Characters: Sam, Dean (Gen)
Spoilers: Tiny “Asylum” spoiler
Summary: Sam and Dean versus an unknown grave-robber. (Includes bickering, bad food, and the obligatory Latin).
Author's Notes: This story was written months before Season 1's "Dead Man's Blood" aired, and who knew that Kripke would decide that the wooden stake method of killing vampires was going to be a lie in the SPN universe? It'd worked for generations of stories and films before him. :0
x-x-x-x-x Chapter 3: Preparations x-x-x-x-x
Sam is sleeping off his headache in the motel room when he hears Dean’s voice approaching out in the parking lot.
“Okay. Will do,” Dean says, closing his cell phone as he comes in through the door.
“Dad?” Sam asks hopefully.
“No,” Dean says. “Our next assignment, over in Helena. About 200 miles from here.”
Sam stretches, and rubs his face. “What is it?”
Dean just gives him an evil, toothy smile and makes an overhand thrusting motion.
“Vamps? Seriously?” Sam shakes his head. “Why do we even bother to turn out for stuff like that? Anybody can make their own wooden stakes.”
“Yeah, but the stakes aren’t actually the problem, dude. It’s all about fear. People let it get the better of them, and pretty soon the vampire hunter becomes vampire dinner.”
“We ought to charge a fee for that, at least,” Sam says. “It’s a nuisance call.”
“I don’t disagree with you, bro’, but that isn’t the way we do it.”
“Well maybe it’s time for a change. This is a dangerous job, and we don’t have to do it. We deserve to earn a living at it. Think of Hazard Pay—that totally fits our scenario.”
“Who would we bill half the time? The town mayor? If he believes we actually did anything, and if he can get it approved in the budget? “Supernatural Services” isn’t the kind of line-item that city councils ignore. I mean, charging money sounds reasonable in theory, but how many reasonable people even believe in what we do?”
Dean has a point, and that is even more annoying than not getting paid.
“All right. Whatever,” Sam replies. “What did you find out?”
“I found out,” Dean says, “That the victims from this town were not baptized, which fits our profile. And also that the transient guy was the first victim.”
“Interesting.” Sam drums his fingers on the bed. “So, what if he wasn’t a victim after all? What if he’s the demon that’s taking the other bodies, and he came here to feed? Maybe he moves from town to town, pretending to die and then waiting to be buried so he can find a new food source.”
“Seriously?” Dean’s eyebrows nearly reach his hair. “Doesn’t that seem like a lot of work? Why not just dig people up and go the easy route?”
“Well,” Sam says, “Don’t you think he might start to get noticed after awhile? I mean really, the great thing about being a dead vagrant is that nobody knows who you are, and they don’t try too hard to find out. Plus they definitely expect you to stay dead.”
Dean sits down on the bed, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth. “But isn’t he taking kind of a big chance on getting buried? If someone ever decides to cremate him instead, that’s it—he’s toast.”
God, Dean and his puns. Sam rolls his eyes. “Yeah, but look at this dinky little town! Do they look like they have cremation facilities anywhere nearby? It’s got to be less trouble just to bury the guy in the back of the cemetery.”
Well that does make sense, Dean has to admit. And a lot of supernatural beings are risk-takers to some degree. Especially those that are essentially undead already. At the worst, if the undead finally get killed then they’re no worse off than they would have been the first time.
“OK, I’ll buy it,” Dean says. “When do you want to go after him? Now?”
“Well, we don’t know where he is, where he hangs out when he’s not grave-robbing. God, I hope he hasn’t left town already, because then we’ll really be screwed. How about eat first, stalk later?”
Dean agrees and they make a meal out of leftovers and some groceries, planning while they eat.
“What does Dad’s journal say about killing this demon?” Sam says, biting into an apple.
“Nada. We’re going to have to take the basics along, and hope for the best.”
Sam is about to ask the supply status of rock-salt bullets, but can’t bring himself to get onto that particular topic. “Do we have Holy water?”
“I swiped some from the church this afternoon,” Dean says, opening a Ding Dong with barely concealed glee.
“Blowtorch? Iron? Bullets?” Sam asks.
“Dude?” Dean says around a mouthful of chocolate, “Been at this awhile, remember? I’m a professional.”
Dean does indeed look very impressive with chocolate crumbs falling onto his shirt. Sam looks away before he is tempted to say anything.
They finish up, and start lugging stuff out to the car. Demon-killing supplies. Water, snacks and blankets, in case it’s a long wait. Their Dad’s journal, because there might be a random update somewhere later on that he forgot to link back in. Flashlights.
The car roars to life in the parking lot, and Sam cringes, glaring over at his brother. Dean taps the gas to drop the idling speed, and they move off somewhat more quietly to the cemetery. Dean parks the Impala just down the street there behind a hedge, and they gather up their supplies and sneak over the low stone wall, moving along a line of bushes toward the middle of the cemetery. They pick a central location, backing into the bushes slowly and settling in to wait.