Numb3rs/Supernatural Fic: Alliance, Chapter Three/9
Title: Alliance
Author: ALEO
aleo_70
Genre: Gen
Characters: Don Eppes, Charlie Eppes, Dean Winchester, and cameo by Sam Winchester
Fandoms: Numb3rs/Supernatural - crossover
Rating: PG 13+
Warning: violence, supernatural themes, horror
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I just borrowed them. Numb3rs, Supernatural and associated characters are the property of those that created them. No copyright infringement intended. No financial reward gained. All real places and organisations are used in a fictional sense. Anything you don't recognise comes from my imagination.
Spoilers - Numb3rs: Hot Shot & Thirteen; - Supernatural: nil.
Status: Chapter 3 of 9
Wordcount (this chapter): 2683
Total wordcount: ~21,400
Summary: Investigating a series of occult related murders in Los Angeles FBI Special Agent Eppes has another encounter with Dean Winchester.
CHAPTER THREE
Don waited silently as he saw the struggle Dean was having against his nature, understanding that talking about people like him to outsiders was against whatever code he lived by. His patience was rewarded a couple of minutes later as Dean started talking.
Damien Best was born and raised in Alliance, Nebraska. Best came to hunting late, not starting until his mid-teens after he was attacked by a creature out of folklore one night out in one of the town’s fields. He survived and discovered an aptitude for violence that was a necessary skill for hunters. He was shaky on lore but with a little help from other hunters learnt what he needed. As time went on his confidence grew and he soon started going after deadlier and more dangerous creatures alone. His reputation was earning him a place in conversations amongst hunters that included mentions of the Winchester brothers. It had been suggested in more than a few hunter bars that they should team up as together they would be able to take on the worst of the monsters out there.
Dean sneered as he recounted that but Don didn’t interrupt.
About a year or so ago things started to change. Rumours started revolving around the worrying trait of how collateral damage, always a regretful risk in a hunter’s life, seemed to be increasing on his hunts. As time went on it seemed that there were less and less monsters being taken down by Best even as the body count of innocents continued to rise. Worried, the hunter community tried to seek him out to find out what had happened but those that had planned to speak with him were later found in various states of dismemberment. There was never enough to prove it until now but Dean had started to believe that Best was responsible. Finally, hearing about a sequence of deaths in Los Angeles which seemed to bear all of Best’s hallmarks and even worse had a strong resemblance to a long and seriously powerful summoning spell the Winchesters had started their own hunt.
Certain that Best had been taken over by a demon or spirit they’d planned for every eventuality and finally tracked him to an abandoned house in South Central LA. There it had all gone to hell. They’d caught Best in a demon trap and Sam started running through their prepared spells. Best had resisted them but soon seemed to respond, calming and pleading for their help. That was when Sam got too close and Best simply stepped out of the supposed trap and got a knife to his throat. Dean had been helpless but had tried anyway, getting himself shot and left for dead as Best took Sam away, unconscious after his own struggle failed.
“We’re gonna find him and get Sammy back,” Dean finished. The fierce determination in his voice left no doubt he meant what he said.
“We’ll get him,” Don agreed. With what the other man had just given him they had far better shot at finding Best than they’d had before. There was still more that could help them, “What type of car does he drive?”
“He’s got a black -“ Dean started but stopped, his eyes going vacant for a moment.
Concerned that Dean may have been succumbing to his injuries Don rushed over but Dean blinked and looked up. “He’s here.”
About to ask who Don remembered they were expecting someone. He looked to the door but there was no sound. Frowning he turned back to see Dean jerk his head at the door.
Moving quietly Don went to his door and peered through the peephole. A small man, barely five foot tall, stood there waiting as if confident his arrival had been announced. As best he could tell no one else was in the corridor but ever wary, and needing the reassurance, Don drew his Glock.
“Uh, uh,” Dean grunted from behind him.
Turning cautiously Don saw Dean aiming his Colt at him.
“Put it away, Fed,” Dean ordered. As the agent hesitated he continued, “It’s for your own good. You’ve no idea what he’d do if you pulled a gun on him.”
Putting his gun away was far from being told to put his gun down. He still wasn’t sure how much of Dean’s world he believed in but he knew he was out of his depth in most of it. After another moment Don complied, holstering his Glock. Once Dean had shoved his own gun back into his belt he turned back to the door, removing the chain and unlocking it. He pulled it open far enough to let the man in then quickly shut it again.
The man walked in as if he owned the apartment. Stopping at the coffee table to put his bag down he waited for the agent to finish locking up and join them.
Don returned the appraising look, seeing a fairly ordinary looking short, thin man wearing an old but serviceable suit. The bag was a well used, if somewhat clichéd, black doctor’s bag. With the half spectacles on his face the man, who Don judged to be in his early 50s, looked for all the world like an ordinary doctor. The agent figured he was probably struck off the register if he regularly dealt with people like the Winchesters but a doctor nonetheless.
Then Don looked in the eyes and saw a flash of something he would later try to tell himself he imagined. Whatever it was it had him stepping back in sudden trepidation. His hand twitched but remembering Dean’s warning it stayed empty at his side. Don changed his mind, this was no ordinary doctor. Or man. He remembered Dean’s term, witch. Right now he could believe it.
“Smart one, this one,” the man, the witch, finally said glancing away from the agent to his patient.
“Maybe,” Dean answered.
“He listens to you,” the witch insisted.
Dean found that amusing if his snort was anything to go by.
“But, hiding the badge doesn’t change who he is,” he added giving Dean a disapproving look.
“Well, like you say,” Dean started, glancing at the uneasy agent. “He listens to me.”
“Mmpf,” the witch grunted. Instead of walking out he started rummaging through his bag. The coffee table was soon littered with various articles, some of which Don could identify, some he couldn’t. Keeping his distance and his silence he watched as the man picked up some scissors and cut away Dean’s shirt. Seeing the bloody bullet wounds clearly for the first time he could only be amazed that Dean wasn’t already dead let alone fully conscious and mobile.
“Make yourself useful and get some warm water,” The witch ordered, turning to the hovering agent. “And something to clean away the blood.”
Backing away Don went to his kitchen and got the water in a large bowl and a roll of paper towel. He returned and found a small vacant spot on the coffee table where he put the bowl down. Holding out the paper towel for the witch to take he swallowed at the look he received.
“What are you looking at me for?” The witch snapped. “You carry a gun and know how to use it. Surely you know how to clean up the mess they make?”
Not game to open his mouth and risk antagonising the witch any further he moved carefully around to where he could reach Dean’s injuries. He dug into his pocket for the pair of latex gloves he kept there for emergencies and slipped them onto his hands. Wetting some paper towel with the warm water Don paused as he saw Dean’s gun was no longer tucked into the front of his jeans but was being held in his hand. He shared a challenging glance but when Dean didn’t move Don started working at Dean’s chest and side, carefully cleaning the blood away and using up half the roll before he was done. The bullet wounds were still sluggishly bleeding so he reached for Dean’s medical bag intending to find some sterile gauze but found the witch blocking him.
“What are you doing?”
“I-,” Don trailed off.
“Get out of my way.”
Scrambling back Don moved back, stopping only when he was several yards away where he could watch safely. Given everything else he wasn’t surprised when he saw the mortar and pestle from the witch was now scraping a mashed up green substance onto a piece of white cloth. He put more of the green substance onto two other pieces of folded cloth before putting the mortar and pestle aside. He figured he was looking at some form of herbal poultice, popular in faith healing and very old school medicine. The witch reached next for a jar and carefully took a pinch of powder that he sprinkled lightly over each poultice. He wasn’t expecting the knife to be produced and slashed across the heel of the witch’s left hand, the blood allowed to drip three times on each of the poultices. It was certainly a trick of the light that the cut on the witch’s hand closed itself up. Dean seemed unconcerned as the witch carefully placed the blood contaminated poultices directly onto the bullet wounds.
The witch picked up a piece of leather covered wood that he handed to his patient. Taking a deep breath Dean placed it between his teeth and clamped down. He shoved his gun back into the top of his jeans before gripping the edges of the cushions he was lying on. He appeared to set himself and then nodded as if he was ready. The witch then lightly touched two fingers once to the back of each piece of cloth. As the man moved his fingers away Don was almost sure that he saw a glowing mark, shaped like some sort of occult symbol fading into the cloth.
Dean’s eyes screwed shut as a grunt escaped him. His back suddenly arched as a long groan made it past the leather covered wood in his mouth.
Don blinked as he saw what looked like steam rising from the back of the poultices and decided enough was enough, stepping forward with the intention of intervening. Whatever the man was doing it clearly wasn’t helping Dean. He made it only one pace before the witch flung up a hand and Don suddenly stopped, feeling as if he’d just walked into an invisible brick wall. He tried to move his hands, automatically trying to push at whatever was in front of him when he realised he couldn’t move at all. Refusing to look at the witch’s eyes Don strained to move forward before an idea struck him and he backed off. He could move again.
Without conscious thought he reacted instinctively, right hand going to the grip of his gun. He suddenly froze as he saw the witch raise his arm again, drawing it back but seemingly halting mid-move as Don froze.
“He trusts you,” the witch said as Dean convulsed on the couch, moaning in pain. “I don’t. I also don’t like cops or guns. Draw that thing and I’ll turn you inside out.”
Don couldn’t see any weapon in the man’s raised hand but then he hadn’t seen whatever the hell it was that stopped him in his tracks moments ago either. What he did recognise was a threat when he heard one and the clear ring of truth in the man’s words that suggested he at least believed he could carry it out. There was also a tension in the air that had the hairs on the back of his arms and neck rising to attention. Reminded once again that he was out of his depth Don did the only thing he could. He released his Glock and raised his hands as he took another step back.
“There,” the witch ordered as he raised his other hand, finger extended and pointing towards Don’s kitchen. “Move.”
Backing away carefully with his eyes on the threatening hand Don moved. The witch followed for a few paces before stopping and watching until he was behind the bench.
“Stay put,” the witch admonished. At Don’s careful nod he slowly lowered his raised hand and went back to tend his patient.
Not sure exactly what had just happened, the agent leant back against the bench as his knees suddenly trembled. None of that had been possible, there couldn’t have been an invisible wall in front of him and there was no way the man could hurt him with an empty raised hand. Then why was he standing in his kitchen acting as if the witch had held a gun on him?
Working to calm himself Don decided he didn’t want to know the answer to his question. Instead he got his shaking hands to cooperate and drew himself a glass of water. The familiar everyday movements and drinking the water seemed to help and his shakes eased. He had enough real threats to deal with without imagining new ones. He also had a serial killer to catch with time fast running out while he waited here.
His impatience didn’t quite outweigh his caution so he stayed in the kitchen as Dean convulsed for a few more minutes before lying quietly. The witch removed the poultices and used some of Don’s paper towel to remove all traces of his treatment. It seemed totally incongruous when the witch dug into Dean’s medical bag and dressed the wounded man’s injuries with mundane dressings, strapping everything into place with dressing tape. He packed away his various jars and bags into his doctor’s bag and looked as if he were getting ready to leave.
The witch bent, placing two fingers on Dean’s forehead, whispering something Don couldn’t catch. He did hear the Winchester’s long sigh and saw the man’s body relax, eyes closing. He looked closely and was relieved when he saw Dean’s chest rise on his next breath. The witch then stepped away and walked towards the kitchen and Don. Don found himself backing away and forced himself to stop.
“He’s going to sleep for a while,” the man said sounding very much like a doctor, all threat gone from his voice. “When he wakes he’ll need plenty of fluids. Try to keep him still for as long as you can. Good luck with that.” He added with a wry grin as he turned away.
Don stayed put as the witch gathered up his bag and let himself out of the apartment. Free now to move Don went first to his door and peered out though the peep hole but the hall was empty. He locked the door, putting the chain back on before he felt safe enough to turn his back to it. Getting a grip on himself he reminded himself he was a federal agent with a job to do, even if said federal agent was currently breaking the law he was sworn to uphold. Focusing back on the real world enabled him to regather his composure and he went first to check on Dean’s condition.
He found Dean was sleeping peacefully and his skin that had been clammy was now dry and had a healthier cast to it than it had before. Whatever the witch had done it seemed to have worked. Don stopped that line of thought before it could derail his regained composure. Checking the mundane dressings helped and he was satisfied Dean was going to survive his injuries. He saw the gun tucked back into Dean’s belt under a protective hand and decided against trying to disarm the Winchester having little doubt it would wake him violently.
Remembering the witch’s instructions Don put a bottle of water and a glass within reach on the coffee table along with a slip of paper with his current cell phone number on it. Although, after he gave it a moment’s thought, he was sure Dean already had it.
After one last look at the sleeping fugitive he quietly slipped out of his apartment.
Next chapter ... here
Author: ALEO
aleo_70
Genre: Gen
Characters: Don Eppes, Charlie Eppes, Dean Winchester, and cameo by Sam Winchester
Fandoms: Numb3rs/Supernatural - crossover
Rating: PG 13+
Warning: violence, supernatural themes, horror
Disclaimer: I don't own them, I just borrowed them. Numb3rs, Supernatural and associated characters are the property of those that created them. No copyright infringement intended. No financial reward gained. All real places and organisations are used in a fictional sense. Anything you don't recognise comes from my imagination.
Spoilers - Numb3rs: Hot Shot & Thirteen; - Supernatural: nil.
Status: Chapter 3 of 9
Wordcount (this chapter): 2683
Total wordcount: ~21,400
Summary: Investigating a series of occult related murders in Los Angeles FBI Special Agent Eppes has another encounter with Dean Winchester.
CHAPTER THREE
Don waited silently as he saw the struggle Dean was having against his nature, understanding that talking about people like him to outsiders was against whatever code he lived by. His patience was rewarded a couple of minutes later as Dean started talking.
Damien Best was born and raised in Alliance, Nebraska. Best came to hunting late, not starting until his mid-teens after he was attacked by a creature out of folklore one night out in one of the town’s fields. He survived and discovered an aptitude for violence that was a necessary skill for hunters. He was shaky on lore but with a little help from other hunters learnt what he needed. As time went on his confidence grew and he soon started going after deadlier and more dangerous creatures alone. His reputation was earning him a place in conversations amongst hunters that included mentions of the Winchester brothers. It had been suggested in more than a few hunter bars that they should team up as together they would be able to take on the worst of the monsters out there.
Dean sneered as he recounted that but Don didn’t interrupt.
About a year or so ago things started to change. Rumours started revolving around the worrying trait of how collateral damage, always a regretful risk in a hunter’s life, seemed to be increasing on his hunts. As time went on it seemed that there were less and less monsters being taken down by Best even as the body count of innocents continued to rise. Worried, the hunter community tried to seek him out to find out what had happened but those that had planned to speak with him were later found in various states of dismemberment. There was never enough to prove it until now but Dean had started to believe that Best was responsible. Finally, hearing about a sequence of deaths in Los Angeles which seemed to bear all of Best’s hallmarks and even worse had a strong resemblance to a long and seriously powerful summoning spell the Winchesters had started their own hunt.
Certain that Best had been taken over by a demon or spirit they’d planned for every eventuality and finally tracked him to an abandoned house in South Central LA. There it had all gone to hell. They’d caught Best in a demon trap and Sam started running through their prepared spells. Best had resisted them but soon seemed to respond, calming and pleading for their help. That was when Sam got too close and Best simply stepped out of the supposed trap and got a knife to his throat. Dean had been helpless but had tried anyway, getting himself shot and left for dead as Best took Sam away, unconscious after his own struggle failed.
“We’re gonna find him and get Sammy back,” Dean finished. The fierce determination in his voice left no doubt he meant what he said.
“We’ll get him,” Don agreed. With what the other man had just given him they had far better shot at finding Best than they’d had before. There was still more that could help them, “What type of car does he drive?”
“He’s got a black -“ Dean started but stopped, his eyes going vacant for a moment.
Concerned that Dean may have been succumbing to his injuries Don rushed over but Dean blinked and looked up. “He’s here.”
About to ask who Don remembered they were expecting someone. He looked to the door but there was no sound. Frowning he turned back to see Dean jerk his head at the door.
Moving quietly Don went to his door and peered through the peephole. A small man, barely five foot tall, stood there waiting as if confident his arrival had been announced. As best he could tell no one else was in the corridor but ever wary, and needing the reassurance, Don drew his Glock.
“Uh, uh,” Dean grunted from behind him.
Turning cautiously Don saw Dean aiming his Colt at him.
“Put it away, Fed,” Dean ordered. As the agent hesitated he continued, “It’s for your own good. You’ve no idea what he’d do if you pulled a gun on him.”
Putting his gun away was far from being told to put his gun down. He still wasn’t sure how much of Dean’s world he believed in but he knew he was out of his depth in most of it. After another moment Don complied, holstering his Glock. Once Dean had shoved his own gun back into his belt he turned back to the door, removing the chain and unlocking it. He pulled it open far enough to let the man in then quickly shut it again.
The man walked in as if he owned the apartment. Stopping at the coffee table to put his bag down he waited for the agent to finish locking up and join them.
Don returned the appraising look, seeing a fairly ordinary looking short, thin man wearing an old but serviceable suit. The bag was a well used, if somewhat clichéd, black doctor’s bag. With the half spectacles on his face the man, who Don judged to be in his early 50s, looked for all the world like an ordinary doctor. The agent figured he was probably struck off the register if he regularly dealt with people like the Winchesters but a doctor nonetheless.
Then Don looked in the eyes and saw a flash of something he would later try to tell himself he imagined. Whatever it was it had him stepping back in sudden trepidation. His hand twitched but remembering Dean’s warning it stayed empty at his side. Don changed his mind, this was no ordinary doctor. Or man. He remembered Dean’s term, witch. Right now he could believe it.
“Smart one, this one,” the man, the witch, finally said glancing away from the agent to his patient.
“Maybe,” Dean answered.
“He listens to you,” the witch insisted.
Dean found that amusing if his snort was anything to go by.
“But, hiding the badge doesn’t change who he is,” he added giving Dean a disapproving look.
“Well, like you say,” Dean started, glancing at the uneasy agent. “He listens to me.”
“Mmpf,” the witch grunted. Instead of walking out he started rummaging through his bag. The coffee table was soon littered with various articles, some of which Don could identify, some he couldn’t. Keeping his distance and his silence he watched as the man picked up some scissors and cut away Dean’s shirt. Seeing the bloody bullet wounds clearly for the first time he could only be amazed that Dean wasn’t already dead let alone fully conscious and mobile.
“Make yourself useful and get some warm water,” The witch ordered, turning to the hovering agent. “And something to clean away the blood.”
Backing away Don went to his kitchen and got the water in a large bowl and a roll of paper towel. He returned and found a small vacant spot on the coffee table where he put the bowl down. Holding out the paper towel for the witch to take he swallowed at the look he received.
“What are you looking at me for?” The witch snapped. “You carry a gun and know how to use it. Surely you know how to clean up the mess they make?”
Not game to open his mouth and risk antagonising the witch any further he moved carefully around to where he could reach Dean’s injuries. He dug into his pocket for the pair of latex gloves he kept there for emergencies and slipped them onto his hands. Wetting some paper towel with the warm water Don paused as he saw Dean’s gun was no longer tucked into the front of his jeans but was being held in his hand. He shared a challenging glance but when Dean didn’t move Don started working at Dean’s chest and side, carefully cleaning the blood away and using up half the roll before he was done. The bullet wounds were still sluggishly bleeding so he reached for Dean’s medical bag intending to find some sterile gauze but found the witch blocking him.
“What are you doing?”
“I-,” Don trailed off.
“Get out of my way.”
Scrambling back Don moved back, stopping only when he was several yards away where he could watch safely. Given everything else he wasn’t surprised when he saw the mortar and pestle from the witch was now scraping a mashed up green substance onto a piece of white cloth. He put more of the green substance onto two other pieces of folded cloth before putting the mortar and pestle aside. He figured he was looking at some form of herbal poultice, popular in faith healing and very old school medicine. The witch reached next for a jar and carefully took a pinch of powder that he sprinkled lightly over each poultice. He wasn’t expecting the knife to be produced and slashed across the heel of the witch’s left hand, the blood allowed to drip three times on each of the poultices. It was certainly a trick of the light that the cut on the witch’s hand closed itself up. Dean seemed unconcerned as the witch carefully placed the blood contaminated poultices directly onto the bullet wounds.
The witch picked up a piece of leather covered wood that he handed to his patient. Taking a deep breath Dean placed it between his teeth and clamped down. He shoved his gun back into the top of his jeans before gripping the edges of the cushions he was lying on. He appeared to set himself and then nodded as if he was ready. The witch then lightly touched two fingers once to the back of each piece of cloth. As the man moved his fingers away Don was almost sure that he saw a glowing mark, shaped like some sort of occult symbol fading into the cloth.
Dean’s eyes screwed shut as a grunt escaped him. His back suddenly arched as a long groan made it past the leather covered wood in his mouth.
Don blinked as he saw what looked like steam rising from the back of the poultices and decided enough was enough, stepping forward with the intention of intervening. Whatever the man was doing it clearly wasn’t helping Dean. He made it only one pace before the witch flung up a hand and Don suddenly stopped, feeling as if he’d just walked into an invisible brick wall. He tried to move his hands, automatically trying to push at whatever was in front of him when he realised he couldn’t move at all. Refusing to look at the witch’s eyes Don strained to move forward before an idea struck him and he backed off. He could move again.
Without conscious thought he reacted instinctively, right hand going to the grip of his gun. He suddenly froze as he saw the witch raise his arm again, drawing it back but seemingly halting mid-move as Don froze.
“He trusts you,” the witch said as Dean convulsed on the couch, moaning in pain. “I don’t. I also don’t like cops or guns. Draw that thing and I’ll turn you inside out.”
Don couldn’t see any weapon in the man’s raised hand but then he hadn’t seen whatever the hell it was that stopped him in his tracks moments ago either. What he did recognise was a threat when he heard one and the clear ring of truth in the man’s words that suggested he at least believed he could carry it out. There was also a tension in the air that had the hairs on the back of his arms and neck rising to attention. Reminded once again that he was out of his depth Don did the only thing he could. He released his Glock and raised his hands as he took another step back.
“There,” the witch ordered as he raised his other hand, finger extended and pointing towards Don’s kitchen. “Move.”
Backing away carefully with his eyes on the threatening hand Don moved. The witch followed for a few paces before stopping and watching until he was behind the bench.
“Stay put,” the witch admonished. At Don’s careful nod he slowly lowered his raised hand and went back to tend his patient.
Not sure exactly what had just happened, the agent leant back against the bench as his knees suddenly trembled. None of that had been possible, there couldn’t have been an invisible wall in front of him and there was no way the man could hurt him with an empty raised hand. Then why was he standing in his kitchen acting as if the witch had held a gun on him?
Working to calm himself Don decided he didn’t want to know the answer to his question. Instead he got his shaking hands to cooperate and drew himself a glass of water. The familiar everyday movements and drinking the water seemed to help and his shakes eased. He had enough real threats to deal with without imagining new ones. He also had a serial killer to catch with time fast running out while he waited here.
His impatience didn’t quite outweigh his caution so he stayed in the kitchen as Dean convulsed for a few more minutes before lying quietly. The witch removed the poultices and used some of Don’s paper towel to remove all traces of his treatment. It seemed totally incongruous when the witch dug into Dean’s medical bag and dressed the wounded man’s injuries with mundane dressings, strapping everything into place with dressing tape. He packed away his various jars and bags into his doctor’s bag and looked as if he were getting ready to leave.
The witch bent, placing two fingers on Dean’s forehead, whispering something Don couldn’t catch. He did hear the Winchester’s long sigh and saw the man’s body relax, eyes closing. He looked closely and was relieved when he saw Dean’s chest rise on his next breath. The witch then stepped away and walked towards the kitchen and Don. Don found himself backing away and forced himself to stop.
“He’s going to sleep for a while,” the man said sounding very much like a doctor, all threat gone from his voice. “When he wakes he’ll need plenty of fluids. Try to keep him still for as long as you can. Good luck with that.” He added with a wry grin as he turned away.
Don stayed put as the witch gathered up his bag and let himself out of the apartment. Free now to move Don went first to his door and peered out though the peep hole but the hall was empty. He locked the door, putting the chain back on before he felt safe enough to turn his back to it. Getting a grip on himself he reminded himself he was a federal agent with a job to do, even if said federal agent was currently breaking the law he was sworn to uphold. Focusing back on the real world enabled him to regather his composure and he went first to check on Dean’s condition.
He found Dean was sleeping peacefully and his skin that had been clammy was now dry and had a healthier cast to it than it had before. Whatever the witch had done it seemed to have worked. Don stopped that line of thought before it could derail his regained composure. Checking the mundane dressings helped and he was satisfied Dean was going to survive his injuries. He saw the gun tucked back into Dean’s belt under a protective hand and decided against trying to disarm the Winchester having little doubt it would wake him violently.
Remembering the witch’s instructions Don put a bottle of water and a glass within reach on the coffee table along with a slip of paper with his current cell phone number on it. Although, after he gave it a moment’s thought, he was sure Dean already had it.
After one last look at the sleeping fugitive he quietly slipped out of his apartment.
Next chapter ... here