The Road Home

"Don't we all." Life would be a hell of a lot simpler if campfire stories stayed that way. Unfortunately, given Dick already had experience with demons, cults based in blood magic, and actual fucking vampires, he'd long since gotten the memo that there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in anyone's philosophies.

He paused, watching the hunter with idle curiosity as the man clearly seemed to consider something. And then he was being handed a business card. A very nice one, too, of appropriate cardstock with the proper fonts and logo, nicely official format…honestly, if Dick hadn't already guessed better - the FBI hardly branched out into supernatural investigations - he might have bought it as genuine. And then, of course, there was the name.

James Hetfield, huh?

Dick didn't bother hiding his amused smirk. Sure, it could be this guy's real name, but he wasn't banking on it. He tucked the card into his gauntlet and shrugged. "I'd definitely be Unforgiven if I didn't give directions. It's in Midtown, a block or two off the river, by the old Davenport Tower. And sure, I'll give you a call if I come across something you'd be best suited to Seek and Destroy, Mr. Hetfield."

---dean watched as nightwing looked over the card and he saw the dawning look of recognition and amusement cross his features. it was obvious dean didn't belong to any alphabet agencies, he was no james hetfield, but that was actually his number. it was just the card he usually gave out when he was looking into leads, but it would work in this case too. if nightwing got his alias, dean got his.

but had to say he was surprised by all the metallica references. he didn't expect it coming from nightwing, the way that jason had talked about him. he really did make him sound like some sort of straight laced boy scout. if anything, he'd been more relaxed than jason. after all, the first time they met the red hood had pulled a gun on dean and pointed it right between his eyes. nightwing seemed far more at ease to let him just do his work and move on. huh. he would have never guessed.

dean couldn't hide the little grin on his face as he was given directions and he wasn't trying to. "right, you keep that in mind. as for me, i'm heading for that pie, cause right now Nothing Else Matters." dean couldn't resist the wink and little wave he gave before finally getting in his car and heading off.

huh. nightwing seemed pretty cool. who would have guessed?

“Of course, he did. Golden Boy’s a total teacher’s pet.” Never mind the fact that Jason had been the one to truly love school. That he’d been the kid to actively seek out extra credit assignments. Dean didn’t need to know any of that. Especially not when they were actively fighting a fucking ghost. A ghost that was probably inside now, trying to stop a weaponless Dick from severing her ties to the mortal realm by any means necessary.

“Would that really be such a bad thing?” he muttered under his breath, following on Dean’s heels. He didn’t mean it; not enough to say it loud enough for anyone to hear, not at all. Dick dying wasn’t something Jason actually hoped for. Maybe getting the shit kicked out of him a little, a bit of light maiming, when Jason was having a bad day, but death wasn’t actually on the cards for Nightwing. Not if Jason could help it.

He let out a surprised yelp when he found himself suddenly flying through the air, smacked his head off the plaster as his back hit a wall. Goddammit. What, ghosts were fucking telekinetic now? Christ on a cracker, that was such bullshit. How the fuck did Dean fight these things all the time?

Snatching up his knife from where it’d slipped out of his hand on impact, he rose to his feet, teeth grit. “Yeah, sure. Hand to hand with a goddamn ghost. Why the fuck not? You couldn’t have brought a ranged weapon with you?” he couldn’t help but complain. That would’ve made things so much easier. At least then he wouldn’t have to manage to get all up close and personal with the bitch every time she formed.

Shit, but this was going to suck ten ways to Sunday. He could already tell.

He darted forward at the first opening, when her attention fell to Dick for just a moment, slashing through her form with the knife a second time. Step one: complete. Step two: figure out where the hell she was going to reappear next. If she was smart, she’d play the fact that they only had one weapon against them. Jason was the only one that could hurt her, until Dick got the correct painting lit, which meant it was his job to protect the other two.

And they weren’t exactly making it easy for him by standing next to each other.

A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye had him spinning in time to catch her reappearing far too close to Dick for comfort. Shit! Jason ran, but only made it a couple steps before the ghost saw him, snarled, and sent him flying across the room for a second time. He managed to throw the knife—it hit its mark dead on, soaring straight through her, forcing her to dissipate once again, before embedding itself into the wall behind her—before he smashed into a China cabinet, sending the whole thing crashing to the ground and landing Jason in a pile of broken glass and wood.

“…Ow.”

@dramatisperscnae

Not the old lady painting!

Shit.

And here Dick had just been about to relax a little. No dice. In hindsight it really should have been obvious that the painting of the old woman wouldn't be the right one; this was hardly Dorian Grey they were dealing with, after all, why wouldn't she latch onto a painting where she was still young and vibrant? A quick scan of the nearby paintings told him just which one to target next, his grip on the salt shaker tightening. The trick would be getting to it.

The Hood and the hunter were still dealing with the ghost herself, which made things slightly easier on Dick, but the more she flung the other two into walls and china cabinets - good thing Hood was wearing a helmet; that one had to hurt - the more chance there was that she'd turn her focus on Dick himself and that would be a Problem. Especially since he didn't exactly have time to grab both the knife that was now embedded in the wall a few feet from his head and the currently-on-fire painting that he planned to use to ignite the proper one.

The knife had at least caused her to disappear again, but that wouldn't last long. Dick yanked the burning portrait off the wall just in time to turn around and get an up-close view of the angry ghost. Shit. He needed the rest of the salt for the other portrait, he couldn't afford to just throw it at her, but she was also right between him and his target and she damn sure wasn't going to give him time to come up with a cunning plan.

Fine.

A stupid one would have to do.

Dick jumped, pulled a backflip, braced his feet on the wall behind him, and charged. Straight through the ghost. It was like getting shot with one of Mr. Freeze's guns on full blast, passing through her, and Dick would have sworn his suit even iced over, but it got him through and across the room with enough momentum to reach the proper painting. He chucked the rest of the salt at it before yanking it off the wall and dropping it on top of the already-burning portrait. Old canvas and oil paints should take care of the rest. Hopefully.

---dean couldn't help it. a little laugh escaped him at jason's comment about going hand to hand with a ghost. this was his daily life. he'd gone toe to toe with more ghosts than he could count. he'd also been flung around by plenty of them too. he supposed he might have been just as annoyed his first time.

it was odd, sort of taking this backseat role. he had no weapon. he should have known better, really. he didn't even bring his salt rounds because he thought this would be quick (fucking gotham) but he did his best to be backup. he kept eyes out for the ghost and just as he was about to call out her out jason was already making his move. dean had to admit he was impressed. if more vigilantes crossed over into hunting the supernatural might actually be a lot less of a problem.

but of course ghosts made jokes of them all. jason went crashing into the china one way, his knife flying the other. the ghost was gone but for how long? long enough for nightwing to really piss her off, it seemed. she knew her end was coming to a close and dean knew he needed to do something to help make this happen.

a soft 'ow' told him jason was going to be okay and dean went after the weapon.

the hunter ran for it and he managed to duck, skid-sliding along his knees just as nightwing came sailing over him through the ghost. dean didn't even have time to consider what an ice bath that must have felt like because he was too focused on yanking jason's knife out of the wall and throwing it through the ghost one last time.

the iron knife wobbled to a standstill in the wooden floor next to the burning portrait. the ghost appeared but then she too went up in smoke and embers before totally vanishing for good.

dean leaned forward onto one hand and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding before he started laughing. that could have gone way worse. "you two okay?"

@normaltothemax

Jason tried not to grimace at the thought of Dean meeting Batman. Yeah, no, there wouldn’t be a conversation. Batman would beat the shit out of Dean with extreme prejudice and then lock him up in Blackgate for the rest of his life (or until Jason broke him out). And yes, he knew how skilled Dean was, knew the hunter could more than hold his own, but this was Batman they were talking about. He, like Jason, had training that Dean didn’t. He wouldn’t hold back against a perceived serial killer and he’d use every trick and tool at his disposal. It was impossible to say what condition Jason would even find him in, if he wound up in Blackgate. Broken bones, lacerations, breathing through a tube—everything was possible, and Jason hated the thought of that.

No, he didn’t want Dean going anywhere near Batman.

“Promise me you won’t go after him.” Jesus, Jason might as well have asked him to cross his heart. It sounded stupid and childish, phrased like that—something like ’give me your word’ probably would’ve been better—but Jason needed to know Dean wasn’t going to go pick a fight he’d ultimately lose, no matter how many good hits of his own he landed. Despite all current evidence to the contrary, Jason could take care of himself. He could fight his own battles, and he needed to know Dean wasn’t going to go fuck himself over because of something as stupid as Jason getting in over his head and getting hurt. “Swear it, Dean.”

He really didn’t feel all that hungry, but he dumped a few chips onto his plate anyways, took another bite of the sandwich, just to appease the man. Whatever he didn’t finish, he’d stick in the fridge for later. That would probably be fine, right?

At the offer, he looked up from his food, stared at Dean. Searched his face for…something. He wasn’t entirely sure what. Deceit, maybe? Something that would hint at the rug getting pulled out from under him, down the line. At the shoe that was dangling above his head dropping. Stay as long as he wanted? Dean couldn’t actually mean that, could he? It was just something people said.

Apparently not finding whatever he’d been looking for, he dropped his gaze back down to his plate, scratching at his jaw. “…Thanks. I—” He wasn’t entirely sure what to say, floundered for a minute, before giving up and just repeating himself. “Thanks.”

---dean looked up from his sandwich at jason with a bemused expression. he just hadn't expected that reaction out of him. he knew that jason had a soft spot for him, they had bonded a bit over a few shared stories and they liked to flick each other shit, but he didn't expect that strong of a reaction - even after he patched him up properly.

apparently he'd made an impression.

"alright, kid. i won't do anything that dumb. you got my word." dean could see how important it was to him and he didn't want him to worry. even if dean was tempted to call down some sort of heavenly favor as a form of payback he'd keep his word and not go after the bat.

now if he just happened to run into batman at some point, dean wasn't sure he could be held accountable for what he would say or do, but that wasn't the point here.

it seemed like dean wasn't the only confused one, though. dean could tell that his offer been unexpected and that only furthered his resolve to take this kid in and look after him. jesus, how could he not let him stay as long as he needed after what he'd just been through? what kind of life had jason lived where that offer seemed out of the ordinary?

"no problem," he assured, not wanting to make it seem like it was a big deal, because it really wasn't. it was no trouble to dean at all. despite how good he was at his job, hunting down and killing things, dean was might have made an even better caregiver. "i can get you some ice for that, if you want. keep the swelling down it'll heal faster," he offered gesturing to his throat.

Crossing his arms, he raised a brow at Dean. “Uh huh.” The skepticism was clear in his tone; Jason didn’t believe him for a second. He didn’t have to be a detective to see that something was eating at Dean, but it certainly helped. Whiskey bottle that’d been mostly full the night before, now nearly empty, multiple rings of water on the table from his glass, the slightest tremor in his hands, the way he refused to look Jason in the eye, instead actively avoiding it.

More than that, he hadn’t startled (he was too good for that), but Jason was pretty positive the hunter hadn’t known he was there until he’d spoken. Dean had just been sitting there, staring off into space with a haunted look in his eye, situational awareness out the window.

Yeah, something was up.

Jason plopped himself down in the chair Dean had just vacated and kicked his feet up onto the table (mostly just to be a nuisance), crossing his legs at the ankle. “You know,” he started, almost conversationally, before parroting Dean’s words right back to him, “you don't have to pull that stoic bullshit with me. You can talk to me. It goes both ways.”

---yeah, jason didn't buy it. not that dean really thought he would. that tracked; it was never that easy. dean knew jason just didn't understand. he just needed to pull himself together, splash a little water in his face, have a nice black coffee and he would be fine.

man up, winchester. you don't get the luxury of being broken.

he drank his water and he could feel the coolness leaving an icy trail in its wake. it was uncomfortable, the water sat heavy in his empty stomach. he could feel the room spin slightly around him, like time was trying to catch up all at once now that he was aware of its passing. it was the whiskey playing catch up, he knew, but he was trying not to think about how much he'd downed of that in one night.

dean did his best to keep busy still, even if he was aware that jason wasn't going to just let this one slide. he moved on from the water and opened the fridge (still gotta avoid those eyes don't you?) so he could grab the milk; a box of apple jacks joined the jug on the counter, but he was aware his stalling wasn't going to get him far. "you thought that was real clever, didn't ya?" the kid was right, of course. but that was part of what pissed dean off so much. and part of what brought the half smile to his lips.

fuckin' kid.

dean got his cereal together probably definitely a little more aggressively than was needed. the spoon clanged into the bowl, the milk almost sloshed out when he poured it and he half threw the jug back in the fridge. a second bowl joined dean's on the table, because if he was going to talk shit then jason was going to eat a meal with dean. even if it was just apple jacks. dean bonded over food best and they had already had one hard conversation over a 'meal', so why buck the trend?

"get your damn feet off the table and eat your breakfast," he grumbled and pushed at jason's legs as his last form of protest. dean took a seat in the other empty chair finally and picked up his bowl. he stared down into it for a moment before he finally looked at jason the first time that morning and dean just looked tired.

"no stoic bullshit," he promised and took a couple bites of cereal. he was visibly trembling just a little holding the bowl. shit, it really had been a long night. was that all from the whiskey or could he just not handle being honest about himself?

"honestly, i'm just fucked up, kid. really fucked up. you might think i was joking about dying and coming back a bunch of times but that shit, it's real for me. and it's messed me up for a long time and -- now i'm worried about that same kinda shit messing you up too."

"I said I'd heard of them, not that I'd actually seen one before." Dick shrugged slightly. "It's kinda hard to judge the danger when all you've got to go by are campfire stories from when you were six." Case in point: Dick hadn't had any idea ghouls could take on the appearance of their victims. That wasn't concerning in the slightest…at least the thing had been brought down before it could work its way to one very specific grave here.

The last thing Dick needed was to face an undead version of his lost brother.

He paused to admire the hunter's car when they reached it - sure, she wasn't the Nightbird, but then Dick was at least a little biased towards the car he'd built himself - and leaned over to take a peek inside the trunk. That was a lot of gear; some of it he could at least make a guess at - holy water, various bits of silver and iron, probably some salt in there somewhere; superstitions didn't just come out of nowhere - but the rest he neither knew nor wanted to ask about. Dick had enough on his plate without branching out into hunting less mundane monsters.

"I wasn't arguing," he pointed out mildly, "and I wasn't gonna stop you. I know this city, better than most; I'm not shocked there's more than just the mundane out there." And as much as Bruce was going to hate to admit it, having a hunter in the neighborhood - even just for a while - would make things a lot easier on them. Dick would have a talk with him, get him to lay off the guy.

"Beer and a burger, probably the best place for that'd be the Time-Out Cafe," he added. "Not as seedy as it could be, and the food's pretty good. They do a killer buttermilk pie, too."

---dean might have been a touch hostile towards nightwing but he was starting to come around. he could tell that he meant well and hey, he had to admit he was a little impressed that he'd even heard of a ghoul in the first place. he seemed to be pretty level headed and in dean's line of work that was about as rare as coming across casper the friendly ghost. he had to wonder why jason complained so much about him, but dean supposed the kid had his reasons.

"i wish they were just campfire stories," he admitted and leaned back against his car after the trunk was shut. he leveled his gaze with the vigilante for a moment as if he was considering something and then reached into the inside of his jacket. he pulled out a pretty official looking business card and passed it over. it had the name james hetfield on it under the letters "FBI" as well as his phone number. "look, you ever come across something that ain't exactly mundane, feel free to give me a call. i know you masked guys are used to handling a lot of weird shit, but i kind of specialize in the extra weird shit, if you ever need a hand."

he pushed off the trunk and headed towards the front of the impala, but nightwing's last statment had him pausing just to turn and look back to him. "where did you say this place was again?"

it was safe to say that nightwing had easily won dean over. if he ever needed an ally, dean would be there.

"Quite a story for a car." Q noted with obvious fondness as he wandered around the vehicle and worked on keeping his eyes off Dean. He didn't want to impose on the man's work and completely understood the desire to complete something alone... Even if it would be a lot easier with help. Sometimes that was just the way the world had to work to feel right. "I like actual cars compared to a lot of the more modern ones where really they're glorified milk floats." He came to a stop next to Dean and offered a clean handkerchief. "You shouldn't let grease sit directly on your face, especially not above your eyes." He noted before shrugging. "I can't drive. But I do care for a collection of Aston Martins, some Bentleys... My employer is more fond of British makes but that's not the be-all, end-all."

---dean dug into his toolbox as his car was admired. normally he wasn't big on random chit-chat with strangers, but hey, the average stranger didn't want to talk about his car. "milk floats?" he questioned with a little laugh and a shake of his head but the hunter seemed to get the context. "yeah, for me it's the tablets. bring back buttons for fucks sake." the kerchief being offered was met with an arched brow and dean couldn't help but think he'd had much worse things on his face besides a little car grease, but it was being offered with kindness and so he took it, using it to mop up the sweat and grease on his face before offering it back. "you go around offering every mechanic you find these?" he asked with a little laugh.

but he was really taken aback by such a casual admittance. "wait you're that into cars and you can't even drive? dude, that's like being a chef that can't even cook. what's the deal?" he couldn't help himself but ask. it might have been a little blunt but that was just how dean was. "it must be torture taking care of cars like that and not even getting to take 'em out for a spin."

Lack of Sleep Starters!

pronouns and context can be changed as you see fit.

DEAN WINCHESTER in one random episode per day ‣ 307/327 12.14 THE RAID

Dean Winchester Thesis Statement