then. "You know how family is. Can talk their ear off but they never hear you."
"Right. Thanks for that." Dean slowly pulls the knife away, hovering over Connor's chest as he risks a glance to his right. The wolf's watching him, eyes flickering between Connor, Dean and behind Dean's back. Dean keeps slowly turning his head, til the end of Sam's gun comes into view.
"Lowering that would be an awesome idea right now, Sam." Dean can see the hesitation in the barrel of the gun, a slight waver before it drops out of view . It takes longer to convince the wolf to do the same, Connor whispering low, the accent and speed getting in the way of any eavesdropping. But soon Dean's arm is bare, save for the slick trail of drool, and he's able to unpin Connor.
The bar's clear now, save for the old man behind the counter, who's now nonchalantly wiping down the area.
Dean straightens his jacket, rolling the sleeves back down while taking a couple steps back. Sam's still tense, gun by his side but Dean can tell he's ready to raise it at the drop of a hat.
"What'd you mean by that?" Sam's voice is harsh, and for a moment Dean wishes the jukebox would kick back in with anything, just to break the tension.
"What did I mean by what?" Conner hefts himself onto the table before wrapping an arm around the wolf's neck, and his fingers idly dig into the thick ruff of fur.
"You said if Dean pulled me off, you'd pull your brother off." Sam nods at the wolf, who's now licking at the drying blood on Connor's throat. "And you did."
"Did I now?" Connor ruffles its ears. "Could just be Lassie, the bar dog." The wolf growls at that, but Dean can swear it's was one of the nicer growls he's heard coming from an animal that size.
Sam shakes his head. "I know those looks. It's not just some bar dog." There's a pause, and Dean can feel Sam's eyes on him. "It's blood, family."
"Doc, you sure you cut these two off in time? They seem to be coming up with some wild stories now." There's a harumph from behind the bar and Dean can see the first flicker of concern on Connor's face.
"How's this? You humor us with one request, and then once we realize we're drunk off our asses and completely mistaken, we'll get out of your hair." Dean slides his knife back into its casing.
"What's your request?"
"Just drape this old thing around Lassie's neck." Dean reaches into his pocket, lifting his hand to reveal a silver necklace. "Should fit over those massive ears."
Connor eyes him. "That's it?"
"Scout's honor."
Connor lifts his hand and Dean tosses the necklace, the hidden cross palmed between his fingers. Connor catches it, wincing at the touch and drops it onto the floor with a sharp clatter.
"See, now that's fucked up." He inspects his palm, poking at it until satisfied there's no mark.
"No, that's silver and holy. You done dicking us around?" Dean shoves his hands back in his jacket pockets, fingers playing with the knife tucked away in his right pocket.
Connor waits a beat before nodding. "For now. You done throwing shit at me?"
"What's his name?" Dean nods towards the wolf, changing the subject.
Connor snags a beer from a nearby table and opens it with his ring. He takes a long drink before answering. "Murphy."
"Brother?"
"More than." Connor keeps his eyes locked on Dean's, lips curling into a slow smile as he takes another drink.
"Right, guys? Any way we could move this into longer, more helpful sentences?" Sam's still holding the gun, casual enough but Dean can see the tightness of his muscles from where he stands.
"Come on Sammy, we're getting to know each other. Connor, Murphy. Sam and Dean." Dean smiles at the wolf. "Told you this was a good place for friends and info."
"Ahh, we're friends now then?" Connor asks. Murphy drops down from leaning on the table, a solid thud against the floor. He makes his way to Sam and Dean, sniffing around their boots and up their pants legs. Dean keeps his hands in his pockets, resisting the urge to bat the wolf's nose away as it get closer to his crotch.
Dean shrugs. "Until your dog makes a move on me again." The wolf growls at that, locking eyes with Dean until Connor whistles at him.
"Come on Murph, don't hate him cause he's stupid." Murphy growls again, hackles raised as he walks back to Connor. He slowly slides down til he's on his belly, but Dean can see the tension vibrate through him.
"How about business partners?" Sam speaks up, and all three turn to stare at him, Murphy's ears pricked forward. "Really, it's the mobsters that are the ones that need to be taken out, right? Why not work together?"
Dean opens his mouth, wanting to stop Sam from talking on, but Connor get there first.
"So, it's the mobsters you two are after? The common enemy uniting us and all that?" He glances over at Dean, and Dean finds himself nodding his head before he realizes what he's doing. There's a long pause before Connor speaks again.
“You two gotta place to stay tonight?” Connor glances between Sam and Dean.
“Not yet. And no, the backseat doesn’t count,” Sam adds when Dean starts to protest.
Connor chuckles, then glances towards the wolf. "We've got a spare mattress back at the loft. Think we could squeeze you both in if you'd like." The wolf stares at Dean, ears flattening against its head until Connor ruffles them back up. "None of that now, ya hear? They could be helpful."
"How far away's your place?"
"Coupla blocks back to the east." Connor grins. "Back by where you two parked."
---
Dean's not completely out of breath by the time they reach the third floor, but it's close. He had stared longingly at the busted looking elevator but Connor and the wolf had just padded by to the stairwell. "Less questions this way." Connor had responded to Dean's questioning noise. "It's only the fifth floor anyways." He had added, practically jogging up the stairs.
Dean hangs back on the walk up, tugging at Sam's sleeve until he falls back next to him.
"Really, mobsters? What was that about?" He whispers, fingers digging into Sam's arm.
Sam jerks his arm away. "It's not like you were doing anything about it. I got us into their lair Dean, okay? Stop bitching and focus on what's ahead of us."
Dean stops, trying to process what Sam just said and relate it to the Sam he thought he knew, before the shit hit the proverbial fan.
"You coming?" Connor's voice echoes in the concrete stairwell, and Dean can feel three pairs of eyes land on him before he starts back up.
Part Two
Author: Puchuupoet
Fandoms: Supernatural/Boondock Saints
Pairings: Sam/Dean, Connor/Murphy, Dean/Connor, Sam/Dean/Connor
Word Count: ~11,000
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Incest, threesome, violence, implied werewolf sex
Disclaimer: Not mine, never happened, completely fictional.
Summary: The Apocalypse is over, and almost all is right with the world. Sam and Dean are back to hunting the things that go bump in the night, in the hopes that it will fix the rift that's growing between them. A call involving an old friend of Dean's takes them to Boston, where a pair of werewolves are wrecking havoc on the town. While there they meet a pair of brothers much like themselves: a cursed bloodline, a tendency to find themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time and the need to keep friends close and family closer. Post S5/Movie 1 AU.
Notes: Written for the
werewolfbigbang. So many thanks to playthefool for all the encouragement, flailing and beta'ing ♥♥ Thank you to cloudlessclimes for the gorgeous mix ♥Mix Post by
cloudlessclimes"Sam," Dean softly kicks at the chair leg. "We got a call."
Sam grunts in response, face pressed against cheap wooden desk. "What time is it?"
"Seven?" There's suddenly a warm palm pressed against Sam's neck, and he raises his head to glare at Dean. "Got you coffee and everything, man."
"How bad is it?" Sam accepts the paper cup carefully before looking up at Dean. "I mean, when was the last time you woke up this early?"
Dean shrugs, turning around towards his bed. His duffel's upright and packed, and when Dean sits it lists to the side.
"It's werewolves," he says, and watches Sam's shoulders. There's nothing, which worries him more than any slump or huff could. "I told the guy we might not be able to make it, but I guess it's getting bad out there."
"It's fine, Dean." Sam finally moves, and Dean huffs out the breath he didn't realize he was holding. Sam swivels around on the chair with a cool laugh that makes Dean's skin prickle. "If they're hot though, you're the one shooting them."
Dean twists to grab at his bag, hauling it over his shoulder as he stands. "I'm checking us out. See you in five." He carefully shuts the door behind him, sucking in a deep breath of the cold morning air. Fucking freezing in the woods in Bumfuck, South Dakota, but it was convenient and isolated. He glances back at the closed curtains before heading towards the Impala, the car covered in a slight sheen of mist and ice. He drops his bag off in the trunk, slamming it too hard when he sees Sam's face move from peering out the window.
Sam's words echo in Dean's head, the crisp bitter laugh clenching his fists. A couple months ago, the first time it had happened Dean thought Sam was drunk again, wasted away to the point of wanting to bring up the past, with all its mistakes and failures. But Sam had been clear-headed, and Dean had seen in his eyes that Sam knew exactly where and how hard his words were hitting. They had fought that night, about the angels and demons and how fucked up they all were, and whose fault it was for that. Sam brought up Castiel and then Dean mentioned how Sam might have been clinging a little too tightly to Lucifer's bitchy attitude, because at that point Dean was drunk, had to be to deal with this shit, and that's when Sam hauled off and punched him. Dean knew he heard a crack, didn't know if it was his jaw against Sam's fist or his head against the brick wall, but whatever it was, it fucking hurt. Neither of them brought it up since, and Sam had carefully taken care of Dean for the next week, but Dean can feel it simmering between them.
"Hey, you there?" Sam's suddenly next to him, fingers brushing past Dean's to grab at the keys and twist open the trunk again. "Everything set?"
This is what Dean hates, when everything feels like it's almost back to normal, that if they both went for it it could be, but there's too much of the past they're still clinging to. Sam's staring at him, jeans and plaid and boots, bangs starting to fall across his forehead, but it's the way he shifts, the way he stands and postures that makes Dean think that something hitched its way back up to the surface with him.
"Here," and Dean tosses the room key at him. "Need to warm her up."
Sam nods his head and heads towards the front office, and even from here Dean can see the girl at the desk perk up at Sam coming her way. Dean's stomach twists, and he slams the trunk shut again, not even caring about the noise this time.
By the time Sam's back and knocking on the window, Dean's already plotted the trip out. He drops the maps in the backseat before unlocking the passenger door, and settles his ass back in.
"You could have pulled around you know." Sam slumps down in the seat.
"And have you miss out on that amazing workout, walking across the parking lot? Come on now." It's this sort of joking that used to give Dean hope, until he realized that Sam reacted harder to it.
"So, where to this time? Sticking with the werewolves and the boonies?" Sam settles back in, and Dean can practically see his hackles lowering.
"Actually, Boston. Way the hell out there." Dean pulls into the street, a dinky two-lane, roughly paved deal that the town proudly proclaimed as Main Street.
"It's going to take a day or two, even driving all night." Sam eyes Dean, who's finding the surrounding attractions fascinating. "What's pushing you so hard on this one?"
"It'll be a day. Think it's something an old friend got caught up in before."
"How do you keep all your 'old friends' straight?" Sam teases, airquoting with one hand. "I've yet to come across a little black book in your belongings."
"His name was Rocco, hung out at a bar near an apartment Dad and I rented, back when you were in California." Dean pauses, reading over the highway signs, and he smoothly pushes the Impala over to the east bound lane. "Friendly guy, never knew when to shut up though. Knew everything about everyone in that town, even shared some of his grandma's folklore when he was really wasted."
"So your drinking buddy needs your help? How well did this turn out the last time we did it?"
"He's dead, Sam. Got involved in some mob shit that was too deep for him." Dean lets himself get distracted by the road so that he doesn't have to think about it anymore.
"Crap, I'm sorry Dean."
Dean just keeps driving, keeping to the speed limit til they're out of town and then he floors it, loose grip on the wheel and lets the car guide herself, sloping around curves, Dean nudging her back in place whenever she gets too close to the weeds running ragged on the edge of the highway.
---
It's not til they pass through Mitchell that Sam looks up from whatever he's reading and starts to shift around. Dean glances over at him, still annoyed enough to not make eye contact. It's bullshit, really, but things are different and they've been down this road before, of lies and betrayals and Dean just doesn't have the energy for it anymore. So as long as Sam keeps acting like Lucifer's pitchfork is still shoved up his ass, Dean's holding his cards close.
"So who was it that called then?" Sam finally stops moving around in the seat, settling himself back against the door so that he's facing more towards Dean.
Dean looks over at him before answering. "Honestly, guy sounded like an honest to god mobster. Thick Italian accent and everything. Never heard of him before, but he knew enough about Rocco and the situation to convince me it's at least worth checking out."
"And the situation is? 'Werewolves' is a little vague, even for us."
Dean settles back against the seat and lets his hand slide down the curve of the wheel. "I guess there's a pair of them out there, massive ones that aren't passing as stray dogs anymore."
There's no one on the road, so Dean takes the wheel with his left hand before he twists around and reaches for a folder in the backseat. "This has everything I was able to find online," he says, handing it off to Sam. "No one cared until people realized the mobs were taking the brunt of it, and now it seems like it's cause to celebrate."
Sam shifts through the printouts, brow furrowed. "They're still monsters though."
"Huh," Dean murmurs under his breath. "Yeah," he nods his head towards Sam. "But you have to say, it's not like they're doing a disservice to humanity right now. People are just as fucked up as monsters." He pauses for a moment. "You know that."
Sam huffs out an agreement. "Maybe so, but still. Saving people, hunting things, remember that Dean? If there's a risk out there, that someone innocent could get caught up in all this, we need to stop it."
Dean bites his tongue, doesn't want to fight now, doesn't want to start up something fresh. He's been to Hell, knows what it can be like, but as far as he knows Sam had the white collar view of the place.
"Despite their group of supporters, it looks like most people want the streets clear of rabid dogs. Hell, if only they knew what was actually out there." Dean chuckles as the road straightens out again and he bumps the car up to eighty-five.
"So, you know where we're headed then?" Sam drops the folder down in the footwell before doing his best to stretch out. "Other than Boston?"
"The guy gave me an address, but there's another place I want to check out first. Think we'll get a better feel of things there; social networking and all that, Sammy."
"Your buddy's bar?"
"Damn straight."
----
Between the weather and traffic, by the time they reach Boston it's early evening and the streets are getting dark quickly. It's been awhile since they've hunted in a city this size, and while Dean can feel his adrenaline pick up, Sam almost seems anxious about the whole thing.
"It'll be fine, man." Dean keeps an eye on the road as he manages to find a parking space, tucking the car away on a low-lit street. "This is the area they've been seen the most in, we'll scope them out, maybe get a couple shots in and then regroup. Just like always."
Sam looks at him for a beat before nodding. Dean shuts the engine off as Sam unfolds himself from the front seat and stretches his arms and back out. By the time Dean makes his way to the trunk, Sam already has the hatch open and is gathering weapons.
"At least it looks like this place is used to gunshots," he says, looking around, and Dean has to agree. There's a low count of lights lining the street, and the surrounding alleys seem like prime lurking spots. Occasionally shouts echo against the building walls, but it's normal city noise, nothing out of place since the last time Dean swung through.
"Here you go." Sam hands Dean his gun, and out of routine Dean checks it, counting the silver bullets inside. "Dude, I'm not going to lie, come on."
"Habit, Sam. You'd do the same thing."
"Not even. Especially now, after everything." Sam slides a knife into the sheath on his hip before turning to face Dean. "We're going to have to deal with this, you know that."
Dean shakes his head, makes himself focus on the pre-hunt check: guns, blades, backup holy water, as if that's going to leave a mark. "Not now Sam. Not here."
"Dammit Dean, this is bullshit..." A sharp crash drowns out the rest of Sam's words, and they both turn towards the direction the noise came from. A sharp wail follows, breaking down into breathless sobs the closer it gets.
Dean slams the trunk shut, barely missing Sam's fingers but neither reacts. They both stay close to the car, streetside with their guns held tight against their legs.
There's a meaty slap of flesh against asphalt, and out of nowhere a man bursts into the halo of streetlight. He's breathless, wide eyes that even Dean can see the whites of from across the street. The man's barefoot and as he moves through the pool of light he leaves bloody footprints, the frayed cuffs of his pants smearing the blood trail.
Dean's set to stay quiet, swears he can hear something else out there, something much bigger than an alley cat. But Sam reacts. "Hey," he whispers, way too loudly for Dean's liking and the man looks towards them both.
It's too silent, and Dean grabs at Sam's wrist, pulls him back just as the man starts towards them. There's a sudden racket, garbage can lids clattering down as a large brown object rushes past them to bowl the man over.
Years of training kick in, and Dean yanks Sam with him to crouch behind the Impala's rear end. He sits high enough to watch the wolf drag the man around, so that both the man and wolf are facing Dean.
The alley suddenly seems silent once the wolf's eyes meet Dean's, save for the whimpering and pleading from the man beneath it. One heavy paw is placed in the center of his chest as the wolf rearranges its grip, sliding its jaws over the man's throat. One last gurgling plea and Dean swears his heart stops as the teeth puncture the vocal cord.
Dean can hear the man die slowly, guttural gasps that whistle as the air passes over the teeth marks. The wolf's still watching , alternating between staring at Dean and tilting its head to watch the man's body shudder one last time.
"Jesus fuck Sam, did you see that?" Dean whispers, racking his mind for anything that could easily bring that fucker down.
"Dean." Sam's voice is low and urgent.
"Yeah?"
"Don't move."
Dean tenses when Sam speaks, and almost immediately there's a low growl coming from behind them. A soft crunch of gravel and glass and there's hot breath panting on the back of Dean's neck, humid and rank.
The other wolf whines, bored of the carcass in front of it and takes a few steps towards the Impala. A sharp bark and suddenly the presence behind Dean is moving, shifting from the shadows behind them to softly pad up next to the other one.
While the first wolf was a dark sable, this new one's lighter, more tan and grey, but they're both huge. They nuzzle each other, the sable one licking at the other wolf's mouth and Dean tries not to stare too hard.
A car backfires on the next street over and everyone jumps, the wolves' hackles bristling. The sable wolf growls at Dean and Sam before turning to lope back into the darkness. The grey stares a moment longer before following, its gait slower and jerkier than the other's.
"What the fuck was that?" Sam slumps against the trunk of the Impala, and even in the low light Dean can see the sweat beading on his forehead.
"Other than werewolves? Cause that's all I got right now." Dean stands up and checks behind the surrounding cars.
"Smart werewolves. Those were nothing like Mad-... Like before."
"Yeah... Let's follow them."
"What? They're like Shetland ponies with fangs and night-vision goggles Dean, we'd be screwed."
"Maybe, but did you see the second one? Could barely keep up with the other." Dean nudges Sam off the trunk, opening it up to rummage through the arsenal.
"You mean the second werewolf that got the jump on us and could have killed us?" Sam folds his arms and Dean can hear the bitchface without even having to look.
"Yeah, but he didn't."
"Still not finding that reassuring."
Dean slams the trunk closed. "Come on, the trail's getting cold."
---
One of the wolves had stepped in the pool of blood, and Sam and Dean make their way through a maze of back alleys as they follow the trail. Dean's grip on his gun loosens slightly when the streetlights become brighter and more frequent, but every single noise has them constantly checking behind and above them.
"Hey, up there." Sam gestures with his free hand. "That look like a bar to you?"
Dean squints at the windows before breaking out into a smile. "I've been here before."
"Really."
"Yeah, sure. This was where Rocco hung out." Dean tilts his head up to look around at the buildings surrounding them. "The old apartment should be a couple blocks to the west of here, if everything's stayed the same."
"Huh." Sam looks both surprised and slightly impressed. "Would it be good for information?"
"Possibly." Dean turns to grin at him. "Depends on how much they like us."
---
The bar's deafening the moment they open the door, and Dean sneaks Sam a thumbs up. Loud bars equal copious amounts of alcohol, and that's the faster way to get people to start talking.
The din dies down as more people get a look at them, and by the time Dean makes his way to the counter, all that's left is a low murmuring and some weird music on the jukebox. Figures they would get Rickrolled in an Irish bar.
"What can I get you?" The man behind the bar is old, a burst of white hair and thick glasses dominating his face.
"Whatever's on tap and two shots of Jack."
"Last call's coming up."
Dean checks his watch. "See, I've got us at 10:30, which is an amazingly early last call," he lets his gaze drag over the men sitting at the bar," for an Irish neighborhood." He can feel Sam walk up behind and lets himself relax.
"Still. If you think you can drink it fast enough, I'm more than happy to take your money. Fuck! Shit!"
Dean slides a couple of bills across the counter, smugly smiling when the glasses slide back. "It was odd, walking over here. Came across a couple of strays chasing people around in the alley back there." He tilts his chin in the general direction. "You know anything about that?"
The man shakes his head. "Not a th-th-thing. Dammit! Crap!"
Dean takes his shot, setting the glass down on the counter before picking up his beer. "Come on," he nods his head at a table in the far corner. Sam grabs the remaining glass before winding his way through the clutter of chairs and off-center tables.
"What do you think?"
"Other than him shorting me my change?"
"Maybe he thought it was a bribe?"
"Then he should have said something useful." Dean takes a sip of his beer. "At least this is respectable."
Sam rolls his eyes at him. "So this is your famous source of information. What next?"
One of the back doors next to the bar suddenly shakes violently, a heavy thump echoing throughout the bar. There's a slight pause, soft scratches against a wooden floor before a high-pitched whine and another glass-shaking blow against the wall.
"Fucking neighbors," someone calls out, and the thinning crowd laughs along. Dean narrows his eyes at the wall, staring long enough for Sam to kick at his leg.
"You suck at blending in tonight." Sam takes a pull from his beer. "Alleyway throw you off?"
"Bite me." Dean looks a moment longer before meeting Sam's gaze. "The reflection there on the floor, by the baseboard. Looks like blood from this angle, right?"
"So there's a secret door in the pub? Are you going for rumrunning werewolves now?"
Dean smirks at Sam. "No, but I'll bet you anything that's their lair." He leans back in his chair, shoving his jacket sleeves up to his elbows. "Fucking hot in here."
There's another loud noise, the heavy sound of a body hitting the wall, and Dean can see the door start to flex under the pressure. A sharp howl follows, the noise causing some people to shuffle out the door.
Dean stands up and heads towards the bar. "Okay, now. You can't tell me that you didn't see or hear that. What's going on?"
The bartender avoids Dean's eyes, reaching underneath the counter top to pull something closer to him, and Dean's pretty sure it's a rifle. "I'd suggest y-you leave now. For everyone's sake."
"Bullshit," Dean growls, and suddenly Sam's at his back, wrapping a hand over his shoulder.
"Come on man, let's not start anything," he says, leaning in close to whisper in Dean's ear. "You know we're outnumbered three to one here, right? Plus whatever does happen to be behind that door."
Dean just leans in closer, letting his jacket fall far enough away from his side. He can tell when the bartender sees the gun, the way his eyes go wide and his fingers curl tighter around the rifle.
"I can have this pointed at your head faster than it takes for any of these guys to reach me," Dean practically purrs, and is pleased when the old man's eyes flicker to the hidden door. "Just tell me what's back there and things'll be golden."
Sam's hand tightens on his shoulder, the only warning that Dean has before Sam's being pulled away and thrown to the side. Sam's immediately covered by two men, one pinning his arms behind his back while the other checks him for weapons.
Dean spins around, coming face to face with a lean man smirking at him. There's a familiarity there that Dean can't quite pin down, and he acts quickly, raising his gun in time to shoot the man in the shoulder. The noise echoes loudly in the bar, followed by a hush that implies that no one ever thought anyone would actually follow through on the promise of gunfire.
The man stumbles back from the hit, and leans up against one of the tables, his eyes closed. There's a steady pulse of blood leaking from the wound, staining the thin grey t-shirt and there's a sickly mix of liquor and copper in the air.
"Fucking a, what was that?" The man slowly opens his eyes, glaring at Dean for a moment before craning his neck to look at his shoulder. "Really man, is that any way to introduce yourself? Who taught you your manners?"
"Don't tell me. You're related to a douche named Patrick?" Dean lowers his gun, aware of the grip the two men have Sam in. "You have the same smug accent going on."
The man laughs as he stands up straight, rolling his bleeding shoulder around. "Not at all, but sounds like my type of man." He extends his arm, nodding his head towards Dean. "Connor."
Dean watches the blood race down Connor's forearm, following the curves of the muscles and he briefly shakes his hand before the blood reaches Connor's fingers. "Dean. And that's Sam over there, being lovingly felt up by your men."
Connor huffs out a laugh. "Not my men, but as long as he keeps his fingers away from those knives, he's welcome to join the conversation."
Sam glares at Dean as he shrugs away from their grip, turning his attention to the older man who's still grasping his rifle.
"Is this the conversation where you tell me what's going on around here?"
Connor shrugs and looks around. "All I see is a misunderstanding. I'd buy you a drink, but Doc here's itching to close the doors."
"Dean, come on." Sam's back again at Dean's back. "It's a dead end."
Dean doesn't care, doesn't want to fall back and regroup, giving the werewolves a chance to escape. He doesn't get why Sam's so eager to leave, and again the thought of bits of Lucifer floating around in Sam crosses his mind. Sam never did talk about what happened down there, and Dean almost doesn't blame him. But it was Lucifer, the fucking Apocalypse, and Dean knows that sort of pressure can only be tamped down for so long before something bursts.
"Just a second, Sammy," and Dean hopes Sam gets the message, cause before Dean realizes what he's doing he's launching himself towards Connor, pushing him back over on the table while reaching for the small of his own back. All of Dean's weight is on Connor's torso and even then that's almost not enough to keep him down. Dean has a decent grip on his knife, pressing the blade up to Connor's throat, just enough to watch the skin dip in.
"That was fucking stupid, you know." Connor's grinning underneath him, keeping his arms spread out away from his body.
"That's what I was hoping for," Dean murmurs, and it's just a heartbeat before there's a hard click against the floor; a slow gait and a heavy breath and it takes all of Dean's willpower to not turn his head from Connor's gaze.
"Dean..."
Dean knows that tone, that he's fucked up and the shit's about to hit the fan. He'd even admit to missing that I told you so whine, just because that means someone's got his back again.
"Grownups are talking, Sam."
"Yeah, well. Fido's joining in whether you like it or not."
There's a soft grunt before two massive paws land on the table, just inside Dean's scope of vision. There's blood on the nails, the fur tacky and matting together, and Dean realizes it's not just blood he's smelling as the wolf pants near his face, but flesh as well, muscles and tendons and gristle.
"Found one of you. And I bet the other's not far off." Dean punctuates the last few words by pressing the blade tighter against Connor's throat, a seam of blood appearing when he pulls it back.
At the sight of blood the wolf starts growling, nose pressing against Dean's bare arm and he can feel the vibrations from the teeth echo through the limb. His arm flexes as he adjusts his grip on the blade and before he knows it the jaws are sliding over his skin, small abrasions that start stinging immediately as the wolf starts to press down.
"Wanna call your dog off?"
Connor stares at Dean for a moment before giving a slight nod. "You pull your brother off, I'll do the same."
"If I move, will he bite?"
Connor grins then. "You know how family is. Can talk their ear off but they never hear you."
"Right. Thanks for that." Dean slowly pulls the knife away, hovering over Connor's chest as he risks a glance to his right. The wolf's watching him, eyes flickering between Connor, Dean and behind Dean's back. Dean keeps slowly turning his head, til the end of Sam's gun comes into view.
"Lowering that would be an awesome idea right now, Sam." Dean can see the hesitation in the barrel of the gun, a slight waver before it drops out of view . It takes longer to convince the wolf to do the same, Connor whispering low, the accent and speed getting in the way of any eavesdropping. But soon Dean's arm is bare, save for the slick trail of drool, and he's able to unpin Connor.
The bar's clear now, save for the old man behind the counter, who's now nonchalantly wiping down the area.
Dean straightens his jacket, rolling the sleeves back down while taking a couple steps back. Sam's still tense, gun by his side but Dean can tell he's ready to raise it at the drop of a hat.
"What'd you mean by that?" Sam's voice is harsh, and for a moment Dean wishes the jukebox would kick back in with anything, just to break the tension.
"What did I mean by what?" Conner hefts himself onto the table before wrapping an arm around the wolf's neck, and his fingers idly dig into the thick ruff of fur.
"You said if Dean pulled me off, you'd pull your brother off." Sam nods at the wolf, who's now licking at the drying blood on Connor's throat. "And you did."
"Did I now?" Connor ruffles its ears. "Could just be Lassie, the bar dog." The wolf growls at that, but Dean can swear it's was one of the nicer growls he's heard coming from an animal that size.
Sam shakes his head. "I know those looks. It's not just some bar dog." There's a pause, and Dean can feel Sam's eyes on him. "It's blood, family."
"Doc, you sure you cut these two off in time? They seem to be coming up with some wild stories now." There's a harumph from behind the bar and Dean can see the first flicker of concern on Connor's face.
"How's this? You humor us with one request, and then once we realize we're drunk off our asses and completely mistaken, we'll get out of your hair." Dean slides his knife back into its casing.
"What's your request?"
"Just drape this old thing around Lassie's neck." Dean reaches into his pocket, lifting his hand to reveal a silver necklace. "Should fit over those massive ears."
Connor eyes him. "That's it?"
"Scout's honor."
Connor lifts his hand and Dean tosses the necklace, the hidden cross palmed between his fingers. Connor catches it, wincing at the touch and drops it onto the floor with a sharp clatter.
"See, now that's fucked up." He inspects his palm, poking at it until satisfied there's no mark.
"No, that's silver and holy. You done dicking us around?" Dean shoves his hands back in his jacket pockets, fingers playing with the knife tucked away in his right pocket.
Connor waits a beat before nodding. "For now. You done throwing shit at me?"
"What's his name?" Dean nods towards the wolf, changing the subject.
Connor snags a beer from a nearby table and opens it with his ring. He takes a long drink before answering. "Murphy."
"Brother?"
"More than." Connor keeps his eyes locked on Dean's, lips curling into a slow smile as he takes another drink.
"Right, guys? Any way we could move this into longer, more helpful sentences?" Sam's still holding the gun, casual enough but Dean can see the tightness of his muscles from where he stands.
"Come on Sammy, we're getting to know each other. Connor, Murphy. Sam and Dean." Dean smiles at the wolf. "Told you this was a good place for friends and info."
"Ahh, we're friends now then?" Connor asks. Murphy drops down from leaning on the table, a solid thud against the floor. He makes his way to Sam and Dean, sniffing around their boots and up their pants legs. Dean keeps his hands in his pockets, resisting the urge to bat the wolf's nose away as it get closer to his crotch.
Dean shrugs. "Until your dog makes a move on me again." The wolf growls at that, locking eyes with Dean until Connor whistles at him.
"Come on Murph, don't hate him cause he's stupid." Murphy growls again, hackles raised as he walks back to Connor. He slowly slides down til he's on his belly, but Dean can see the tension vibrate through him.
"How about business partners?" Sam speaks up, and all three turn to stare at him, Murphy's ears pricked forward. "Really, it's the mobsters that are the ones that need to be taken out, right? Why not work together?"
Dean opens his mouth, wanting to stop Sam from talking on, but Connor get there first.
"So, it's the mobsters you two are after? The common enemy uniting us and all that?" He glances over at Dean, and Dean finds himself nodding his head before he realizes what he's doing. There's a long pause before Connor speaks again.
“You two gotta place to stay tonight?” Connor glances between Sam and Dean.
“Not yet. And no, the backseat doesn’t count,” Sam adds when Dean starts to protest.
Connor chuckles, then glances towards the wolf. "We've got a spare mattress back at the loft. Think we could squeeze you both in if you'd like." The wolf stares at Dean, ears flattening against its head until Connor ruffles them back up. "None of that now, ya hear? They could be helpful."
"How far away's your place?"
"Coupla blocks back to the east." Connor grins. "Back by where you two parked."
---
Dean's not completely out of breath by the time they reach the third floor, but it's close. He had stared longingly at the busted looking elevator but Connor and the wolf had just padded by to the stairwell. "Less questions this way." Connor had responded to Dean's questioning noise. "It's only the fifth floor anyways." He had added, practically jogging up the stairs.
Dean hangs back on the walk up, tugging at Sam's sleeve until he falls back next to him.
"Really, mobsters? What was that about?" He whispers, fingers digging into Sam's arm.
Sam jerks his arm away. "It's not like you were doing anything about it. I got us into their lair Dean, okay? Stop bitching and focus on what's ahead of us."
Dean stops, trying to process what Sam just said and relate it to the Sam he thought he knew, before the shit hit the proverbial fan.
"You coming?" Connor's voice echoes in the concrete stairwell, and Dean can feel three pairs of eyes land on him before he starts back up.
Part Two
