Created for @swansongbingo
Square Filled: Ghosts (Season One)
Warning Tags: No Archive Warning Apply
Ship(s): Dean Winchester/Original Male Character(s)
Summary: A shanghaiing ghost causes trouble and Dean learns a little more about himself.
“Three men in the past year have disappeared already, and this has been going on since the time of Prohibition,” explained Sam.
Dean glanced away from the road for a second to see Sam in the passenger seat of the Impala with his nose buried in their dad’s journal. “And we’re expecting a fourth? That’s a hell of a lot of people over the years, Sam.”
“Over 300, at the very least.”
Dean shook his head. “How did no one notice all these people going missing?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Dean saw Sam shrug. “This has been going on over eight decades. No police department is going to be looking for a pattern spanning that long. Of the missing people, none were children, none were women, and most of the men were either part of the local homeless community or tourists from out of state. Also, Oregon has the third highest rate of missing people in the US. With a combination of all those factors—”
“I get it, I get it.” Dean waved a hand at Sam. “Only Dad could put together something like this.”
The amount of attention their dad paid to these little details, allowing him to put together cases spread over nearly a century, never ceased to amaze Dean. He could only hope that one day he could live up to John’s expectations of him as a hunter.
Although, Dean was ready to admit that he would probably get Sam to do all the research bits. The kid loved that stuff anyway, he thought.
Sam was silent a moment too long after the mention of their dad. Dean opened his mouth to reassure Sam—again—that they would find John and destroy the thing that killed their mom and Jessica, but Sam started speaking before he could get a word out.
“They all went missing shortly after visiting the Portland Underground or from the areas above its tunnels. That’s the connection.”
Dean’s eyes widened and he could feel a grin spreading across his face. “The Portland Underground? As in the Shanghai Tunnels?”
Dean heard Sam thumb to another page of the journal. “Um… Yes. You’ve heard of them?”
“Dad mentioned them once. Didn’t know he was working on this, but I always thought they sounded pretty cool. They’re no Wild West, of course, but still something to check out if I was ever in the area. They’re supposed to be haunted by the souls of all the men who were drugged or knocked out and then transported through those tunnels to the docks where they were sold to the captains of ships destined for Asia.”
“That’s… exactly right.” Sam sounded awed.
“Hey, I can pay attention if it suits me and isn’t a complete waste of time.”
Sam snorted from the passenger seat. Dean reached over and punched him in the shoulder.
“Hey!” Sam yelped. “Jerk.”
“You just wanted to check out the saloons and speakeasies that supposedly contain the entrances to the tunnels, didn’t you?”
“Those establishments are no longer there. You know that, right?”
They left Interstate 84 and Dean merged the Impala onto Interstate 5, heading north. Their destination, according to Sam, lay west across the Willamette River in Portland’s Old Town Chinatown district, but they were headed to the nearest motel because Sam wanted to do some more research.
He had also mentioned that there was no point in rushing to the location of the tunnel entrance that he had found since the place was apparently open until 2:30am.
Upon hearing that, Dean had developed high hopes for the place. In the meantime, his goals were food (preferably involving pie) and a nap. It had been a long, long drive.
Sam was quiet as they drove up to the motel, checked in, and grabbed their bags. In fact, he had been quiet ever since they had left Toledo. Dean knew Sam’s silence had something to do with Jessica’s death, something that Bloody Mary had brought up, but he also knew that Sam would only withdraw further if he pushed him about it. So, he left it alone.
Dean walked alone into Hobo’s Restaurant and Lounge.
When Sam had innocently mentioned that Google described the bar as a “warm, gay-friendly American restaurant,” Dean knew that this would have to be a solo trip.
The two of them hadn’t been hunting together for very long, but Dean was already growing tired of half the people they met assuming that he and Sam were a couple.
Sure, they didn’t have an abundance of similar features that screamed ‘brothers,’ but come on.
Walking into a gay bar together was just asking for it, and Dean wasn’t about to risk this opportunity to gank some shanghaiing bootleggers on a game of rock-paper-scissors. So, while Sam thought he was out getting burgers, there he was. In a “gay-friendly” restaurant. Alone. Asking for something else entirely, apparently.
The first guy, an older man in a button-down shirt and slacks, who sat down beside Dean, simply asked if he was on the next tour. When Dean said that no, he wasn’t, in a polite yet firm voice, the man had moved on.
The second guy was more persistent. He was a college kid in bright colours and a baseball cap, and had asked to sit on the empty barstool next to him, at which Dean had gestured vaguely, not really caring either way. But then the kid had proceeded to throw the cheesiest pickup lines at him that Dean had ever heard. And he had heard a lot.
Dean attempted to inform the kid subtly and politely that he wasn’t interested, but the kid either didn’t get the hint or was purposefully ignoring it. Dean was on the verge of saying something probably not so nice to the kid, when thankfully his college buddies called him away and he gave up.
After turning away the third guy to approach, Dean finally managed to flag down the bartender. It seemed he had come during one of their peak times.
“What can I get for you” asked the bartender. He was tall, almost as tall as Sam, and muscled like a sailor. Dean wondered if he had a second, more physically demanding, profession on a ship of some kind. Perhaps on a fishing vessel, hauling in the catch of the day?
His skin was tanned by the sun and contrasted attractively with his long, blonde hair that he wore tied at the back of his neck.
“A bottle of Sol and an answer to a question, if you can.”
The bartender put down the glass he had been wiping down and pulled the beer from below the counter. “Let me guess, it’s about the tunnels?”
Dean smiled casually. “You guessed it.”
The bartender shrugged, leaning against the counter opposite where Dean was sitting. “The entrance is right outside.” The man pointed a thumb toward the exterior courtyard at the side of the restaurant. “So, we get a lot of tourists coming through here on the tours. You here for one?”
Dean said, “Nah, I’m not big on crowds,” and after hesitating a moment, he purposefully leaned forward, closer to the bartender, who gave him a once-over and smiled. His eyes were brown and warm.
“Though I would love to see them.” He paused, considering, then held the bartender’s gaze and lowered his lashes. “Do you offer private tours? That, I’d be interested in.”
The bartender glanced around at the packed restaurant and then back at Dean, who tilted his head questioningly.
“Let me see what I can do.”
Five minutes later, a disgruntled waitress was manning the bar after being promised a future favour, and Dean and the bartender – whose name was Eric – were heading outside.
Eric led him over to a section of wood amidst the patio stones. When he unlocked a padlock with a set of keys and raised the large square of planks, Dean realized that it was a trapdoor leading down. Damp air, ripe with mildew and tanged with the scents of minerals and the sea, wafted up Dean’s nose.
His “tour guide” rested the trapdoor against the wall of the restaurant and led the way down the wooden staircase, which was actually surprisingly wide and well-maintained. Dean supposed it would have to be in order to withstand the traffic of the regular tours going down.
Once they reached the bottom, surrounded by exposed stone crossed with old wooden support beams in semi-darkness, Eric turned around to face Dean.
Dean took an exaggerated look around, visually inspecting every inch.
He purposefully grimaced, even though he had been in much worse places. “Actually, I’m thinking that I’ve changed my mind.” Before Eric could voice the thoughts behind the annoyed look he shot at Dean, he added, “But I’d love to meet up with you after your shift. Somewhere more… comfortable? Got any suggestions?” Dean put his most suggestive smile on display. He didn’t want Eric to get his guard up.
Thankfully, Eric visibly relaxed and returned the smile with a wink. He pulled out his flip phone. “Let me get you my number. I’ve got the perfect place in mind.”
A minute later, as Dean was climbing back up the stairs behind Eric, Dean subtly leaned forward and gently pulled the key for the tunnel entrance out of Eric’s pocket.
Above ground, Dean moved in the direction of the street, but Eric stepped in front of him.
“Before you go…” he said with a suggestive grin. Then he stepped right into Dean’s personal space and placed his hands on Dean’s chest.
As the other man leaned in, Dean’s mind blanked and he couldn’t move. The sound of his blood pumping was deafening. He couldn’t hear anything else. Couldn’t see anything else other than Eric’s face getting closer to his.
And he just let it happen.
It wasn’t supposed to have gone this far. This was not what Dean had envisioned happening when he had flirted his way into the tunnels.
Get in, get out. Snatch the keys, or anything else required, in the process. That was all.
But now Eric’s lips were warm and firm against his, and he didn’t make any other moves on Dean to progress the kiss further.
Dean’s muscles were tense, his fight or flight instinct kicking into overdrive.
Yet, after a moment of the not-unpleasant kiss, when his instincts finally realized that he wasn’t actually being attacked, Dean’s brain finally switched back on with one thought: Screw it.
Dean’s hands rose: one around Eric’s back, pulling him closer and the other to grasp the back of his neck, taking control of the kiss.
Eric’s tongue quested out and Dean obliged, meeting it stroke for stroke.
This guy was a better kisser than over half the women Dean had ever had carnal relations with.
Eric was the one to pull back, drawing in large gulps of air.
Dean felt like he was re-entering his body. His arm was still holding Eric’s body against his own. He released the other man. He blinked.
Stepping back, grinning, Eric said, “I’ll see you later.” Then he turned and walked back into the restaurant.
Had that really just happened? His first kiss with another guy?
He had just been going with the flow, but damn if he hadn’t actually enjoyed it in the end.
Did he still like women? Definitely.
Did that mean he was bisexual? Not necessarily, no.
Did it mean he wasn’t quite as straight as he had always thought? Possibly.
It could mean a lot of things or absolutely nothing. For now, he decided, he would just let it play out and see where it took him. No point dwelling on such a thing when there was a ghost to salt and burn.
“It doesn’t make sense,” complained Sam. He leaned back from his laptop where he had been researching more details about shanghaiing and the Portland Underground.
Dean was tempted to just ignore the comment as he took another bite of his burger that he had picked up on his way back as an excuse for where he’d been, but he also knew ignoring him wouldn’t stop Sam from explaining anyway. So, he said, “What doesn’t make sense?”
Sam ran a hand through his hair. “There are tons of tales and rumours of people dying from attempted shanghaiing, so you would think that one of them would be our angry spirit, if that is what we’re dealing with.”
“Why would the ghosts of victims be shanghaiing more people? Revenge?” said Dean through a mouthful of burger.
“I don’t think so. That’s what’s strange about it. A ghost of one of the men who had done the shanghaiing would have the best motive – he would essentially just be continuing his work after death. But that doesn’t explain why he would have become a vengeful spirit in the first place instead of just moving on.”
Dean finished his burger and reached for some of Sam’s fries. “What does it matter? We go down into the tunnels, follow the EMF, then we can ask the guy.”
Sam slapped his hand away from the fries. “When is it ever that easy?”
“Always a first for everything, Sammy,” said Dean with a grin. In more ways than one, he added silently.
Then as Sam rolled his eyes, Dean snatched a couple of fries.
After their fast-food dinner, Sam and Dean used the early evening to prepare for the night’s activities. Sam checked their supply of rock salt (both loose and in shotgun casings), fetched Dean’s homemade EMF reader, and collected every map of the Portland Underground that he could get his hands on. Dean disassembled, cleaned, and reassembled their guns, sharpened their knives (paying special attention to the iron ones), and didn’t once mention his earlier visit to Hobo’s to Sam, or the key he still had in his pocket.
He’d tell Sam when they woke up to break into the tunnels themselves.
Or when they arrived. Maybe.
Or never. Sam would ask too many questions.
Finally, they both set their respective alarms to 2:30am and lay down to get some shut-eye. By the time they got to Hobo’s, any employees should be gone for the night and Sam’s plan involved them sneaking down into the tunnels from there.
Dean, usually able to fall asleep practically anywhere almost immediately, continued to lay awake long after the lights had been shut off. With the light from the street filtering in from around the curtain edges, Dean could see Sam breathing rhythmically, fast asleep.
The kiss from earlier dwelt on his mind and he just couldn’t seem to shake off the feeling that something had changed for him. Something meaningful and potentially life-altering.
But he just couldn’t deal with a feeling like that right now. He had Sammy to look after and they both had their dad to find. And after that, there was still hunting down the thing that killed their mom and Jessica.
Perhaps once all of that had been sorted… Perhaps then, Dean could take some time for himself to consider where that feeling was coming from. In the meantime, it would just have to wait.
Dean rolled over onto his stomach and reached under his pillow for the knife that he kept there. It provided some semblance of reassurance, allowing him briefly to clear his mind and finally fall asleep.
Dean awoke abruptly to a reeking cloth covering his mouth and nose, held there by a powerful hand. He instinctively took a breath to shout out a warning to Sam, but that one breath made his head spin.
He couldn’t seem to get a grip on an arm above the hand, though he knew one must be there. His hand caught the knife under his pillow and slashed up, but hit nothing.
Dean could only grunt once as the world faded back to black.
When Dean opened his eyes again, it was pitch black and freezing cold wherever he was. He also had a splitting headache. Holding his head, he recalled what had happened and felt cold panic wash through him.
“Sam!” he shouted. “Sam!”
No one responded. Dean wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a very bad thing.
He was able to sit up, which he did, wincing when he was hit by a touch of vertigo, and then he immediately checked his waistband and pockets, before remembering that he had been asleep when he had been abducted.
The only item he actually wore to bed was a small penknife, which he found still in its pocket.
Satisfied that he had a weapon, even a small one, Dean tried to figure out exactly where he was.
The floor underneath him was made up of wood planks. They were damp and the smell of the sea was everywhere.
When Dean sat still, he could feel himself swaying slightly and hear the slightest sloshing sound of water.
Dean Winchester had been shanghaied.
He nearly laughed out loud at the realization, before also comprehending that without knowing how long he had been out, he could very well be out in the middle of the ocean by that point. Stuck on the ship with absolutely no way to escape except, perhaps, jumping overboard.
Dean shuddered. That was nearly as bad as being on plane.
Suddenly, Portland’s Shanghai Tunnels no longer seemed as fun as they had before.
Starting to feel the panic rising again, Dean stood, and reaching up, he felt the ceiling low over his head, but there was enough clearance. He moved slowly across the floor, feeling his way in the pitch blackness of what must be part of the ship’s hold.
He noticed the slightest glowing sliver at about the level of his knee, which could have been light leaking under the bottom edge of a door at the top of a few stairs, and he was making his way towards it when his foot bumped something.
He kneeled down and felt something warm and alive under his hand.
“Sam?” Dean breathed. “Sam!”
He gently shook the body in front of him, afraid to do more in case Sam was injured.
The body groaned and Dean breathed out.
“Sam, are you hurt? If that goddamn gho—”
“Dean?” said a voice that was most definitely not Sam’s.
Dean snatched his hand away from the man’s shoulder. “Um… yes?” He responded hesitantly.
Dean blinked uselessly in the darkness. “What the hell are you doing here?”
A hand groped at Dean’s chest then moved down to his arm where it griped his bicep tightly. “I have no fucking clue. I was closing up the restaurant when… I think I was hit with chloroform.” Eric’s voice was filled with his confusion.
Dean gently removed Eric’s hand from his arm, and before he could think too much about it, gave it a reassuring squeeze before letting go.
“We have to get out of here,” Dean said firmly. “I think there’s a door. Over here.”
He heard shuffling, indicating that Eric was following suit, and quickly said, “Careful. Low ceiling.” Eric’s movements slowed, then his hand groped out once more, finding Dean’s shoulder this time. Dean let it stay.
He started moving cautiously towards the sliver of light with Eric trailing just behind, guided by his hand on Dean’s shoulder.
They reached the stairs before the door, just as Dean had predicted. There were four steps. Dean took them first, telling Eric to stay back at the bottom. Just in case.
He tried the knob. It was locked.
“I’m going to assume that means it’s locked,” Eric said, actually sounding somewhat amused, which had Dean’s admiration of him rising.
For a non-hunter, Eric was actually doing pretty well. Sure, he seemed to have become a bit clingy, but he had kept his head and wasn’t a ball of uselessness wallowing in the corner.
Dean took stock of the situation. He had no lock picks.
Finally, he asked, half-jokingly, “Got any bobby pins in that hair?” He remembered Eric’s long locks.
“I do actually,” he replied. He didn’t question why Dean was asking for them, just pulled them out and handed them over. “Will these do the trick?”
Dean was mildly impressed. “It depends on the lock and how cheap it is.”
Eric was quiet—Nodding? —and Dean set to work.
As he prodded the tumblers, Eric asked softly, “Who’s Sam?”
“My brother,” Dean said succinctly. End of subject.
He heard Eric breath out behind him. “Why did you think I was him?”
Dean sighed harshly. “Because he was in the motel room with me when I was taken.”
“Oh…” Eric’s hand located Dean’s back and he tensed. But the hand only moved to his shoulder and squeezed it in a comforting gesture. “I’m sorry. I hope he’s okay.”
Dean shuddered at the thought of Sam somewhere out there, taken as he had been, or worse. A topic that he had been trying to avoid thinking about. The bobby pins shook in his hands.
Behind him, Eric must have felt his shudder, because the next thing Dean knew, he was being enveloped from behind in a hug.
Dean closed his eyes for a moment, relishing in the feeling of having warm, strong arms wrapped around him. Enclosing him from the world. Offering comfort and acceptance.
Then he forced himself to open his eyes and cleared his throat. “Kind of trying to pick this lock over here,” he said gruffly.
Eric apologized and backed away. Dean silently mourned the loss and when back to work.
When Dean finally managed to pop the lock, they found that it opened onto a hallway with a single low-burning lamp part way down it.
Glancing back inside the room they had been in, they could see by the lamplight that it was a relatively small storage room that had a few shelves but was otherwise completely empty. No sign of Sam.
To their right, they could see that the hallway dead-ended, but to their left was a set of stairs leading up. There were other doors in the hallway but Dean headed for the stairs. He knew the risk of checking each of those rooms was too high. It was best for them to escape the ship and then he could try contacting Sam. If Sam was in trouble, he could always come back properly armed.
Eric followed his lead, for which Dean was grateful.
When Dean pulled out his penknife—useless against ghosts, but better than nothing—Eric raised his eyebrows but didn’t comment. After considering a moment, before they went up the steps, Dean offered it to Eric, who shook his head.
“I prefer to use my fists if violence is necessary,” he explained, raising a muscled arm and curling his fingers into said fist. Dean had to admit, Eric looked like he could probably take down a rugaru unarmed. Dean licked his lips.
“Then let’s go,” he said, and led the way up the stairs.
The stairs led to the deck and the deck was full of ghosts, each one focused on some task, from hauling on ropes to swabbing the deck.
They looked like regular people. The only reason why Dean could immediately tell that they were ghosts was because they were each wearing clothing from different time periods spanning the last century. Dean had no idea what Eric was thinking at the sight.
The lucky part was that the ghosts ignored them, completely focused on their individual tasks, so they were able to pass through the activity without issue.
Surrounding the ship was a dense fog, preventing them from seeing if there was any land nearby. They silently decided to head towards the bow to see if they could spot anything. If not, Dean knew they would have to chance the bridge and potentially running into the captain.
Dean glanced over at Eric to see him frowning at the shanghaied sailors and their lack of reaction to the two of them moving through their ranks. When the path of one of the ghosts suddenly crossed Eric’s and the ghost phased right through him before Dean could move Eric out of the way, Eric stopped dead in his tracks, eyes wide and breath coming in short gasps.
Dean turned to help Eric snap out of his panic, but as he did so, he spotted a figure standing on the quarterdeck. Through the thick fog, he could make out a captain’s uniform.
The captain’s eyes zeroed in on Dean and narrowed.
“Let’s go!” he shouted at Eric. Thankfully, Eric looked at Dean’s panicked face, glanced over at the captain, who was raising a hand in a wordless command, and nodded in understanding.
Dean grabbed Eric’s hand, gripping it tightly, and ran.
Behind them, ghost sailors abandoned their tasks and began to chase them. Ahead of them, the sailors between them and the bow moved to block their way.
Dean spotted a metal ring from a broken barrel, stuffed his penknife back in his pocket, and praying the ring was iron, lifted it and swung it at the sailors closing them in. As the ring passed through them, they hissed and vanished.
Eric’s hand in his tugged Dean forward and they continued running. As they came up to the bow, Dean still slashing with the ring at the ghosts too close behind, Eric shouted, “Jump!”
“What?” Dean cried out. Not that they had any other place to go, but still.
“Jump!” Eric shouted again, then his hand was pulling Dean, tumbling, over the railing and into the black, icy water below.
Dean popped back up, spluttering.
Above him loomed the ship, upon which the ghosts were readying crossbows. Fucking crossbows.
Dean’s head swiveled around. “Eric!”
He swam in place as the bolts were loaded into the weapons.
Then he spotted it. A blonde head sinking under the water.
He was grateful right then that his father had thrown him in a motel pool when he was six and forced him to learn to swim, otherwise he might never have had the initiative to learn on his own.
He caught hold of Eric under his armpits as he was sinking and kicked with all his strength, moving them slowly upwards. Too slowly.
Dean’s chest burned with the need to take a breath. His limbs grew heavy.
They broke the surface, Dean gasping, as a rain of crossbow bolts fell around them.
“Dammit!” Dean cursed, then took a large breath and let them sink back under. He kicked, moving them away from the ship. At least the water was calm and there were no waves to deal with on top of everything else.
When Dean’s chest started to ache once more, he brought them back to the surface, struggling to hold Eric’s heavy body up, the muscled form simply wanting to sink into the depths.
Dean had managed to hide them in the thick fog, safe from the crossbow bolts. But Eric wasn’t moving.
He held a hand up under his nose, and didn’t feel any breath. From his arm wrapped around him, his chest felt motionless.
Up on the ship, there had been more old-fashioned oil lamps. Here, deep in the fog, Dean couldn’t see his hand in front of his face.
He treaded water, cursing, as he felt Eric’s face. There. A bump on his temple. Which meant that he had likely hit his head on the side of the ship as they had fallen overboard. Dean hoped that meant he hadn’t inhaled too much water.
One handed, Dean tilted Eric’s head back, and holding him carefully in the glassy, still water, he fit his mouth over Eric’s and breathed air into his lungs.
He couldn’t do CPR while treading water in the middle of the ocean. This was all he could do. And if it didn’t work…
Eric coughed. Water bubbled up at the corner of his mouth and Dean tilted him to the side in the water so he could spit it out.
Still coughing, but with the coughs sounding clearer, Eric opened his eyes and began treading water as he realized their situation.
Exhausted, Dean released his hold on him.
“What happened?” Eric gasped out between coughs.
Dean grinned. “We escaped.”
Eric glanced around skeptically, though Dean knew there was nothing to see but fog. And that’s when Dean realized that he could actually see Eric treading water in front of him.
“I think we might have just escaped to our deaths,” Eric grumbled. “And escaped from what? What the hell was that?”
“If we survive, I’ll explain everything,” Dean promised.
Eric lifted his eyebrows, but didn’t argue.
Dean peered through the thinning fog. “Is it just me or is it getting lighter?”
Eric squinted. “I suppose the grey is… a less dark grey now.”
“There,” Dean exclaimed, pointing. Through a patch of fog, he could just make out a dark smudge.
Eric frowned. “Are you sure that’s not the ship?”
Dean shrugged. “I’m pretty the ship was that way,” he indicated an opposing direction, “but not a hundred percent.”
Eric sighed. “Well, it’s our best bet. Let’s go.”
So, they swam towards the smudge. Which turned out to be a wharf. A wharf attached to land. Onto which they crawled gratefully; their energy completely spent.
And when they saw the sun rising over Portland, they laughed like two men who had just miraculously escaped certain death.
Standing over the grave of the ghost captain, watching his bones burn, Dean and Eric listened to Sam, who hadn’t been shanghaied after all, telling the captain’s story.
“Captain Conor Fearchar had sailed the seas over eighty years ago. Most of his crew, it was said, he had obtained by shanghaiing innocent men from the city of Portland, one of his frequent stops. But there was no proof of his crimes and he was never arrested.
“Upon his death, rumour had it that one of his shanghaiing plots had gone sour. Supposedly he had been given a bad batch of sleeping drugs, and his intended victims, a total of six men, had awoken mid-shanghai and fought back, killing the captain down in the tunnels.”
Dean interrupted, saying, “And ever since he’s continued shanghaiing poor bastards as revenge against the ones who had killed him. Even though they’re long since dead.”
Sam nodded. “That just about sums it up. We’re lucky that he was buried here though. Many sailors have been lost out at sea.”
“What I’m wondering,” Dean mused, “is why no one’s reported seeing a ghost ship in the waters just outside of Portland.”
Sam had an answer for that too. “My theory is that the fog has something to do with that. I don’t think it was natural. Think of it like ectoplasm for sea ghosts.”
Dean shuddered in horror. “Thanks for the visual, Sam.”
Dean eyes shifted to Eric, standing silent beside him. His brown eyes, appearing black in the night, reflected the firelight into which he was staring fixedly.
Sam looked at Dean looking at Eric.
“I’ll meet you at the car,” Sam said benignly. Then he walked off, leaving Dean and Eric alone.
“Hey,” Dean began, reaching out his hand.
Dean’s hand paused just above Eric’s shoulder.
Dean withdrew his hand. “I know it’s a lot to take in,” he said. “And—”
Eric sucked in a breath and turned away from the fire to face Dean. The flickering flames made light dance across one side of his face, highlighting the serious expression on it.
“Damn right, it’s a lot to take in.” Eric ran a hand through his hair, which had come loose in the water and now hung in tangled locks to his shoulders. He grimaced and dropped his hand back to his side.
Dean clenched his hands into fists to stop them from reaching out. Or trembling. Or doing anything. He said, “I’ve known pretty much my whole life, so I can’t imagine what you’re thinking right now, but I can tell you that it’s probably better to walk away while you can. Not ask too many questions, or soon enough you may find yourself too deep in to pull yourself out.”
Eric’s gaze perused his face and then softened. “You’ve been through a lot, hunting these things,” Eric said quietly.
Dean shrugged, brushing off his sympathy. “It’s my life. I’m a hunter.”
Eric nodded slowly. “Thank you for saving my life. Twice probably, since I doubt I would have even been able to get out of that room without you.”
“I’m sure you would have figured something out,” Dean said, brushing off the praise, just as he had the sympathy. “You seem very intuitive. I’ve yet to see a non-hunter keep their cool like you did last night.”
Eric chuckled and scratched the back of his neck, embarrassed yet pleased.
“Did I impress you enough to earn your phone number in return, then? After all, you already have mine.”
Dean felt his cheeks flush at the direct reminder of their flirtation the previous day, but he held out his hand all the same. He would have given his number to any person they saved who may need their help in the future, so Dean told himself it wasn’t that big of a deal.
Eric pulled his phone, which he had found just outside the restaurant where it had been dropped the night before, from his pocket and placed it in Dean’s hand.
Dean typed in his number and handed it back. “Call me if you need help or…” He cleared his throat. “Or anything.”
Eric was smiling. “I will.”
Dean swallowed. “Good.” He nodded.
Then he turned back around, took three steps until he was standing right in front of Eric, grasped his shirt and pulled him down for a kiss.
At first it was hot and frenzied, a little desperate, but then Eric cupped the back of Dean’s neck and it softened, became tender and slow.
When they both pulled back, Dean wasn’t breathless, but his heart was racing a mile a minute and his whole body felt heated.
“Thank you,” Dean mumbled. For what exactly, he wasn’t quite sure. But he knew something was different. Something new and strange, yet good.
Eric raised his eyebrows once again. But Dean was spinning around and striding down the cemetery path to the parking lot where Sam and the Impala waited behind the trees.
“What I don’t get is why Fearchar chose you,” Sam said from the driver’s seat. Dean was trying to sleep in the passenger side, but Sam kept interrupting his doze. “I mean, I get why he chose Eric—he literally works above one of the tunnel entrances—but why you?”
Dean hummed a non-response, hoping Sam would drop it.
“You did something, didn’t you?” Sam pressed. “When you went out for that burger.”
Dean hummed again and turned more on his side, away from Sam.
“Dean, tell me,” Sam insisted. “You know I’ll keep asking you about it until you give in.”
Dean huffed, knowing exactly that. “Fine,” he growled. “I went to the restaurant on my own.”
Sam frowned at the road. “Why?”
“Because you said it was a gay bar.”
Sam choked on a laugh. “And you wanted to get all the good guys first?”
“No,” Dean groaned. “I didn’t want us to go together and be mistaken as a couple again.”
Sam considered this. “I see your point. But don’t think I’m not going to tease you about this. Forever.”
Dean pulled his leather jacket up to cover his head. “Let me sleep, Sam. I’m tired.”
“Next time I see the opportunity, that is going to be exactly our cover.”
Sam’s laugh filled the Impala’s interior.
At least he’s laughing, Dean thought. That, in his books, was always a win.
Thinking of the kiss, of Sam’s secret, and of their future, Dean let out a sigh, slowly so that Sam wouldn’t hear.
