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claudia1829things · 8 months ago

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"BLEAK HOUSE" (1985) Review

"BLEAK HOUSE" (1985) Review

In less than I year, I have developed this fascination with the works of Charles Dickens. How did this come about? I do not know. I have seen previous Dickens movie and television adaptations in the past. But ever since last year, I have been viewing these adaptations with a vengeance. And one of them turned out to be "BLEAK HOUSE", the 1985 adaptation of Dickens' 1852-53 novel.

Adapted by Arthur Hopcraft, this eight-episode miniseries conveyed the affects of Jarndyce v Jardyce, a long-running legal probate case involving the existence of more than one will. The heirs and their descendants have been waiting decades for the court to determine the legal will, for the sake of a large inheritance. Among those affected by the Jarndyce v Jardyce case are:

*John Jarndyce - a wealthy English landowner, who happens to be the proprietor of the estate, Bleak House. Jarndyce had inherited it from his uncle Tom Jarndyce, who had went mad waiting for a verdict on the case before committing suicide. *Richard Carstones - Tom Jarndyce's grandson and John Jarndyce's cousin, who also became one of the latter's legal wards, and a potential beneficiary of the Jarndyce v Jardyce case. *Ada Clare - Tom Jarndyce's granddaughter and Mr. Jarndyce's cousin, who also became one of his legal wards, and a potential beneficiary of the Jarndyce v Jardyce case. She and Richard, also cousins, became romantically involved. *Esther Summerson - one of the novel's main characters and orphan, who became Mr. Jarndyce's ward following the death of her previous guardian, Miss Barbury, who had also been her biological aunt. She joined the Bleak House household as Ada's companion and Mr. Jarndyce's housekeeper after he became the guardian of Richard and Ada. *Honoria, Lady Dedlock - the wife of baronet Sir Leicester Dedlock and a beneficiary of the Jarndyce v Jardyce case. She is also the younger sister of Miss Barbury and Esther's illegitimate mother. *Captain John Hawdon aka Nemo - a former British Army officer, who became an impoverished law writer and drug addict. He is also Lady Dedlock's former lover and Esther's illegitimate father. His penmanship on one of the Jarndyce v Jardyce affidavit attracts Lady Dedlock's attention. *Mr. Bill Tulkinghorn - Sir Leicester's ruthless lawyer, who noticed Lady Dedlock's reaction to the affidavit. This leads him to investigate her past and possible connection to Hawdon aka "Nemo". *Miss Flite - An elderly woman living in London, whose family had been destroyed by a long-running Chancery case similar to Jarndyce v Jarndyce. This has led her to develop an obsessive fascination with Chancery cases, especially the main one featured in this story. She quickly befriended Esther, Richard, Ada and Mr. Jarndyce.

As one can see, these characters represented plot arcs that connect to the Jarndyce v Jarndyce case. As one of the beneficiaries of the Jarndyce case, Richard becomes obsessed with the verdict. He seemed more interested in depending upon the Jarndyce verdict to provide him with an income rather than pursue a profession. This obsession eventually led to a clash between and Mr. Jarndyce, who has tried to warn him not to get involved with the case. Another clash formed between Lady Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, due to his determination to find proof of her past with Nemo and the conception of their child. A clash that proved to create even more damaging for a good number of people, than the one between Mr. Jarndyce and Richard. In the midst of all this stood Esther, who served as an emotional blanket for several characters - especially the inhabitants at Bleak House, a potential romantic figure for three men (ironic for a woman who was not supposed to be a great beauty), and the center of the Lady Dedlock-Nemo scandal.

For years, 1985's "BLEAK HOUSE" had been viewed as the superior adaptation of Dickens' novel. The first novel aired back in 1959. But a third television adaptation that aired in 2005 had managed to overshadow this second adaptation's reputation. But this is not about comparing the three adaptations. I am focusing only the 1985 miniseries. If I might be blunt, I believe screenwriter Arthur Hopcraft and director Ross Devenish created one of the better Charles Dickens I have personally seen. Granted, one might use the source material - the 1952-53 novel - as the reason behind the miniseries' top quality. But I have seen my share of poor adaptations of excellent source material . . . and excellent adaptations of poor or mediocre novels and plays. And I would find this excuse too simply to swallow. Hopcraft and Devenish could have easily created a poor or mediocre adaptation of the novel. Fortunately, I believe they had managed to avoid the latter.

With eight episodes, Hopcraft and Devenish did an excellent job in conveying Dickens' exploration into the chaos of the legal landscape in 19th century Britain, especially cases involving the Chancery courts. One might consider the longevity of Jarndyce v Jarndyce rather exaggerated. However, I speak from personal experience that an extended length of time in such a case is more than possible. But what I thought the effect of Jarndyce v Jarndyce and similar cases in Dickens' story seemed very interesting. In Richard Carstone's case, I suspect his own hubris and upbringing had allowed the case to have such a toxic effect upon him. He had been raised as a gentleman. Which meant he was not expected to work for a living. But since he did not possess a fortune or an estate - like Mr. Jarndyce - Richard never lost hope that the court would rule the Jarndyce v Jarndyce case in his favor, allowing him to inherit a great deal of money. Although it took another case to send Miss Flyte mentally around the bend, I found it interesting that her obsession with Chancery cases led her to attach her interest to the Jarndyce case beneficiaries.

The Jarndyce case also produce a group of leeches in the forms of attorneys like Mr. Tulkinghorn and his obsession with assuming control over the Dedlocks and Mr. Vholes, who had sucked a great deal of money from Richard in exchange for his legal services. The series also featured the vicious moneylender Mr. Smallweed, who helped Mr. Tulkinghorn in the latter's campaign against Lady Dedlock; and Mr. Jarndyce's "friend", Harold Skimpole, who had not only encouraged Richard to pursue a greater interest in the Jarndyce case, but also had accepted a "commission" from Vholes to recruit the young man as a client. Would I regard William Guppy as a leech? Sometimes. I had noticed that one particular story arc was missing - namely the story arc regarding the philanthropist Mrs. Jellyby, her daughter and Esther's friend, Caddy and the Turveydrop family. This did not bother me, for I have never been a fan of that particular arc.

However, I also noticed that "BLEAK HOUSE" featured a few moments in which important plot points had been revealed through dialogue or shown after the fact. Audiences never saw Skimpole convince Richard to hire Mr. Vholes. Instead, Mr. Jarndyce had revealed this incident after it happened. The whole scenario regarding Dr. Allan Woodcock being a survivor of a shipwreck was handled as a past event revealed by the good doctor himself. Hopcraft's script never stretched it out in the same manner as Dickens' novel or the 2005 miniseries. Audiences never saw George Rouncewell's release from jail, for which he had been incarcerated for murder. Instead, Episode Seven began with George in jail and later, near the end, found him serving as Sir Leicester's valet without any information on how that came about.

"BLEAK HOUSE" featured a few other writing and direction decisions by Hopcraft and Devenish that I found . . . well, questionable. Why did the pair solely focused on Lady Dedlock in the series' penultimate episode and Richard and the Jarndyce v Jarndyce case in the final one? Would it have been so difficult for them to switch back and forth between the two arcs in those final episodes? I found Inspector Bucket's resolution to the story's murder mystery rather rushed. I would have liked to see Bucket eliminate suspects before solving the case. In Bucket's final scene with the killer, Hopcraft left out that moment from the novel when the latter had the last scathing word on British society, leaving the police detective speechless. This erasure dimmed the impact of Dickens' message and made the killer even more of a caricature. I had some issues with how Devenish directed certain performances. How can I put this? I found them a bit theatrical.

I have one last issue - namely Kenneth MacMillan's cinematography. I realize that in "BLEAK HOUSE", fog represented institutional oppression and human confusion and misery in society. Unfortunately, I feel that MacMillan may have been heavy-handed in utilizing this symbol in the series. It is bad enough that photography featured a fuzzy element that seemed popular in many period productions in the 1970s. But thanks to MacMillan's use of fog in the story, there were many moment in which I could barely see a damn thing. And I found that irritating.

Aside from a few quibbles, I had no real issues with the performances featured in "BLEAK HOUSE". One of those quibbles proved to be the performances for some of the secondary cast members. How can I say this? The exaggerated and wooden performances for some of the cast members brought back memories of some of the minor actors' bad performances in 1982 miniseries, "THE BLUE AND THE GRAY". I must admit that I did not care for Pamela Merrick's portrayal of Lady Dedlock's French maid, Madame Hortense. Her performance bordered and then surpassed the lines of caricature - as some British actors/actresses tend to do. Charlie Drake's portrayal of the moneylender Smallweed tend to waver between a pretty solid performance and pure caricature. Although there were moments when I found her portrayal of the eccentric Miss Flyte a bit hammy, I must admit that Sylvia Coleridge gave a well-done performance. Chris Pitt's performance as Jo, the crossing sweeper boy struck me as very poignant. Yet, at the same time, he seemed so passive that at times, I found it difficult to believe he had survived on the streets on his own, for so long. Jonathan Moore, whom I had remembered from the 1988 television movie, "JACK THE RIPPER"; did an excellent job of conveying the ambitious and self-interested nature of law clerk William Guppy. However, his portrayal of Guppy seemed to lack the character's comedic nature. Denholm Elliot gave a very interesting performance as Esther, Richard and Ada's guardian, John Jarndyce. On one level, I found his portrayal of the kind-hearted Mr. Jarndyce as first-rate. Excellent. But there were moments, including the character's famous quote following Jo's death, when Elliott's Mr. Jarndyce seemed to resemble one of those "angry young men" characters from a John Osbourne play. I found those moments very odd.

However, there were performances that did not leave me scratching my head. Colin Jeavons and Anne Reid gave very competent performances as the grasping solicitor Mr. Vholes and George Rouncewell's close friend Mrs. Bagnet, respectively. Ironically, Jeavons had portrayed Richard Carstone in the 1959 adaptation of "Bleak House" and Reid had portrayed Mrs. Rouncewell in the 2005 television adaptation. Both Suzanne Burden and Lucy Hornak gave solid performances as Esther Summerson and Ada Clare. And yet, both actresses managed to rise to the occasion with some brilliant moments. Burden's moment came, following Esther's realization that she had survived the smallpox. As for Hornak, she gave an excellent performance during Ada's soliloquy about her love's growing obsession with the Jarndyce case. Brian Deacon gave a passionate performance as Dr. Allan Woodcourt, the penniless doctor in love with Esther. Ian Hogg gave a very solid, yet commanding performance as Inspector Bucket. I really enjoyed Sam Kelly's warm portrayal of the law-stationer, Mr. Snagsby. Bernard Hepton gave one of the most colorful performances of his career as the alcoholic rag and bone shopkeeper, Krook. Dave King gave a very solid performance as the loyal, yet intimidating and conservative former Army sergeant George Rouncewell. I found George Sewell's performance as Sergeant Rouncewell's older brother, the wealthy Mr. Rouncewell not only entertaining, but very memorable. I thought Robin Bailey did an excellent job portrayed the haughty and proud Sir Leicester Dedlock.

But there were four performances that really impressed me. One came from Philip Franks, who did an excellent job of conveying Richard Carstone's emotional journey from John Jarndyce's warm and friendly young man, to the more embittered one, obsessed with the Jarndyce case. T.P. McKenna gave a delicious performance as Mr. Jarndyce's self-involved friend, Harold Skimpole, who proved to be quite the emotional (and financial) vampire. I thought Peter Vaughan was superb as the Dedlocks' sinister lawyer, Mr. Tulkinghorn. I was amazed by how Vaughn managed to combine the character's dedication to protecting his client Sir Leicester and his penchant for assuming control over others. If I had voted for the best performance featured in "BLEAK HOUSE", I would choose Diana Rigg's portrayal of the tragic Honoria, Lady Dedlock. I believe the actress gave a brilliant performance as the mysterious, yet complicated baronet's wife, whose cool demeanor hid a great deal of emotions and a personal secret. I am shocked and amazed that neither she, Vaughn, McKenna or Franks had ever received any accolades for their performances.

In fact, I am surprised that "BLEAK HOUSE" had only received BAFTA nominations (and won three) . . . and they were in the technical/arts category, aside for the Best Drama Series/Serial. No Primetime Emmy nominations, whatsoever. Was this eight-part miniseries the best adaptation of Charles Dickens' 1852-53 novel? I cannot answer that question. Granted, it had its flaws. But what television or movie production did not? But I cannot deny that "BLEAK HOUSE" was a first-rate miniseries that deserved more accolades than it had received, thanks to Arthur Hopcraft's screenplay, Ross Devenish's direction and an excellent cast led by Suzanne Burden, Denholm Elliott and Diana Rigg.

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bigmouthlass · 3 months ago

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Title: Have A Drink On Me

Series: Holler Me Home, part 11

Author: BJ

Fandom: Supernatural

Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Dean Winchester/You, Dean Winchester/Reader

Synopsis: The first case after Our Heroes make their big decision leads to considerations of the future, the past, what it means to be a Hunter and a killer and a lover and a partner and a part of something greater than yourself.

Tags: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, ABO, Omegaverse, AU, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Alpha Dean Winchester, Omega You, Omega Reader, Alpha Sam Winchester, Episode References, S12E16 Ladies Drink Free, Mick Davies, Omega Mick Davies, British Men Of Letters, Claire Novak, Alpha Claire Novak,

AN: Continuing adventures in AU land. This one is S12E16, 'Ladies Drink Free.' All recognizable intellectual properties are owned by their respective creators and holders of any copyrights or trademarks. This is a not-for-profit work of fan art and protected by Fair Use.

---

You’re trying not to snap. You’re really trying. But you’re starting to wish you’d ridden Eddie for this trip instead of sharing Baby’s backseat with Mick Davies, snow and all. Instead of stretching out and going to sleep, you’re slumped up against the window trying to distract yourself with your nephew’s Twitch stream of . . . whatever game he’s playing right now. Davies had tried to break the ice with you earlier when he saw the cover art for Piece Of Mind on your phone’s screen, by offering the startling revelation that “The Trooper” was inspired by The Charge Of The Light Brigade. Your patience already running low, you’d told him, rather tartly, that you already knew. And that Maiden’s lyrical influences include Samuel Coleridge and Frank Herbert and the Church Of England hymnal. He’d taken the hint and left you alone, burying himself in paperwork.

Closing your eyes, you reach for patience. Davies is behaving like a man well aware he's doing something significantly beyond him, and is feeling the strain. You have to give him credit for that awareness at least, and the desire to correct it. That doesn't change the fact that he has zero in-country experience, and of all the things you'd pick to break a Hunting cherry, a werewolf hunt would not be your first choice no matter how book-smart a guy might be on the subject.

Teamwork, you remind yourself again. Teamwork makes the dream work. Hunting is a little like writing; the only way to do it is to do it.

Paulie signs off and you pull out your earbuds. Next to you, Davies is listening raptly to an analysis of Martin Luther’s 95 Theses. “Did you have to let him listen to his podcast?” you bitch.

Dean points at Sam.

“It's educational,” Sam bitches back. “And besides, I've been wanting to listen to this one.”

Davies turns off the lecture, and your aching head sighs in relief. “You know, monks like Martin Luther are among the earliest Hunters. He even wrote parts of that book you're holding.”

You did know that, and you also know that's completely discounting the entire Greek Orthodox Church’s history, along with the activities of the Ethiopian church. There’re also several Islamic warriors who were based in North Africa and the Eastern Arabian deserts who would qualify as Hunters by any reasonable definition, and who the hell knows what’s going on in northern Asia and China? You resist the urge to be a wiseass, though it’s surely a strong temptation.

“What?” Sam twists around and stares at Davies. “This lore dates back to the 16th century?”

“Yeah.” Davies shrugs. “Well, in Europe, everything’s old. Though we do have our fair share of new tricks for dealing with wolves-- sulfate gas, silver nitrate lethal injection.”

“Take a handful of silver bullets over any of that fancy crap,” is Dean’s counter.

“Agreed,” you add.

“Yes, well,” Davies sighs, “thanks to that ‘fancy crap,’ Britain's last werewolf outbreak was in the twenties. We rooted them out, bitten and pureblood alike.”

“Wait a second-- you killed them all?” Sam echoes your thought. “Even the ones that weren't hurting anyone?”

Davies’s eyebrows arch up. “Sorry?”

“Your research into lycanthropy didn’t cover that?” you ask. “Some people are able to live with the change.”

“Yeah,” Sam says. “I mean, we have a buddy got bit. Nothing but beef hearts ever since.”

“And you trust him?”

“More than we trust you,” Dean says bluntly.

“Well, killing is a fundamental need for werewolves,” Davies says.

“No, eating is a fundamental need for werewolves,” you correct. “And that’s doable with enough cardiac tissue. Just needs to be from a warm-blooded vertebrate, far as we can tell. Chicken hearts will do, you just need a lot of them."

Davies looks a little surprised but rallies, “Be that as it may, monsters don't just stop being monsters.”

“Well Garth did,” Dean says.

“Get two-thirds of a beer in him Garth’s downright cuddly,” you say.

“Oh, turn here,” Mick says, pointing to a driveway. Dean signals and pulls up to a . . . hotel. Like a real hotel and not a tin shack with cable TV. The sign out front reads Wild Elk Lodge.

Your collective jaws drop. Scuzzy cash-only roach traps are so par for the course when you’re not traveling with the RV you barely notice them. “Um . . .”

Characteristically, Sam has more words. “This place, uh, seems a little--"

“Shabby?” Davies actually sounds a little apologetic. “Yeah, three stars was the best I could do. Least our bean counters will be happy. Booked us all suites.”

“Wait, you . . . We're in separate rooms?” Sam asks, and he sounds like his birthday came early.

“Yeah, of course.”

Dean shoots a look at you, and you gulp. Circumstances usually prevent any kind of fun while you’re on the job. Nice big bed and no Sam snoring two feet away equals--

Davies catches your look and . . . blushes? A vague suspicion you’ve been having all day crystalizes and you suddenly know something about Mr. Mick Davies, Man of Letters.

---

"Mind if I join you?"

You look up from your drink and nod at Davies. "Sure, step into my office."

Climbing up on the barstool, Davies signals the bartender. "Two of whatever the lady's having." As the bartender pulls down the bottle of Laphroig, he makes an impressed face. "Interesting choice."

"Don't tell the guys this," you admit, "but I hate the stuff they keep in the decanter back at the bunker."

"Slainte," Davies says. You tap your glasses and sip. "Ah. Speaking of the boys, do you know where they might be?"

"Sam's probably stealing some time in the exercise room since we're hitting the ground running in the morning."

"And Dean?"

You laugh. "Probably at the pool doing cannonballs in his underwear. If there's a waterslide we'll never see him again."

Davies pulls out a cigarette case. "D’you mind?"

You shake your head. "Actually . . ." you hold out your hand and Davies spots you one. You pull your lighter out of your pocket and light both.

"I didn't know you smoked," Davies observes.

"I usually don't," you say, "but two cigarettes will cover your scent better than one."

He glances away. "How did you know?"

"You've been taking scents ever since you walked in. Besides, I use the same neutralizers. It’s why you wanted to join me isn't it? There's at least one Alpha sitting around the corner."

"Three." Davies motions, his cigarette clamped between his first two fingers. "That big fellow right there. The ginger in the uniform. And our friend drinking tequila like it's water. I know how to make rude Alphas take No for an answer but it's attention we don't want."

"No we do not."

"So," Davies drags over an ashtray, "you and Dean?"

"What you don't have that in your dossiers?" you ask.

"No, actually. Official information on American Hunters in general is challenging to come by. Covering your tracks seems second nature. Winchesters in particular." Davies chuckled. "It even got to be a game with some of our cleverer researchers. They'd make up stories to explain the outlandish contradictions tied up in their paper trails."

"Really? Spill," you tell him.

"Well once," Davies says, leaning in close like one of your mom's friends sharing something scandalous, "we caught their car's registration on camera, at the exact same time, in two different cities! Jordan was convinced that a shapeshifter had somehow shifted into the car and driven itself!"

"If that's what I think it is," you say as your mind makes a connection, "that was a hacker friend of theirs laying false trails. The boys had to leave the country for a couple weeks."

"Ah there, you see? Data's useless without someone to put the bits together. And a man with your Dean's reticence when it comes to committed relationships, well," he spreads his hands, "we didn't expect to find him committing to a bonded mate."

Your eyes go slitted, the way they do whenever someone starts sniffing around your Alpha.

Davies does a double-take over his drink. "Oh no! No I'm not trying to imply anything. Dean's an attractive Alpha but he's not remotely my type. Neither is Sam. Too tall."

"The Men of Letters don't have a problem with you being Omega?"

"No," Davies shrugs. "I know it doesn't always look that way to outsiders, but we're firm believers in the aristocracy of talent. Once we find talent, we do what we can not to waste it. Being an Omega is a manageable inconvenience with the proper planning."

You cough out a smoky laugh. "Sorry. It's just I never in my life heard somebody refer to it as a 'manageable inconvenience'."

"Well why not?" he asks. "You've managed to make a go of it. And you were totally alone most of the time."

"I had help." You explain about the drug study.

Davies puts down his cigarette and calls for another drink. "My God. I've read that study!"

You turn red. "I hope you didn't get the illustrated version."

Davies turns red. "There wasn't anything, well . . . personally identifiable. Mostly imaging scans."

"How long have you been with the Men of Letters?" You listen as Davies tells you about being recruited off the streets, his upbringing and education sponsored by one of the deacons at Kendricks Academy. "Wow," you say, the liquor loosening your tongue a little. "The way the guys talk about the Bevel bitch--" Davies chokes on his drink. "Shit! Sorry!"

"Don't be," Davies says, coughing into a napkin and chortling. "Lady Bevel's of an older mindset. Her family's one of the original founders of the Men of Letters, right back to the time of Edward VI. Very authoritarian."

"It's not like you can argue with the results," you say.

Davies is quiet for a moment. "Can I share something with you?" At your nod, he says, "It's true, we haven't had any monster related casualties since after the war. But it's all rather small potatoes compared to open warfare between Heaven and Hell. Since your boys averted the Apocalypse, it's felt like the rulebook's been thrown out completely."

You nod. "Suddenly the system stopped working."

"Precisely. The weakness of bureaucracy, it doesn't handle surprises well. Our analysts did a logistical study about what might have happened if the Devil's Gate in the Orkneys opened the way the one in Wyoming did. The results were . . . sobering. We want to take a more active role in keeping the world secure from the supernatural. We're just," he grimaces, "still trying to figure out how that should work. But," he says, lighting another cigarette, "that's enough about me. What about you?"

"What, I don't have a super secret file?"

"Incomplete. Been driving me a little mad if I'm honest."

Davies listens as you tell him about Peg, the sextant haunting. "Peg caught her foot and tore the hell out of her ankle. She was stuck in town for weeks. I spent a lot of time with her when she was rehabbing-- helping her around the house, running errands, all that good stuff."

"And the whole time she was training you," he puts it together.

"Mmm-hmm. You wouldn't've known it to look at her, but Peg was a champ at getting people to pour their hearts out to her. You know what I wanted to do before I Presented?" Davies shakes his head, looking fascinated. "I wanted to join the Marines."

"You are having me on!"

"I shit thee not. I had dreams about being the first woman on the Joint Chiefs of Staff. It was a family thing as much as anything. My great-uncle was in the North African and Italian campaigns in World War II. Monte Cassino."

"Nasty business, that was," Davies notes.

"Yeah. Anyway, Peg left but she promised she'd come back for me after I finished high school. She insisted on that."

"And did she?"

"Yep." You smile to remember it. "She told me she watched me graduate from a tree in the Palmers’ back yard, through the scope of her favorite sniper rifle. She took me out of town that night and I was her partner up until she died."

"What of?"

"Would you believe it? Peritonitis, from a burst appendix. She thought maybe she’d gotten some bad bratwurst. By the time we pulled our heads out of our asses and got to a hospital it was too late." You shake your head. Even years later, your heart breaks to think of it. "She singlehandedly killed each and every vampire in Las Cruces, Texas over a two night meth and vodka binge, she tracked and killed one of the last babayagas, she survived the fall of the Iron Curtain and managed to smuggle herself out of Sarajevo two hours ahead of the Serbs. Fucking appendicitis."

Davies sighs. "Katherine Marlowe. My sponsor when I was recruited by the Men Of Letters, she disappeared some years ago. She had a soft spot for orphans, maybe because she couldn’t have children of her own. Closest thing to a mother I ever knew."

"God I'm sorry," you say, putting a hand on Davies’s arm. "What happened?"

"Well by then she'd retired from most active work but you know the job. You never totally walk away from it. She spent her time researching and tracking down magical artifacts, the stranger the better."

"Indiana Jones by way of Savile Row? I like it."

"God she would have hated that," Davies laughs, but there's an edge of melancholy to it. "She's actually Lady Bevel's aunt on her father’s side. I think she collected us orphans partly to spite the rest of the Marlowes."

"You know," you say, "here's a problem as I see it."

"Mmm? What's that?"

"Well the primary points of contact between us and your organization so far have included you, Lady Bevel, and Mr. Ketch. A middle manager-- no offense."

"None taken."

"A pain fetishist, and a hitman. All with very different philosophies as to handling potential allies, and all equally convinced they're fully sanctioned by your organization's leadership. It suggests a disunity of opinion that's concerning. To an outsider."

"That's a rather astringent read of the situation," Davies tells you a mite coldly.

"And the fact that none of you have any real in-country Hunting experience is not going to win you any credibility with most Hunters. Bobby Singer-- rest in peace," you cross yourself, "had the respect of every Hunter he ever worked with because he was never afraid to go in and kick ass. Loyalty meant something to him. It does to most of us."

"Well why do you think I'm here?" Davies asks. "Meeting people like you, like the Winchesters, working with you, trying to show how much better the world can be if we work as a team."

"Well, that's my point. What does working as a team mean to you?" you ask. "Because if it means you give orders and people like us do the dying, that’s not going to work. This isn't the Army, and we are not soldiers."

Davies puts his drink down and faces forward for a few minutes, tense and brooding. You've hit a nerve somewhere. When he looks at you again, there's a pinched look on his face. Confirm nerve strike. "Did it occur to you that maybe the respect of yourself and your colleagues is something I want purely on its own merits?"

"Yes it did.” You’re nobody’s psychologist but it doesn’t take a genius to see the Tom Hagan effect in action. Being an Omega would make that even worse. “Why do you think I’m talking to you like this? I want this to work. Sam does too.”

“And Dean? Unless I’m very much mistaken, he’s the one I need to convince.”

“Just don’t play him. He’ll figure it out and when he does . . . Dean doesn’t always make the best decisions when he’s upset.” Your lips burn with the magnitude of that understatement. “And if he tells you something’s not kosher? Believe him. Dean’s got the sharpest intuitions I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

“You do that.” Butting your cigarette, you hop down off your barstool. “If you’ll excuse me Mr. Davies--”

“Mick. Please,” he says.

“Mick. I think I need to go fish my Alpha out of the pool. Good night. Thanks for the drink.”

“My pleasure,” he smiles.

You leave feeling a little better about the whole enterprise and follow the signs to the pool. Dean’s doing the redneck thing; a pair of boxer shorts standing in for trunks as he swims a lazy backstroke through the water. You take off your boots and socks, roll up your pantlegs, and sit down with your feet dangling over the edge. The water feels wonderful between your toes and you can feel the long day slipping away. It’s its own small happiness, just sitting at your ease watching your Alpha enjoy himself.

“You know, put you in a tail and a seashell bra you’d make an awesome mermaid,” you say as he catches sight of you and paddles over.

“Ha-ha.” Dean puts his feet underneath him and stands to just under your nose. Over your laughing protests, he wraps his soaking wet arms around you and cranes his neck for a kiss. Smacking his lips, he asks, “Whiskey?”

“Had a couple with Mick. We had an interesting conversation.”

Dean cocks an eyebrow at you. “How interesting?”

“Not so interesting I’m not looking forward to not sleeping in my own bed tonight.”

Dean has to take a second to parse that out. “Isn’t that like a triple negative or something?”

“I dunno, I skipped most of freshman English.” You cup Dean’s jaw, slide your hand down his wet skin to the still livid marks of your claiming bite. Dean shivers, stealing another kiss.

"So," he says, leaving your lips with a little farewell peck, "interesting talk?"

"Well first of all, Mick's an Omega."

Dean's eyebrows pop up. "Really. That's interesting. Do I need to warn Sam?"

"Mention it. Don't make Mick feel weird. I don't know about the organization, but the guy himself really is trying."

"Yeah but he's a fucking amateur. Amateurs are meat in this job."

"I know that Dean, but-- I mean, look at this," you gesture around. "Not having to support ourselves on mail fraud and dumb luck would make this job a snap. Might mean more of us could settle down, have a home base. Maybe not the full apple pie, but . . . the apple crumble life?"

"I still don't like it. You're the one who keeps saying beware Englishmen bearing gifts."

"Yeah, still looking for the hook in this nice juicy worm. If their idea of the perfect hunter is fucking Ketch--"

"You really don't like him do you?"

"Ketch is Bad. Like, capital-B Bad. And I don't like the conclusions he jumped to about you." You think a minute. "I don't like that these people are leaning extra hard into the Brains versus Brawn dichotomy. Sam kicks plenty of ass and you're a damned smart guy."

Dean grimaces. You spare a thought to curse John Winchester, for that involuntary grimace every time someone dares to give Dean a compliment. "Yeah. I didn't like the Final Solution vibe I got off Mick when he was talking about werewolves either."

"Me neither." You let the thoughtful quiet hang for a minute, then put away the subjects of Mick Davies and the Men of Letters for the night. "So. You done dog-paddling or . . ."

"I'm not done doing nothing," Dean drawls, a slow grin lighting him up.

Oh the little motherfucker-- "Oh no, no no," you warn, trying to scootch back out of snatching range, "don't even think about it, fuckstick--"

Dean's arms lock around you and down you go into the drink.

You come up sputtering. "Fuck you Winchester!" You catch up as he swims away and the two of you spend a productive few minutes behaving like five year olds on an Red Bull high.

---

Later, after receiving a stern dressing-down from the hotel's night manager and a solemn promise to remember you're adults, you two slosh to your rooms. Outside his door Dean yawns. "Honey? Y'know I'm kinda tired-- I've been driving all day and I didn't sleep good last night--"

You put your hands on your hips. "If this is your way of telling me you're gonna lay there and make me do all the work," you toss your head and turn on your heel, "good night, Winchester."

Whaddaya know, he's magically not tired anymore. With almost economical grace, he unlocks his door with one hand, yanks you off your feet with the other, and the two of you land inside his room with a splat.

---

The next morning after a raid on the breakfast buffet, you join your boys outside as they wait for the valet.

"Those pillows, right?" Dean gushes. "The little chocolates that they put on? I mean, I'm ruined, Sam. Those limey sons of bitches ruined me. I even took a swim."

"You brought a swimsuit?" Sam asks.

"Nope," you tell him.

"Ugh. He didn't," Sam groans.

"Yep. How was your night? Sleep okay?" you ask.

"Yeah. Full king size bed," Sam says, looking a bit dreamy. For a guy of Sam's height, that's not a small matter. "I read through more of Mick's lore books-- listen to this, it's crazy. So apparently, back in the '30s, they were working on this treatment for werewolves. This, like, blood therapy."

"Plasma therapy," Mick corrects, joining you with his ever-present briefcase. "Useless, I'm afraid. So how were your accommodations?"

Dean the Grouch is back. "I've had better night's sleep in my Baby." Taking the keys from the valet and slipping him a tip, Dean grumbles, "Get in. Let's go." As you join Mick in the backseat, you hear him say to Sam sotto voce, "Not gonna give him the satisfaction."

Mick looks over at you. Unlike the men, you're in work clothes layered up for the outdoors, a stocking cap covering your head. "Four FBI agents are a bit much," you say. "I'm gonna look at the attack site and see if rabid Lassie left any sign. See if we're dealing with a lone wolf or a pack."

"Good thinking," Mick says. "If the police are still there?"

"Yeah, here," Sam says, passing an ID wallet back to you. "Hot off the press."

"Thank you." You flip it open and see your own face scowling back at you under a badge. "If anybody asks, I'm Daria Fleetwood, Wisconsin DNR."

---

Nobody asks, and the crime scene is empty when you get there. It's also pretty thoroughly trampled over. Walking carefully, you examine likely hiding places, spots in the trees where someone could observe without being seen. You find tracks from a woman's square-heeled boot, and snagged on a bramble branch you find a strand of hair. Long, fine, shining gold in the winter sunlight. You're pretty sure it belongs to the person crunching around like they've got lead in their shoes, circling you slowly and staying almost out of your sightline. Another werewolf come to the scene, checking up on the cops or just to have a gloat?

When you hear a hammer click back you swing and catch the stalker's arm, twisting their weapon our of their hand and pointing it straight back at them. Yep, there's the head that produced that strand of golden hair. The head belongs to a-- "Jesus Christ, what are you twelve?" you blurt.

Striking blue eyes glare at you. "You're not a cop. What are you doing out here?"

"Hunting a werewolf," you say easily, playing a hunch, "same as you."

Hunch pays off, as Blondie's face goes slack with shock for just a second. She also looks . . . familiar? Something about how her mouth shapes itself when she frowns and the deep blue of her eyes. "There's no such thing as werewolves."

"Uh-huh," you say. "Tell you what-- when I unload this revolver, if I don't find silver I'll buy you a good steak dinner. Is it a bet?" Blondie deflates, puffing out a disgusted sigh. "That's what I thought." You uncock the weapon, open the cylinder, and dump the bullets into your hand. Silver rounds all right. You flick the cylinder back shut and offer the weapon, butt first.

Blondie takes it and stuffs it into a shoulder holster under her coat. "Who are you?"

You introduce yourself, taking the handful of bullets and make sure the kid can see the silver touching your skin. "See? No pain, no blisters. Not a werewolf. Hold out your hand." You dump the bullets into her outstretched palm and note the lack of reaction. As your new friend tucks them into her pocket, her phone rings. "Put it on speaker when you answer," you tell her, and it's not a request.

"Fuck you," she says. An Alpha’s snarl, and a strong Alpha scent of vanilla and cinnamon.

"Not into girls. Do it."

Rolling her eyes like she just can't even, the kid digs into another pocket. "Agent Beatrice Quimby."

"Oh thank God," Dean's voice comes over the speaker in a thick Canadian accent and you bite your lips to keep from giggling. "There's a bear, it's the size of a freaking TANK! I think it wants my pick-a-nick basket!"

The kid does that eye roll thing again. "Hi Dean."

"Hi Dean," you echo and the kid's jaw actually drops. "How'd it go at the hospital?"

"Um . . ." you grin. Rare to catch your Alpha off his feet. "It went okay, until Hayden's mother said she got shaken down by a blonde claiming to be Fish and Wildlife. Know anything about that Claire?"

And that's how you meet Claire Novak.

---

"Claire what are you doing here?" Sam asks as you flop on the loveseat next to Dean. You lean into each other, just for a moment. Wolves touching noses, taking in each others' scents.

"Same as you. Werewolf case," she says, trying to play it cool and missing by a few inches.

"She pulled a pistol on me when I was looking over the crime scene," you explain.

There's the eye roll. "Yeah, real impressive-- I had you cold," she scoffs, trying to get a little dignity back.

She's not going to get it back from you. "No you didn't. I heard you stomping around the whole time. Credit for at least wanting to make sure before you took your shot."

Claire scowls, and yeah, you can see the resemblance, see Castiel’s vessel in the shape of her mouth and her beautiful blue eyes. "So. You bring your girlfriend on Hunts now Dean?"

"Watch it kid, I've been Hunting since before you were born," you warn her. “You really should have your hair tied up and covered if you're in country."

Mick arrives from the bar with two hands full of bottles. "Beers all around," he says.

"Who're you?" Claire asks. Manners were clearly not part of whatever training she's had.

"Oh-- Mick Davies. Men of Letters. British." He offers his hand and, looking thoroughly nonplussed, Claire shakes.

"Long story," Dean says at her quizzical look. "And like, Downton Abbey boring, so . . ." as Claire reaches for a beer Dean plucks it from her hand. Holy hell how old is this kid?

"Okay," Claire sighs. "Anyway, I've been on this a day. And guess what? The girl, Hayden? Her story about what happened the night of attack? One big lie."

"Her mom said the same thing," Sam confirms.

“Where was she?” Dean asks.

“She was at the local dive bar, getting trashed. It’s about half a mile from where she got attacked. I tracked her phone and asked around and--" she grins at the grownups around the table. “Bartenders love me. It’s a gift.”

“What’d they tell you?” you ask.

“The guy I talked to was a scumbag. Tribal tat, motorcycle, grabby,” Claire continues.

Dean’s jaw goes tight. “’Grabby?’”

Patiently, Claire says, “I'm a big girl. I handled it.”

“What about the hospital? How’s Hayden,” you ask.

“She’s a little knocked about but she’ll be all right,” Mick reports. “She said she heard her brother scream, and when she ran towards him she was ambushed by a large man wearing black clothes and a mask.” Mick glances over at a giant clock decorated with elk horns. “Right. Think I’m gonna call it a night.”

Glancing at his watch, Sam notes, “Dude, it's 5:30.”

“Yeah,” Mick replies, “but my report's due at 6:00 sharp. All work, no play.” To Claire he gives a distracted smile. “Nice meeting ya.”

“So,” Claire observes when Mick’s safely out of earshot, “your foreign exchange student’s totally lame.”

“Yeah. He's Sam's best friend,” Dean tells her, ignoring Sam’s bitchface and exasperated sigh. “They’re like nerd soul mates.”

"We're hoping he's trainable," you say.

"Anyway," Sam changes the subject, "why are you alone?"

"Jody's busy with sheriff stuff. And she said to call if I found anything." Right. Your big sister instincts say Lie.

Sam sees it too. "So you called her."

"You called first," Claire says. "And she's great, by the way. And so is Alex. So," she changes the subject back, "should we go to the morgue?"

"Take it easy, Clarice. Morgue's closed," Dean says.

"By the way," Sam says, looking the girl up and down, "when's the last time you had a hot meal that didn't come from a Gas-n-Sip microwave?"

"Not that there's anything wrong with that," Dean says.

"It's been a while," Claire admits.

"Well--" Dean hands Claire a menu. "Go nuts. It's on, uh, Harry Potter."

"Cool," Claire says with a laugh.

"And when's the last time you slept in a bed? One you didn't have to worry about tiny livestock in the mattress?" you ask. "I got a suite I'm not using and this hotel has a laundromat. You can get a tubsoak, do your wash."

"Hell yeah," Claire says. But then she thinks it through a little and gives you and Dean a look. "Ew. Seriously?"

---

"Swanky," Claire observes, unshouldering her duffel.

"Yeah," you say. "Pro tip-- never pass up an opportunity to do laundry." You toss Claire a pill bottle full of quarters. She catches it easily. Good reflexes.

"Yeah whatever," she scoffs.

You give her a look. "And learn how to say thank you. Believe it or not this job runs on relationships."

"You know," oh fuck, you gave her something to get pissed at, "I'm really damn sick of people lecturing me on how to do my job. Especially after they steal my gigs."

"We didn't steal shit," you counter. "And people are more likely to treat you like an adult when you behave like one. Hayden's mom had you pegged for a phony the minute you opened your mouth. You're lucky she's too worried about her kid to report you to the cops."

"Right. I'm gonna take advice from Dean Winchester's breeder."

In three easy moves, you've got Claire on the floor with a knee in her back and her arm twisted up to her shoulderblades. "Watch your fucking mouth, girlie-o. I've been taking down scarier things than a mouthy Alpha teenager since you were in diapers."

"Let me go!" Claire cries.

"No. You're going to calm down, you're going to apologize, and you're going to get in the habit of listening when someone's giving you friendly advice. Sam and Dean might have reservations about giving you some wall-to-wall counseling. I do not." You jerk her wrist up to emphasize your point.

Claire's not a complete idiot. When she realizes she's staying put until you let her up, she goes still. "All right," she surrenders. "All right, I'm sorry."

"Sorry for what?"

"I'm sorry for calling you a breeder."

"And?"

"What?"

"And 'I promise to listen when people are trying to help me be better at my job, because people care about me and don't want me to fucking die.'" That's the rub, you know. Claire's got the same problem the boys have; somewhere they picked up the rock-solid belief that they don't matter enough to care about. In spite of all possible evidence to the contrary.

Claire struggles with all her strength. When she runs out, she lays panting underneath you. "All right," she says again. "Fine. I promise to listen when people are helping me, because they care about me and they don't want me to fucking die. Happy now?"

"Provisionally," you say, letting go of her arm and getting to your feet.

Glaring at you with every bit the fool's pride one might expect of a young Alpha, Claire rolls over and stands. Still, there's a glimmer of intelligence under the attitude. Whatever else she might be, she's a survivor. "How did you do that?"

"Your contempt for Omegas," you answer. "You assumed I wouldn't get physical with you, because of your age, my designation, and the fact that you're friends with my mate. Here's another pro tip-- allowing contempt to rule your judgement will get you killed one day. The Omega," you point at yourself, "got the drop on you twice. If the werewolf we're tracking has any experience with Hunters at all, you're meat."

"Wait-- mate?" Claire asks.

You show her the marks. "Mate."

Claire's attitude recedes and she stares at you. At your buzzed hair and ratty turtleneck. You stare right back. "Wow," she says, with a little laugh. "Just-- wow. Dean Winchester the turbo-slut--"

"Watch it kid or get real used to the taste of floor."

"Sorry," she says, not sounding very sorry. "Is the lecture over?"

"One more thing," you say. "The day you stop learning how to do your job better, write out your will and your If And When letters."

You head to the bathroom and strip out of your work clothes and put on some shorts and a tank top. You weren't kidding about taking every opportunity to do laundry. When you come out, Claire's sitting on the bed sorting her clothes. Her eyebrows go up when she sees you. More specifically, when she sees your scars. You look down at yourself, and up to meet her eyes. "Ask if you want to know."

"Okay," she says, so you give her the scar tour. The insouciance fades a little with every mark you point out, until she's listening raptly. You tell her about Peg, about those first times in the field when you were so scared you threw up every night and barely slept. "In retrospect I grew up pretty sheltered," you say. “I was a tomboy when I was a kid but I wasn't prepared to hunt things that could hunt me back."

"Yeah," Claire says. She tips her head to one side and you can see faint white puncture marks. "Vampire. He was targeting Alex and took Jody and me as bait."

You nod. "I'd show you my bite mark but I was tied up and the fucking pervert took it from my femoral artery." You point to a spot high on your inner thigh, covered by your shorts. "I almost bled out. Thank God, Francois got me to a medic in time. Three units of B-neg, a shitload of Sprite, and two days bed rest. Fuck vampires."

"Yeah," Claire says, lighting up with a laugh. "Fuck vampires."

---

And that's how the evening goes. You and Claire do your laundry together, talking a little when the mood takes you or sitting quietly, you reading the local paper and Claire messing around on her phone. She's a charming girl when she drops the attitude, and you can tell she's craving the company. Sam and Dean join you just after you put your clothes in the dryer. You take control of the TV and tune in to the local news. The attack is being chalked up as a wolf attack, with no mention of Benjamin Foster's missing heart.

"Still think we should've hit the morgue," Claire grumbles.

"You've already been made," you point out. "You get caught breaking and entering, that's attention we could do without."

"She's right," Sam says around a yawn. "The body will still be there in the morning."

"Just because you old farts need your sleep--"

"Hey!" Dean says, stung.

"Who said anything about sleep?" you say, grabbing Dean by his shirt and hauling him to his feet. You snag your bag of clean laundry on the way by.

"Totally whipped," is Claire's judgement call.

"Oh yeah?" Dean bends you backwards and lays one of those full-bodied, take-no-prisoners kisses that sends you from zero to slicked-up mess in ten seconds.

"Are they always like this?" you vaguely hear Claire ask Sam.

"Jesus Christ yes," Sam groans.

---

What started as an attempt to put Claire’s nose out of joint turns into something else PDQ. In Dean’s room, shirts fly everywheres. “Please baby,” you pant into Dean’s mouth. He hasn’t let go of your lips for more than little sips of air.

“Yes,” Dean grunts. He winds his arms around you and balances you just right as you hop and wrap your legs around him. Whoever told you your libido would ebb after bonding lied. Oh how they fucking lied.

Yelling as your claws cut into his back, Dean tears at your shorts until they’re reduced to scraps and elastic strings. You fumble his belt apart and his pants open, totally deaf to Dean’s plea to hold on a second. His cock hardens to steel in your hand, like an animal you can command. “Good cock,” you pant.

“I got a good cock?” Dean pants back, laughing.

“Best cock,” you tell him. “So fuck me with your good cock.”

“Hell yes, I’m gonna fuck you with my good cock,” Dean tells you, falling on the bed with a whuff of pillow top and billowy duvet. “Gonna fuck your good pussy with my good cock."

You toss your head back as he suits action to words, shoving into you thick and hot. Dean’s lips are everywhere, caressing every little bit of your face including your eyelids and up into your buzzed hair. You arch back into the mattress. God, the perfect deep fuck of your mate inside you. He sucks at the fang cuts over your mating gland and you yell and hope to God the Wild Elk Lodge has good soundproofing or Mick’s getting an earful.

“Not gonna last,” Dean says and yeah, his eyebrows are kinked the way they get when he’s already riding the edge.

“’Sokay,” you tell him, “gimme your fucking knot Alpha, I want it, give it to me already.”

Dean takes a second to rebrace himself and catch his breath. “Hang on honey,” he grunts, and you hang on.

---

You're in the shower the next morning when a text comes over both yours and Dean's phones. A second later, you hear Dean swear. "What is it?" you ask, peeking around the shower curtain.

"Hayden. She's dead."

"What? How?"

"Don't know. Sam just hung up with the doctor. They don't know cause of death yet."

You rinse, dry, and head for your room. You use your keycard and find Claire still dead asleep. "Hey Novak, up and att’em." You show her the text as she blinks awake. To her credit she's alert in a snap and reaching for her clothes.

"Here." You hand her an eyeshadow palette in pale browns and a fistful of bobby pins. For your part, you throw on a silk blouse and trousers and complete the look with a brunette wig.

Claire looks you over and nods her approval. "Very soccer mom."

"Thank you." Your Glock goes in the holster at the small of your back. Throwing on a jacket, you hold the door for Claire as she steps into a pair of low pumps and heads out. She did a good job; the neutral makeup and business casual ages her up a few years, turning her from a high school student to a twentysomething professional woman who takes good care of her skin.

The guys are already waiting between the Chevy and Claire's little rustbucket. "Ladies," Mick greets you.

"Morning. What do we know?" you ask.

"Not much," Sam says. "She was recovering well yesterday, but around one in the morning her mom found her body."

"Jesus," you say.

"Yeah,” Sam agrees. “But here's the weird part-- her room was torn up. Somebody knocked over the IV pole, Hayden's body was on the floor, the window was cracked."

"What the hell?" Claire says.

"You know that's a wonderful question," you say.

---

"Thanks for coming by so quickly," Dr. LaPere says. "Ms. Foster gave us your number."

With the five of you, the room feels uncomfortably crowded. Thank God, the staff is so harried they don't question the abundance of officers of the law outside what's supposed to be their jurisdiction.

Hayden, a lovely brunette in life, lies pale and cold on a gurney. Your heart twists with pity. Three days ago, her mother had two children.

"You have any idea what happened to her?" Dean asks

Dr. LaPere sighs. "Autopsy's tomorrow, but it could be an arterial embolism, cardiac arrest."

You frown. "She's a little young for heart issues."

"It gets weirder. When we admitted her, she had defensive wounds to her arms. Now . . ." he lowers the blanket covering Hayden from the chest down and picks up one of her arms, "they're gone." The doctor's beeper goes off. He glances at it, frowns, and says, "Just give me a second."

"Of course," you say as he leaves. The door whuffs shut behind him.

You all wait until you're sure he's out of earshot. Claire goes first. "Okay seriously now-- what the hell?"

Dean looks over at Mick. "You checked Hayden out. Did you notice anything weird?"

"No," Mick says, "but, uh, the girl could've had internal injuries or . . ."

"But somehow, her external injuries all healed?" Sam says. "No way. This is almost like, uh . . ." He thinks a second. "You know, what if she turned?"

"What, like, 'wolfed out' turned?" Dean asks.

"Explains the whole Wolverine healing factor thing," Claire says. You're looking at Mick when she says that, and you frown at the furtive look in his eyes. Something ain't right there.

Dean sees it too. "Yeah, no, but that'd be crazy because that means she would've been bit. And Mick here says that that didn't happen. Right, Mick?"

"Uh . . . uh, no, not-- not that I saw." You and the boys exchange a glance. Right, that's not suspicious at all. Neither is the thing you see on the dead girl's chest, out of everyone else’s sight line. You don't point it out. See how the situation develops.

"Are you a hundred percent sure?" Sam asks.

"Unless I made a mistake," Mick confesses.

"Hell of a mistake," Dean says.

"Dean . . ." Sam begins.

"No, I told you we shouldn't have dragged him along. I told you!" Dean snaps.

"Don't!" Everyone in the room turns to look at Claire. She glares back, an equal amongst colleagues. "Whatever got Hayden is still out there."

"She's right," you say. "So the night of the attack, the wolf kills the brother for his heart, nails Hayden, and then, what, runs for the hills?"

"That doesn't make any sense. Maybe he let her go," Sam thinks out loud.

"On purpose? Why?" Claire asks.

"Perhaps he didn't want her dead," Mick chips in. "He wanted her turned."

"Right. Which means this wasn't random," Sam adds the next bead.

"Which means it would've been somebody who knew her," Dean ties it off. "Friends, family."

"Or someone from the bar," Claire adds.

"Okay," Dean says, taking command. "All right, Sam-- you and Claire, you go talk to the girl that she was supposed to be crashing with, and us and amateur hour will hit the bar, see what shakes loose."

---

Outside, Sam takes a look at Claire’s ride and sighs. You hide a smile. The poor man's gonna have to ride with his knees up around his ears in that thing. You pull your bag of spare clothes out of Baby's trunk and, crouched down in the seat to avoid prying eyes, swap your blouse for a turtleneck and your blazer for your denim jacket. Just a blue collar slob on her day off looking to have a drink or five. A stocking cap goes over your wig.

"Dean," Mick says as the three of you walk up to the bar's front door, "what happened back there . . . my mistake, it won't happen again."

Dean’s not in a conciliatory mood. "Better not." He hangs back as Mick reaches for the door, only to see Mick pull his arm back with a grimace. "Problem?"

"The old carpal tunnel," he says, clenching and shaking out a fist.

"Well, allow me, your lordship," you say, pulling the door open. "I'm gonna hang back, do a circle of the building."

Mick thanks you and walks through the door, but you stop Dean as he turns to follow. "I saw a needle stick in the middle of Hayden’s chest," you mutter.

"I knew it," Dean growls, just as low. "I fucking knew it."

"Play it cool for now," you say. "We'll put him through the wringer later."

With a nod, Dean goes inside. You do a lap around the building, but nothing jumps out at you. You do catch sight of surveillance cameras covering the front parking area and the back alley. Going inside, you ignore Dean and Mick grilling some tattooed jackass and belly up the bar. From the nervous look on the bartender's face, he's already spent a few minutes getting a Dean Winchester Special Glare. "Vodka and cranberry juice, please." You glance at the patron beside you and get out your phone. "Hi. Ever seen this girl around?"

The canvass is a bust and the manager's not in, so no looking at the security camera footage. Frustrated and disgusted with yourself, you wait outside for the guys to finish up.

They're only a few minutes. "Found the guy Hayden'd been seeing on the sly," Dean reports. "Total douchebag. Definitely fits the profile."

"Did you get a chance to slip him some silver?" you ask.

"No, we're gonna have to do that later."

"So that's the plan? Come back tonight?" Mick asks.

"Yeah. Nice work in there, by the way," Dean says.

"Thank you," Mick replies.

"Yeah, that alibi-- I almost bought it," Dean says.

"Sorry?"

"Gun," Dean tells you. Quick as thought you snatch Mick's weapon from the small of his back and Dean arm-bars him against the nearest wall. "See, here's the thing about sixteen year old girls, especially sixteen year old freshly minted werewolf girls-- they don't just die. And you've been acting sketchy all day."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

You jab Mick in the shoulder and he yelps in pain. "Care to explain why the needle stick from her IV was gone, but not the needle stick in her heart?"

The uncertainty and little-kid dread falls away. Mick straightens his back and looks Dean in the eye for the first time all day. "I did what needed to be done."

"And that means?" Dean asks.

You grab Mick's injured shoulder and squeeze. "Answer him, Mr. Davies."

"Last night, I injected her with silver nitrate," he confesses, groaning in pain.

"So you killed her?" Dean demands. "She never hurt anybody and you killed her."

"Well, she attacked me," Mick defends himself. "She tore up my shoulder. And . . . I had orders."

"No. You had a choice," you say.

"Did I?" Mick demands. "Killing monsters is what we do. Or maybe palling around with demons and witches, you've forgotten."

"Don't you dare tell us how to do our job," you growl.

"Well, then do it," Mick says.

"You really think it's that fucking simple?"

Mick glares at you. "I really do."

"Yeah?" Dean asks. "I used to think the same thing. Well, here's a little tip. Things aren't just black and white out here. All you have is a case in front of you, like Hayden. A few months ago, there was this kid, this psychic. She was killing people, but she didn't mean to hurt anyone-- she was being abused and she was trying to call out for help! So we gave her a second chance because it was the right thing to do."

Mick retorts, "Well . . . that's your luxury. We have a Code."

"And just where does the saving people half of Hunting figure into that Code?" you ask. "Is that a priority or a happy side effect? Because that's not what we're trying to do here."

"And now Hayden's mom, she gets to bury two kids instead of one, thanks to you and thanks to your Code," Dean wraps it all up. "Nice work."

Dean's phone rings as you take shotgun. "It's Sam," he says. "You're on speaker."

Sam tells you.

---

Soaked with sweat and moaning in pain, Claire thrashes on the bed. You check her temperature with the back of one hand. "Fuck, she's burning up. Go fill the tub, we gotta get her fever down."

"No no," Mick corrects you, grabbing the extra blanket from the room's couch. "Keep her warm."

"Back off," Sam snarls at him, using his Alpha voice

"Look, I understand you're angry--"

"You killed a kid," Sam says, and oh hell, you can see the points of his fangs. Mick sees them too, and you can tell he's fighting not to cringe. Fucking Omega reflexes. "We're not angry-- we're done."

Holding herself and shaking, Claire asks, "How long have I got until--"

"It varies," you tell her. "Sometimes it takes a full moon. Sometimes it just takes time."

"Hey," Dean says softly, kneeling in front if the young Alpha. "Listen to me, Claire. Nobody said this was gonna be easy, okay? But you can live with this."

Claire shakes her head. "No way."

"Hey, look at me." When he has her undivided attention, he says, "So you have to stay locked down for a few nights out of the month. The rest of the time, you're you."

"Unless I break out," Claire says as you're thinking it. "Maybe some people can control this," her voice breaks on a sob, "but I can barely keep it together on a good day. So if there's any chance I could hurt Jody or Alex, or anyone, I'd rather die."

You heart breaking, you sit next to Claire and take her in your arms. She buries her face in your neck and scents you. You do your best to keep yourself soft, nurturing, not-scary, an older mated Omega offering comfort.

"Claire, there may be another way," Sam says, his words tripping over each other the way they do when he's thinking and talking at the same time. "There's-- there's the blood therapy that you talked about."

"I told you," Mick says, "it doesn't work. "

"It says right here," Sam finds a passage in the book in front of him and points it out, reading out loud, "one out of nine test subjects was cured. "

"Cured?" Claire asks.

"That study was on mice!"

Dean stalks towards Mick, and yeah, his protective Alpha mode is fully engaged. "You want to tell me what the hell he's talking about?!?"

Mick gulps. "We experimented with the blood of sire werewolves. And we found it was possible to reverse the early stages of lycanthropy. In rodents."

"So you never moved on to human trials," you say.

"Once," Mick reports.

"And?" you ask.

"The subject died, in agony. Sorry," he says to Claire, and to his credit he sounds like he means it.

"Yeah, well. Maybe second time's a charm," she says.

"Hey, no, no-- you don't get a vote in this," Dean tries to head the whole idea off.

"It's my life," Claire counters, her tone brooking no argument. "I get all the votes."

"You guys wanna back me up here?" Dean asks.

“Claire’s a grown woman and a Hunter," you answer your mate. "She's the one who gets to say whether or not this is an acceptable risk."

“She’s right,” Sam adds.

Outnumbered, Dean turns his anger on Mick. "I bet you think this is a great solution. Hmm? It works, or she dies. Either way one less monster, right?"

The human being Mick Davies actually is says, "I don't think there's any great solutions here."

"Dean . . . please? I can't--" Claire moans

“All right,” Dean concedes. “If we do this-- if . . . how do we get it done?”

“We need blood. Live blood, from the werewolf that bit her,” Mick reports.

“Who we lookin' at?” Sam asks.

“Tribal tat, back at the bar,” Dean says. “We shook him down about Claire, and right after, she gets bit-- that's not a coincidence.”

“Timing works out. Connection to both victims,” you note.

“Then we should go,” Mick says. “The full moon rises in less than an hour, and if she turns and feeds, our cheery success rate drops to zero.”

You make as if to rise, but Claire grabs for you, whining softly. “Don’t.”

“It’s okay, I’ll stay right here, it’s okay, shh,” you sit back down and let Claire cling, humming under your breath.

“You trust him?” Sam asks, ticking his head at Mick.

“Mick's a smart guy,” Dean replies. “So when I say that if anything happens to her, and I mean anything--”

“You'll kill me.”

“No,” you tell him. “The boys will bury you.”

Claire peeks up from your neck. “Sam, if you're not back--"

“We’ll be back,” Sam swears.

---

Claire can't sit still, as the change really starts to dig into her. She keeps sitting down, getting up, pacing, sitting down again, clinging to you, shoving you away. Her pale skin bakes with fever and runs with sweat. Her scent shifts to something . . . defiled. Spoiling meat, old blood. Does her designation speed up the process or slow it down? You don't know. Everything you know and everything you can do is useless here, if the object is to preserve life the way you claim it is.

Claire spies Mick’s pistol on the coffee table. Mick sees it and gets to it first.

“You don't understand-- it's happening!” Claire wails. “Give it to me!”

“No,” you and Mick say together.

“Then you do it, please! It's happening! And you don't understand how this feels!”

Mick raises his weapon, and you draw on him. “Make a move asshole. Make a fucking move.”

He doesn’t even look at you. “I know a man who would shoot you right now without a moment's thought,” he says. “And every instinct I have says he's right. That I ought to do my duty.” Your finger tenses on the trigger. You bet you’re faster than he is. “But . . .” Mick’s arm sags, “but my instincts haven't been so grand of late. Sit down.” He notices you, and, making sure to move slowly and telegraph his movements clearly, tucks his pistol into the small of his back.

Claire moans, curling herself into a tight little ball. She looks awful, pale and in pain. “Hey, hey--" you say, rubbing her back. You look up at Mick. “Is there anything we can do for her?”

Mick digs in a suitcase and comes up with a tangle of thick canvas straps. “Firstly, we're gonna restrain you, right? For all of our protection. Okay?” He puts down the straps and picks up a brown glass vial.

“Woah woah woah-- what’ve we got there?” you demand.

“Animal tranquilizer. Xylazine, to be exact With any luck, when you wake up, this will all be over,” he tells Claire.

“If I wake up.” Tears roll down her ghost-pale cheeks. “I gotta call Jody. She's gonna be so mad at me.”

You kneel in front of her, the way Dean did. “Where do you keep your If And When letters?”

Claire sniffles. “What?”

“You’re a Hunter kiddo. It’s a good idea to keep your affairs in order. A will with your next of kin, and if you’ve got a final message for anyone, have it written out.”

She bursts into tears. You hold her and let her cry. You don’t judge. You did the same thing when Peg confronted you with that nugget of advice.

“That’s one hell of a thing to say to her,” Mick snarls at you.

You ignore him in favor of holding Claire. Moving her hair aside, you check the bite wound. The punctures are gone, without a trace. “Shut up and get the fucking straps.”

All three of you leap to your feet as the door bursts in, shattered to kindling.

“MICK NO!” you cry as he goes straight for the intruder, a big guy in a black hoodie and a skull mask. The guy pitches Mick right into you and you go down hard, your pistol flying out of your hand.

The guy advances on Claire. Slowly, he pushes back his hood and pulls off his mask. “Fuck me,” you groan. It’s the bartender from earlier, the one who looked like he’d just taken one in the nuts after getting grilled by Dean. You see your weapon over against the wall and start crawling for it, cussing. Mick’s unconscious body has your lower half pinned, and the fucker’s heavy. A hard sound of flesh and bone and Claire goes down in a flare of golden hair.

You finally fight your way free of Mick and snatch up your Glock. You get one shot off which grazes the guy’s ribs. Before you can fire again he smacks your gun hand to the side and snaps a big hand around your neck.

God you hate it when the bad guys do the Darth Vader thing-- the bartender stands and lifts you by the neck until your toes brush the carpet. “Fresh meat,” he snarls through a mouthful of fangs.

“’Et go,” you wheeze, clawing at his wrist as black sparkles wash across your vision.

---

You wake up in the trunk of a car, hogtied. Motherfucker did a good job of it too, the cords have no play at all and you can’t quite reach them with your claws. You can wiggle and inchy-worm and even turn over a little. And that’s all.

The car stops just as you wrap your fingers around the trunk release. “It’s all right, honey, the pain will pass,” the bartender says softly as he opens the passenger side door and pulls out a groaning Claire.

Maybe he’s leaving you in the trunk for now? Maybe you have enough time to creep away? No choice but to go for it; you twist and pull hard as you can on the release handle and the trunk lid pops up. Good. Great. Air. Smells like the paper mill that’s still operating outside of town.

“Aw no ya don’t.” Picking you up easily despite your struggles, the bartender hauls you inside a rundown little tract house on a long block of houses just like it. The other houses are dark, the driveways buried in snow and plowed in. No one around for miles likely to call the law at a scream or a stray gunshot.

Inside it’s your basic drunk bachelor crashpad, looks like a landfill and smells like a bottle return hasn’t been cleaned since Clinton was in office. The bartender drags you to a couch and dumps you on it. You see Claire tied to the support column between the kitchen and the living room, pale as milk and twitching in pain. “You okay Claire-ree?”

She shoots you an annoyed glare.

“Okay, stupid question,” you concede.

“Shut up! Don’t talk!” the bartender snaps, rushing around the place with a duffel bag and throwing in assorted bits of rickrack. Claire curls up as much as she can and groans. The bartender goes to her, caresses her face. “I know this is sudden, but you and your friends, you should've let me have Hayden. She was miserable here. She . . . we had big plans.”

“Yeah?” Claire asks. “Was that before or after you bit her?”

“I had to know if she could survive the change. Not everyone does.” Claire tosses in her bonds, crying out. The bartender nods. “See? It hurts at first, but eventually, it's like the best drug ever times a thousand.”

“Right. Eat me, Teen Wolf,” Claire snarls.

“It's not like I want to do this,” the bartender says. He pulls up a chair and sits backwards. “My pack, we were happy. We didn't hurt anyone. And then hunters with weapons that I've never seen before, they show up and take out 20 of us, just like that. The ones that made it, we split up, but we weren't meant to live like that. A werewolf needs his pack. You'll see. I'm a nice guy."

"You know who says they're a nice guy?" Claire retorts. "Clingy, insecure bitches with mommy issues."

"The lady is wise beyond her years," you say.

"That's just the change talking. You'll feel better once you've had something to eat." He glares down at you. "I was gonna take you with us, nice juicy Omega. But you're mated, so we'll have to kill your mate first. It's one of them isn't it? One of those guys?"

"Oh you mean the guys who think of killing things like you as exercise? You're dead, boy, and my mate knows how to make dying last for-fucking-ever."

"She's not kidding," Claire adds. "I saw what happens when you rub Dean Winchester the wrong way. He was outnumbered five to one, and when it was over the other guys were in pieces."

"We don't have time to eat fresh," the bartender says. "I'm sorry, we'll have to save her for later." He heads for the refrigerator and pulls out a heart wrapped in Saran wrap. "You'll feel better once you eat something."

"Claire look at me," you say as the bartender peels the wrap off and pries Claire's jaws open.

"Try it," the bartender coaxes, shoving the heart in her open mouth. "You'll like it. Nothing better than human." He shoves harder and you fight to keep from throwing up at the sound of raw meat tearing apart. "As soon as I saw you, I knew . . . you're just like me. Alone. "

Claire hawks back, and spits the bits of torn tissue and blood right back into the bartender's face.

"Good girl!" you shout.

"Wrong," she tells the bartender. "I have a family, and they love me."

"Damn right we do," you add.

Yelling at you to shut up, the bartender drops his claws and fangs. But before he can make a move on you, Claire snaps the ropes around her like they're not even there and hits him from behind. Her fangs are down and her eyes have gone yellow, and superstrength comes as naturally to her as breathing.

The bartender's taller and almost twice her mass though, and it doesn't take long before he has her pinned to the floor. Almost the exact same way you did . . . God, yesterday.

"Claire look at me," you order. "Look at me!" Claire's terrified yellowed eyes lock with yours. "We are not the same as the things we hunt," you tell her, making every word distinct. "You hear me? We are not the same, and we must fight, every minute of every day, to prevent becoming so."

"Please, and you're so fucking civilized," the bartender sneers. "You kill helpless people that never hurt anybody, and in your world we're the monsters."

"You killed an eighteen year old boy, for meat," you retort. "Shove your moral judgements up you ass."

And that's when the door caves in, driven by a kick from Sam. Sam hits the bartender with a full body slam and they both go flying into a wall with a crunch. Dean's right behind him with a knife, and when he sees you he cuts you free with a few neat slices.

"You okay?" he asks.

"Fine. See to Claire," you say, working blood and feeling back into your numb limbs.

Dean helps Claire to her feet. "Claire?" Her head comes up, her mouth full of wolf fangs and her eyes shining gold and round. "Hey, easy, come on--"

She throws him into the wall. You leap onto her back but she grabs your arm and flips you to the floor. You roll out of the way just in time to avoid a punishing kick.

"Woah woah woah woah! Take it easy--" Dean tries again, deflecting a few clawing swipes. She manages a good one across his leg. Dean's trying his damndest to defend himself without hurting her but Claire's out of control and she's fast.

You grab a rope from the floor and throw it over her head, stopping just shy of enough force to choke her. You make yourself ignore her cries and hang on. "Guys--"

In the corner of your eye you see the bartender go down and Sam land on his back. "MICK, HURRY!"

Producing a syringe from God knows where, Mick stabs it into the bartender's back. The bartender whiplashes his head back, catching Sam in the nose and knocking him out cold. Mick grabs him in a sleeper hold but the bartender throws him off before Mick can get a good grip.

Claws rake over your side as Claire twists enough to reach, and you lose your grip. "HEY!" Dean shouts, and when Claire turns her attention that way Dean says, "Sorry kid," and lays her out with a punch in the jaw. The bartender lunges for Dean, and two gunshots ring out. The bartender drops, dead before he hits the floor.

Mick holsters his weapon and plucks the ampule full of blood off the bartender's back. "Find a vein," he snaps at you as he pulls a little zipper case out of his chest pocket.

"Right. Belt," you say to Dean and he yanks it off and hands it over. "Hold her down in case she comes to," and Dean rolls Claire to her back and drapes his torso over her hips. Sam's just coming around; he takes the situation in an eyeblink and holds down Claire's legs.

"She wanted this. Right?" Dean asks Sam.

"Oh yeah," Sam confirms.

You cinch Dean’s belt around Claire’s bicep. Thank God, Claire's got nice big veins. She's just starting to moan her way back to consciousness when Mick slips the needle in and injects the cure.

Claire's eyes blink wide. Her body convulses and everybody leaps away. Screaming in pain, she rolls to her knees and curls up in a tight little kowtow.

---

It goes on like that for the rest of the night. Dean sits backwards in one of the café chairs, blood crusted on his shredded pant leg. Sam gets out the scuffle with some bruised ribs and a monster headache. Mick's still favoring one arm from earlier and he's sporting a hell of a shiner. All three men look pale as cream, watching Claire writhing on the couch. You're bathing her forehead with cool washcloths and letting her scent your wrist. No idea if it's helping or making things worse, but you don't want her to feel you leaving.

"How long does this process take?" you ask Mick.

"I don't know!" he whisper-screams at you. "It could take hours or days!" You bite your lips to keep from asking, if Mick brought the tranquilizers and the silver nitrate. If this doesn't work you're going to do what you can to make sure Claire passes painless, going to sleep and never waking up.

Dean abruptly gets to his feet, muttering something about needing air. You could hate him in that moment, you really could. An Alpha has the luxury of display, you recall from the one comportment class your mother forced on you. An Omega must be made of sterner stuff.

Claire arches back as every muscle in her body seizes. She howls, long and agonal, and slumps back on the couch cushions.

You rest your fingers over Claire’s pulse. “Her heartbeat’s really irregular,” you report.

Mick nods. “Stand by to start chest compressions,” he says.

“Wait,” you say. Her jaw and mouth are shifting, subtly. “Claire?” you ask, as Sam yells for Dean and Dean bursts in through the ruined door. “Claire-ree, can you hear me? C’mon, open up those baby blues for us.”

Claire’s eyes flutter open. Pure blue, deep lakes and Midwestern skies. “You guys look like crap,” she croaks.

“You look worse,” you retort, and you and Claire share a painful little laugh.

---

With the resilience of the young, Claire’s back on her feet after a few hours sleep and a solid breakfast. “That girl is a walking miracle,” Mick notes the next morning as Claire stuffs her gear into her car.

“In many ways,” you agree. You and Claire had drunk a couple beers and gotten to talking as you'd worked together cleaning and dressing the claw marks on your side, the kind of girl talk you suspect she wouldn’t be comfortable having with the boys. In the process she’d told you about letting Castiel possess her, and watching her father begging to take her place. You’re still not sure how you feel about that; Cas is your brother now, but . . .

“Listen, uh,” Dean says to Mick, and you put away your brooding for now. “Thanks for the win back there.”

“So,” Mick says, sounding a little bit hopeful, “we’re good?”

“Not quite, but we’ll give you a second chance,” Sam replies.

“Just don’t fuck it up. There won’t be a third,” Dean adds.

“Okay,” Mick accepts.

“And we’re gonna want to know more about this Code,” you say.

Before Mick can formulate a response, Claire comes over. “Hey.”

“Hey. How you feeling?” Sam asks.

Claire smiles. She really is breathtakingly beautiful. “Honestly? I’m sort of craving a Milk Bone right now.” She swallows. “Look, um . . . what I said before . . . you guys are here when I need you, and that’s all that matters.”

“You gonna tell Jody what happened?” you ask.

“I don’t know,” Claire admits. You bite back your opinions; Claire already knows them and this isn’t the time for an argument. You stand by your remarks to Dean. Claire's a grown woman and has the right to decide how much she shares of her life.

“Well whatever you decide, we got your back,” Dean tells her. He opens his arms and Claire steps into them, letting him hold her close. Sam does the same; she looks tiny in his embrace. They’d make wonderful fathers, your boys, and it’s viciously unfair they’ll never get the chance.

You put your hand on Claire’s shoulder. She turns and throws her arms around you. “Here,” you hand her a card. “Anything you need, call me-- backup, expertise, someone to bitch to besides law enforcement.”

“I will,” Claire promises.

She looks over at Mick, who’s hanging back. She grabs him in a fierce hug. “Thank you,” she says.

Slowly, like a man who isn’t used to being touched, Mick’s arms go around her to hold her gently. “You’re very welcome, miss.” He touches the back of a knuckle to her cheek. “Take care of yourself Claire.”

“So!” Dean says as the four of you watch Claire get into her car, her phone held up to her ear, “that was fun.”

“’Bout as fun as a root canal,” you grumble. Baby growls up and the good guys pile in. “Homeward, Jeeves.”

---

“Oh God, fuck!” you cry out.

Dean’s beyond articulation, he's all animal grunts and moans. His hips snap into yours, burying all his cock inside you again and again. You force your knees apart so far you can feel tendons straining. Anything to get your mate closer, get more of him inside where he belongs.

As your arms collapse and your front end slumps over, Dean drags you upright. Those big, clever hands are everywhere. Everywhere he touches, the nerves fucking riot. If sex had ever felt anything near this good you don’t remember. You vaguely recall thinking, it was just a cycle, nothing you and Dean haven’t gone through already. You weren’t prepared for this. Your heat; it’s deeper, hungrier, now that it has a specific target. Not just Alpha. Your Alpha.

You cry out, “No!” when Dean suddenly withdraws.

“Wanna see your face,” he pants, flipping you onto your back. He pumps his cock once as he guides himself back to your soaked, slick pussy. You throw your legs up over his hips as he slides in, as he goes right back to fucking every single cell of your brains out. You cough out a giggle when Dean clonks his forehead to yours. “Shut up,” he heaves, holding your eyes to his with a hand on your jaw. They’re gleaming, the green deep and dark and beautiful.

You clamp yourself around Dean when you finally come, in a harsh burst of light and dark and just . . . force. Arms and legs and pussy, all of it holding him to you tight. “Oh baby,” you pant, almost weeping. That wasn’t a climax-- it was a fucking fusion explosion, the kind that ignites stars and sets galaxies whirling.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees, panting like he just got done sprinting around the world. “Yeah.” Careful of your knotted together bodies, Dean rolls to his back. You shiver as he shifts inside you. God you're so . . . blown away the aftershocks almost hurt.

You lie together in warmth and quiet, as Dean’s knot eventually collapses and your cunt lets him go. Dean fluffs at your cropped hair, making you giggle and kiss over his heart.

“It keeps getting better,” you say.

“Mmm?” Dean grunts.

“Every time,” you say. “I keep thinking, yep, this is the best sex I’ve ever had in my life. And it keeps getting better. How do you even do that?”

Gleaming with pride, Dean kisses you. “Grading on a curve?”

Giggling, you smack his arm. “Oh knock it off, your ego’s big enough.”

“I didn’t think it’d be like this either,” Dean says. “I mean, I thought-- I mean, the closest thing I ever had to, y’know, this, was Lisa. And . . . I . . .” Dean trails off, searching for words. “I cared about her, a lot. Wasn’t like this. Not even close.”

“She’s a Beta, right?” you ask. Dean’s nothing if not a considerate lover but there’s still physical challenges involved when a knot goes near a hole not designed for it.

“Yeah. And that’s-- it’s part of it, yeah.” Dean goes quiet, one hand warm on your back. You’re fine with quiet. Who wants to hear about The Ex four seconds after getting their world rocked to the molten core? “It wasn’t real though. Not really. I wasn’t . . . me, then. I wanted it to be. But . . . it didn’t fit right, you know? I thought-- I thought I could just . . . not be me, when I was with them.”

"What's so awful about being you?" you ask.

Dean recoils a little. "You're kidding right?"

You look into his face. "Dude it's not your fault the forces of evil want to take a bite out of your ass. Shit, I applaud their good taste."

Dean scowls. "That's not funny."

"It's a little funny."

"Not."

You sigh. "You're never gonna completely forgive yourself for that whole situation are you?"

"I shouldn't," Dean says. "I mean, I swore-- I caught Ben playing around with one of my shotguns once, and I swore-- I swore, as long as I was around he'd never shoot a gun. Then Sam calls and what do I go and do? I run off. If I'd really cared about him, I would've told Sam to stick it--"

You snort. "Yeah, that's never happening. Look," you say, and hope like hell you're not sticking your foot in your mouth, "if it hadn't been Sam it would've been something else. You can't . . . I don't think you could turn your back on the bad guys forever. That doesn't make you bad. Not being suited for normal doesn't make you a bad man, man. You did the best you could with the shit situation you got handed to you."

"So did Dad," Dean says. "And look how that turned out."

"Don't say that," you tell him. "You're not personally responsible for the shit state of the world and you did the best you could to mitigate the damage. Baby you gotta let the rest go. As much of it as you can anyway." You stretch up and kiss him, gently.

“Anyway, what I started to say was . . .” Dean trails off again. “Loving you . . . I mean, being in love with you . . . I mean, it feels like it’s something that just is. I don’t have to worry about who I am when I’m with you. Because who I am-- that guy loves you. I think he always did.”

“Referring to ourselves in the royal we now?” you tease. As the words leave your mouth though, a tear falls out of your eye and splats down onto Dean’s chest.

“Fuck, baby, don’t cry--”

“I’m not,” you sniffle. “Post-world-rocked blowback.”

“I rocked your world?”

“Knocked the building down. You’re a mighty mountain shaking Alpha of a man, Dean Winchester.”

That gets your face seized in a fierce kiss, Dean speaking with his body the way he does when the words won’t come. You answer him with yours as best you can, kissing along his jaw and down his neck. Love and family-- after years of living on the shallow sips of professional acquaintance, you’re knelt by an oasis drinking deep. Water and shade and flowers under the desert sun.

You smile against Dean’s mouth. Dammit, love’s making your flowery. But beneath the sweet metaphors and soft feelings is something hard and watchful, and it makes a decision right about the time Dean buries his head between your legs and has you for dessert.

---

In your experience, it’s always a table for two in a dim and quiet restaurant. The other person is always an older gentleman with courtly manners and dead eyes. He sips tea from a Russian style glass-in-metal cup. “You have been our friend for many years and never asked for anything in return. Then you ask for a very large favor and come to ask another.”

“That’s right.” Unnecessary talk isn’t welcome here. You’re an ally, not a confidant-- best for all concerned it stays that way.

The elderly gentleman takes a baranki as you decant more tea from the samovar on the table. The scent of citrus and sugar floats on the rising steam. “Steadfast friendship should be rewarded. Tell me what you need.”

You outline the situation, noting the lack of surprise in the elderly gentleman’s face. That could mean a lot of things though. Or it could mean nothing. The elderly gentlemen do not reveal their feelings, certainly not to you. “I need to know everything. Their leadership, their history. Their allies and their enemies. Assets and liabilities. Everything.”

“This is a very large favor,” the elderly gentleman notes again.

“Too large?” you ask.

“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” He studies you a moment, with the eyes of a scientist examining a cell as it dies on a microscope’s slide. “May I know why you agreed to collaborate with these . . . Men Of Letters if you do not trust them?”

“Because on the face of it, they’re right. Centralization and coordination would let us push back against the enemy in ways we can’t working alone. Honestly, I’m probably just being paranoid.”

“Your instincts have guided you true for many years now. They are worth listening to.” The elderly gentleman thaws, just a little. “You must love him very much.”

It’s a fact, that’s all. Peg’s friends need to know. “With every fiber of my being.”

The elderly gentleman nods. “We will do what we can for you. I must ask this-- does your mate know of your association with us?”

“He knows I have allies I haven’t told him about and that I do them favors,” you say. “I’ll have to tell him the rest someday.”

“You will warn us before you do.” It’s not a request and you nod. The elderly gentleman finishes his tea and rises, bending to kiss your cheeks. “Shchisleevava putee.”

“Spasibo. Do svidanya.”

You linger over your tea a while after he leaves. We must be what we are, else we become our enemies, another elderly gentleman had said to you once, the first time your impulse for pity backfired and people died. We are not the same as the things we hunt, and must fight every minute of every day to never become so, your own voice many times over the years-- in plea, in instruction, in explanation.

Your continued relations with the monstrous people is in service of an older, darker truth. One of the harsh things you and Dean share. The grease on the slippery slope, the bed under the road paved with good intentions.

There is nothing beneath me when it comes to protecting my family.

---

AN2: Russian: "Safe journey." "Thank you. Goodbye."

The Battle of Cassino was an attempt by the Allies to neutralize enemy positions around the historic Benedictine abbey on top of Monte Cassino, part of the larger campaign to capture Rome. To make a very long story short, it was a bloody affair that took four months and ended with roughly 75,000 total casualties. Allied forces finally captured the abbey on May 18, 1944. Rome itself fell on June 4.

Starting to go seriously AU, so the next installment might not be for a while. Don't worry, we're not done here. Not by a long shot.

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