A Psychic, a Hunter, and a Werewolf Walk Into a Bar [4/4]
Title: A Psychic, a Hunter, and a Werewolf Walk Into a Bar
Series/Collection: Psych You Out (A Supernatural Remix)
Rating: M
Characters: Shawn, Dean, MotW
Warnings: language, gore, Dean and his normal brand of roguish charm
Spoilers: none
Genres: Friendship, Gen, Supernatural, Hurt/Comfort, Action/Adventure, Humor
Chapters: 4
Completed: Yes
Word count: 3319 (total: 10,479)
Disclaimer: See chapter 1.
Notes: See chapter 1.
Summary: Shawn was just minding his business and playing some pool when his life took a sharp turn South. And he's not talking Georgia here. But at least it's good company.
1 2 3 4
Dean kept his word and woke Shawn every two hours exactly, asked him a couple of questions-though not the usual post concussion questions, because, frankly, Dean would have no way of knowing the right answers-and then let him drift back off.
It was easier every time and the last time he didn't even wait for Dean to shake his shoulder.
He blinked and realized the sun was peeking through the windows and Dean was still laying in the other bed, chest rising and falling regularly.
Was it morning already? Guh.
Shawn sighed and stared at the ceiling, but a ginger probing of his head and mental assay of the rest of him revealed that he was well on the road to recovery. After he had some more painkillers anyway.
He fished a couple out of the bottle, shuffled to the bathroom to get some water and answer nature's call and then came back to find Dean sitting up, scratching sleepily at his head, and blinking owlishly in the morning light.
"Morning," Shawn mumbled.
Dean leveled a glare his way and grumbled something.
So not a morning person then.
But a couple of cups of coffee from the room's carafe later he was much more sociable.
And after he showered he was downright chipper.
Well, by Shawn's estimation.
But Shawn wasn't really human until after ten no matter what he did or ingested.
Dean ventured out into the world for food while Shawn shuffled back to his room and showered and changed.
Afterward he packed up his stuff and thought about checking out and heading out, but, well, he was a curious kind of guy. And Dean Winchester said and did things that poked Shawn's curiosity. Things that could drop a cat at fifty paces.
So when he saw the black muscle car was parked in the spot in front of room eleven he only thought for a half a second before knocking on the door.
Dean answered with a smirk. "Thought you might come back. You like burgers?"
Shawn nodded, face flushing when his stomach added a resounding "YES!" of a growl.
Dean just chuckled and stepped back.
"What would you have done if I didn't come back?" Shawn asked, curiosity bubbling over in the form of the first of many questions.
Dean shrugged. "Eaten it? I'm not normally a fan of anything but a classic cow on a bun, but this Hawaiian thing they have at the diner is pretty good."
Shawn's ears perked up at that as he reached for his burger and began unwrapping. Hawaiian, when added as a tag to food, usually meant one thing . . . Oh sweet Pele.
"It has pineapple," Shawn breathed.
Dean nodded and took a second mouth-filling bite of his own burger. "It does indeed," he added, not bothering to hide the partially chewed food. Dean was pretty sure that, unlike Sam, Shawn wouldn't care. Also, he didn't make exceptions for Sam, so why would he for Shawn? He only used his manners when a case warranted it or a hot girl was present. Otherwise it was a waste of effort.
Actually, Shawn took no notice whatsoever of Dean's manners or lack thereof. He was too engrossed in contemplating the wonder that was a burger with a pineapple slice on it.
"Dude, if you were a girl I'd be seriously considering proposing marriage."
Dean stopped chewing. "E'scuse me?" he said, garbled as it was by the mouthful of food.
Shawn looked up and Dean leaned back slightly. The look of joy on Shawn's face was downright freaking him out.
"Pineapple, dude!" Shawn said, like that explained everything.
Dean finished his bite and swallowed. "Okay," he said, taking a drink from the Coke he'd gotten to accompany his burger. "I'm just glad I'm not a girl then."
The conversation pretty much died after that as the two of them devoured their burgers, though it picked up again when they were left with just fries and drinks.
It started with what Shawn was doing on the road but, as Dean expected, it turned to how he knew what the werewolf was and why he'd been there when it attacked.
Dean gave the short version of what he did for a living, though he did tell the truth. It might have had some gaps in it, but everything he said was true.
And Shawn had accepted it with much more gusto than most people who survived an attack by the supernatural. Until of course, he managed to weasel stories of other things Dean had hunted out of him while Dean opened the weapons' bag and started the post-hunt maintenance of his arsenal.
"Wait, you hunt ghosts?" Shawn said. He said it in a serious tone, but the way his lips kept twitching betrayed his amusement and incredulity.
Dean just picked up his sawed-off and selected the proper brush as he arched an eyebrow. "You got a problem with that?"
Shawn shook his head. "No. Not at all. I just . . ." He shrugged. "Ghosts? Really?"
Dean's first impulse was annoyance, especially since Shawn had so easily accepted the rest of it, but he knew everyone, even hunters, had their sticking point, the one thing they just really could not accept was actually out there even when they knew all the other things that were. His had been fairies. Until that fateful summer when he was sixteen . . . But that was a story he wouldn't share with Sam, let alone someone he was not related to who wasn't a hunter.
The other reason he was more lenient than normal was that Shawn had managed to out-hustle him. They'd tied on charming the ladies-or both had failed miserably to find a playmate for the night, but in Dean's book that was still a tie because both had gone home lonely. Well, of female companionship.
Anyway, if Shawn had also been able to out-drink him there would have been hate for the guy.
Shawn also had a Norton Commando. And while Dean was mostly a car kind of guy, he could appreciate the smooth lines of a bike like that. And Shawn talked with the same reverence and showed it the same love Dean showed his baby so it wasn't just a showpiece. The guy knew something about engines obviously. Unlike Sam, who couldn't tell a socket wrench from a screwdriver.
He really needed to stop thinking about Sam.
Right. So Dean was pretty sure that if he'd had a normal childhood and grown up in Santa Barbara, California, he and Shawn would have been pretty good friends.
Not to mention that, despite the fact that he was questioning the existence of ghosts right now, he'd held his own against the werewolf last night. Even more impressive since he'd been drunk as a sailor on shore leave.
So yeah, Shawn Spencer was a pretty decent guy in Dean's book. Even if he did have a really girly scream.
None of this stopped Dean from his response to Shawn's disbelief though. Pretty much the same one that every hunter used in this situation. "You helped kill and roast a werewolf last night. Why can't there be ghosts?"
Shawn opened his mouth to protest, but shut it again after a moment of silence. He tried once more, then nodded. "Touché."
Dean smirked and reassembled the shotgun he'd finished cleaning.
"So now what?" Shawn asked, finishing his fries with a last ketchup smothering dip and stuffing the whole handful in his mouth.
Dean shrugged one shoulder and sighted down the barrel of his handgun to see how dirty it was. Not much, but then he kept his guns in good condition. And easy habit to form when one learned weapons maintenance from a Marine.
"Now I go find some other fugly to kill."
Shawn nodded, considered that. "So this is like your . . . job?"
Dean tilted his head, the brush moving in a rhythm so steady you'd never know he wasn't paying that much attention.
"Well, I don't get paid. And the health benefits suck." Shawn snorted, recalling how he'd watch Dean stitch his own leg closed last night. And the mild concussion that still had his own eyes losing focus every now and again.
"Yeah. No kidding."
"But I get to play with guns," Dean said with a grin and a waggle of his eyebrows. "And I don't have to wear a uniform."
Oh now that was a selling point if Shawn had ever heard one.
"I get to set my own schedule. I travel the country. I meet lots of very fine young women." Shawn tipped his drink cup in Dean's direction. Oh yes. Another excellent point.
Dean shrugged. "I don't have to answer to some moron that knows even less about what's going on than I do. And I get to help people. What's not to love about a job like this? Seriously, where else can you find half of that?"
Shawn said nothing while Dean checked the barrel once more and then began reassembling the weapon.
"How does one get into the hunting business?"
Dean slowed, glancing up at Shawn.
"One doesn't."
Shawn's eyebrows rose. "I'm sorry?"
Dean finished the process with a snap of the slide, then set the gun aside, picking up his Bowie and his sharpening kit.
"No, I'm serious," Shawn said, not the least put off by the fact that he was poking at a guy who was currently wielding with great familiarity a Bowie knife as long as Shawn's forearm. But then, Dean hadn't killed him yet so he probably wasn't planning to. And if he was, well, it was unlikely, based on what he'd seen and heard, that Shawn would be able to save himself. So he might as well ask his questions.
"I know you are," Dean replied calmly. "And so am I."
"What? There's no openings in the company? You expect me to buy that?"
Dean sighed, but didn't stop the gentle back and forth motions of blade across whetstone.
"Okay, yeah, I'm not quite sure I buy the ghost thing, but, hey, I'm willing to let myself be persuaded. And it's not like I'm completely helpless. I mean, last night. Need I say more?" he asked.
Dean laughed, but just said, "Look, Shawn, it's not you."
Shawn snorted.
"No, really, it's not." Dean's brow furrowed. "I mean, it kind of is, but . . ."
A single eyebrow arched. "Is it or isn't it?"
Dean shot him a glare, but Shawn was half smiling so Dean didn't do more than grumble a soft, "Smartass."
He took a moment to eyeball the edge on the blade, then added more oil and kept going. "It's not that I think you lack the necessary intelligence or skill set to do the job."
Shawn opened his mouth, but Dean kept going. "Well, okay, some of the necessary skill set, maybe. Unless you can recite the Rituale Romanum?"
"The who with the what now?" Shawn asked.
"It's an exorcism."
"As in . . ." A hand was waved.
"Yeah. As in exorcising demons. Anyway, I'm sure even what you don't know you could learn easily. You're obviously a pretty smart guy."
Shawn shifted in his seat. "And also a very straight guy."
Dean snorted.
"Just making sure we had that out there and there was no confusion," Shawn said.
"Dude, I am so not hitting on you. I thought we established last night that I like my sleepover buddies with all the same things you like-and nothing you have."
"Hey," Shawn said, raising his hands, "I'm just making sure. You're the one rolling out all the compliments. You're smart and funny and I love your bike . . ."
Dean laughed. "Shut up, Bitch."
"I though we just established that last night we established I'm no one's bitch."
Dean glanced up, his eyes flickering with something when he looked at Shawn that bore a close resemblance to surprise and then pain, but it was gone and his eyes went back to the knife, all clinical judge again.
Interesting. But not the topic Shawn currently wanted to pursue.
"Anyway, like I was saying. You might be able to physically do the job, but . . ." He shrugged and wiped the knife clean, sheathing it and turning to face Shawn squarely. "You want to know how to get into the business?"
Shawn leaned forward. "Hell yes."
"I lost my mother when I was four years old."
Shawn blinked and jerked back. "I . . . I'm sorry."
"Yeah. Me too." A blink of more pain and sorrow, then it was gone again.
"My dad lost his wife."
He added look that said, Obviously.
Shawn nodded.
"Know a guy named Joshua. He's something of an expert on witches. He lost his wife and two girls to a witch's curse."
Shawn was beginning to regret eating that last handful of fries.
"Caleb, he lost his parents and twin brother to a werewolf."
Shawn set down the cup, pushing it away.
"You seeing the pattern here?"
Shawn nodded, his enthusiasm seemingly thoroughly squashed.
Then he frowned.
"So you have to lose a family member to get in?" Shawn didn't know if even that would be enough for him to keep going, but then he thought about Gus facing down that werewolf last night without Dean or someone else there to save him. And suddenly he thought maybe he could understand.
Dean gave him a stern look.
"Shawn."
Shawn looked up. "What?"
"It takes a certain kind of person. Someone who doesn't really have anything to lose. Who is willing to fight a thankless fight, give up everything they have, any hope of being normal, and live on the outskirts of society to probably end up dead in the woods someday where their body will most likely never be found, let alone identified or claimed.
"You have to beg, borrow, and steal everything you have. You live off credit card fraud and hustling pool and poker because you can't get a nine-to-five job. Any hope of a lasting relationship beyond a one-night-stand has to be shelved indefinitely-and most likely forever. It's lonely and it's hard and some days it's not fucking worth it."
Shawn arched an eyebrow and leaned back. "I don't believe that."
Dean stared at him for a few long seconds, then sighed and slumped a little, reaching for his weapons bag to start packing things back up. "Whatever, man. Go get a gun and some rock salt and try your hand at demon hunting. But don't come crying to me when you get yourself killed by some poltergeist in the middle of nowhere."
He stopped and pointed at Shawn.
"And don't you dare tell people that I got you into this. I have a reputation to uphold."
Shawn frowned. "No, I mean I don't believe that it's not worth it."
Now it was Dean's turn to arch an eyebrow, though he didn't stop packing.
"Obviously it's worth it or you wouldn't put up with all that stuff you just listed."
Dean's head bobbed back and forth. "Yeah, well, I'm not exactly the poster boy for mental health, you know?"
Shawn laughed. "Yeah, I, uh, kinda picked up on that."
Dean mock-glared. "Thanks," he said sarcastically. "I save your ass from becoming a werewolf chew toy and you're calling me crazy? Remind me to wait before I shoot so I can get you both with one bullet next time."
"Hey man, you started it," Shawn said lifting his hands to a position of surrender. "And I was talking about your pyromaniac tendencies. That's not a healthy obsession, dude."
"Whatever. Fire is awesome. And I know how to burn things responsibly."
Shawn laughed. "Wow. My father would so not have let us be friends as kids."
Dean grinned. Yeah, he kind of had that effect on people.
"Anyway," Shawn continued, more serious now, "I get where you're coming from. And you're right, it's probably not for me. It sounds really exciting, but if last night was any indication of the kind of stuff you normally see then it's probably not my kind of job."
Dean snorted. He didn't want to hurt Shawn's pride, but last night had been a still rookie werewolf and one of the easiest hunts he'd ever been on. Shawn's interference included. Saying that was an indication of what hunting was like was like saying that playing a video game was an indication of what it was like to join the military and go to war.
"I just don't buy that crap about it not being worth it."
Dean didn't say anything to that. Because most days what he'd said was a lie. But some days . . . Well, some days it wasn't so much of a lie.
Dean finished stuffing his clothes in his bag. "Are you done with the chick flick moment?"
Shawn laughed softly. "Yeah, dude. And I would like to once again point out that you totally started it."
"Nuh uh. You asked the question. I just answered it."
"Yeah okay. Whatever."
Dean shrugged and slung the weapons duffel over a shoulder, his personal duffel in his hand.
Shawn recognized the cue for what it was and stood, tossing his cup in the trash.
"So, off to go kill more, uh," Shawn waved a hand, "whatevers?"
"Yup. Off to try more crazy-ass jobs wherever you can find them?"
"Yup."
They headed out and Dean stowed the duffels, then went back to where Shawn was standing on the sidewalk in front of his own room, situating his backpack comfortably on his shoulders.
"Thanks for the help," Dean said, holding out a hand.
"Thanks for saving my ass," Shawn replied with a smirk as he shook the hand.
Dean chuckled. "Next full moon try staying indoors. And away from parks."
"Try opening your eyes when you aim," Shawn shot back wryly. "It tends to increase your accuracy."
"I will try to remember that, Rawhide," Dean drawled.
"Oh hey, here." Shawn pulled out his wallet and peeled several twenties out of the stack of last night's winnings.
"Nah, that's okay," Dean said.
"Seriously, dude, take it," Shawn said, holding it out and waving it slightly. "You saved my ass last night and you put up with my questions this morning. It's the least I can do. Besides, you play one hell of a pool game and I'd bet your car, beauty that she is, guzzles gas like there's no tomorrow."
Dean gave Shawn another considering look, then accepted the money. "Thanks."
He climbed in his car, revving the engine and smiling at the familiar growl as Shawn straddled his bike and reached for his helmet. Then Dean rolled down the window.
"Hey, Shawn."
"Yeah?"
"Santa Barbara far from Palo Alto?"
Shawn frowned. "About five hours, why?"
Dean considered, then shook his head. "Just curious. See ya 'round, man."
"Yeah, see ya."
The classic black beauty was backed up and then pulled out of the lot and onto the road.
Shawn watched it go and wondered about the man inside.
Then he shrugged and secured his helmet. You met the strangest-and quite possibly awesomest-people on the road.