Three Days

~~~~~ THREE DAYS: Two ~~~


Dean's dreams are always the same anymore. Most people would call them nightmares, but for Dean, there's no point in trying to differentiate between horrible and even more horrible.

They're just dreams.

Always the same dark imagery and fucked-up allegory.

Failure and damnation, descent and hellfire.

Blah, blah, blah.

Everyone's a yellow-eyed demon, and it's always his fault. He failed to save them, he's failing right now, and he won't be able to save Sam. The usual suspects and scenarios, just shuffle and deal for each night's excursion into madness.

Like now.

Dean's sitting on an outcropping of rock.

A really uncomfortable outcropping of rock. No matter how he moves around, there's always some sharp part of the rock jabbing into his ass. Shouldn't be a surprise, since he is in Hell, after all.

Or what his brain imagines that Hell looks like. Some sort of wasteland straight out of Mad Max, without Mel Gibson but with more than a bit of Clive Barker thrown in for some jazz.

He takes in his surroundings, unsurprised at the oppressive, nearly featureless sky, which is mostly grey swept with darker bruises of purple and redblack closer to the horizon. Acrid smoke and billowing plumes of flame waft upward here and there, and arcing bolts of lightning erupt from the tortured earth, discharging into the low, roiling clouds.

There’s an underlying low rumble, constant and peppered with loud cracks and odd hissing sounds.

A few twisted, bare trees dot the landscape, and a wide river of sickly orange lava stretches away into the distance, bubbling and gurgling and belching flame as it meanders amongst the blackened, jagged rock.

Nothing living navigates Dean's world, but he can hear muffled moans and grunts of pain and the occasional scream. He can't see who or what is making the sounds, though, but they're out there, somewhere.

It’s the same old thing, over and over.

Dean knows he's dreaming, but that’s of little use. He's shit at controlling or directing his subconscious ramblings, so nothing to do but let them play out.

After a time, Dean senses something behind him. No, make that someone.

He looks over his shoulder, and the demon's standing there, its mouth twisted into a leering grin, its gold-flecked, yellow eyes fire bright.

Dean laughs. "Who are you supposed to be?"

The demon folds its arms across its broad chest. "Don't try to pretend you don't know your own brother, Dean."

"You're not my brother," Dean replies without hesitation. "Sam's safe and sound and very far away from here."

"Smoke much, dude?" the demon replies, sounding so much like Sam it's scary. “He's closer to this place than you can possibly imagine. And so are you."

"Bite me," Dean spits out, shaking his head. "Sam's not gonna end up here. Not if I can help it."

"That's just it. You can't save anyone or anything. Shit, man, you lost your mom, your dad, and you're going to lose Sam, too."

Dean slides off of his rock and begins to pick his way across the broken terrain. "Fuck off," he calls out. "I'm gonna save him. Everything'll be fine." He feels a large hand clamp down on his shoulder. He whirls around, but no one's there.

"When are you going to stop kidding yourself?"

Dean looks up and the demon's sitting cross legged on a nearby boulder.

"Son of a bitch," Dean curses under his breath as he starts moving again, squeezing between two large outcroppings of rock. "Take a hint, yellow eyes." He takes several steps further before looking behind him to see if the creature is following. It isn't, and with a smile, he turns around and instantly skids to a stop.

The thing's in front of him now, towering over him and stretching Sam's face into an impossibly wide grin.

Dean snorts and heads off in a new direction. "You guys are running out of material. Last night it was something that looked like Dad saying the same thing." He hunkers down and slides down a small embankment. At the bottom of the ravine, he slowly makes his way toward the molten river.

Something screeches loudly close by, and Dean stumbles to a halt, looking all around him but seeing nothing. When he turns around to move forward again, the demon's right there. He lowers his gaze and tries to step around the thing.

"Truth doesn't change," the demon says, stepping in front of Dean. "Just because you don't like the source doesn't make it false."

Dean nods and veers away to the right. "Wow. I'll have to add philosopher to your list of attributes." He rounds another low ridge of rubble, and stops again, his eyes going wide. The wrecked hulk of the Impala lies before him, her front end collapsed upon itself, the hood crumpled into an inverted 'V'. A pair of large, starburst cracks adorn her windshield, and as he slowly approaches the wreck, he can make out dark red spatters of blood covering the destroyed dash and ripped front seat.

"Oh, baby," Dean murmurs, yanking on the driver's door with no effect. The front fender's driven into the door, cocking everything off kilter. He leans in through the broken driver's door window, surveying the damage. There's blood everywhere, and it still looks fresh.

"Too bad you don't care for anything as much as you care about this hunk of metal."

Dean chuckles and turns, unsurprised to find the demon standing there, leaning against the Impala's rear quarter panel. It's smirking in that totally annoying, self-satisfying way that never fails to make Dean want to hit something.

Hard.

"Yo, dude," Dean says, wiping his hands on his jeans. "How about getting the fuck out of my dream? Go and screw with someone else. Haunt a closet, spit up some pea soup, insult a priest or something. More your speed, isn't it?"

The demon laughs, folding its arms across Sam's broad chest. "You're funny, I'll give you that." It pushes away from the Impala, stepping in front of Dean. "And who says this is a dream?"

Dean looks up into the thing's face, Sam's face, and as much as he hates it, he gasps. Sam's eyes are their normal pale, mossy brown, his expression soft, calm, almost sad.

"Dean?" Sam says, his voice quavering. "What's going on? How'd we get here?" He glances about nervously, wiping at his eyes, obviously confused.

"Sammy!" Dean cries out, lunging for his brother. "Man, is that really you?"

"I think so," Sam says, sniffling and staring at his shoes.

Dean grabs Sam by the upper arms, unable to keep what must be the dorkiest smile ever from spreading across his face. "All right, don’t worry. Just hold on and I'll get us out of here."

"Where are you gonna take us that's safe?" Sam says in an oddly flat voice.

"Dunno," Dean replies, his stomach in knots. He tugs at Sam, who doesn't move. "But we need to go. Now."

"That's the funniest thing I've heard all millennium," Sam says.

Dean watches as Sam lifts his head, his eyes once again that sickly golden yellow.

"You're way too easy," the demon says with a low chuckle.

Dean lets go and starts to back away, but the demon reaches out, clamping a hand on his shoulder.

"Not so fast," it says. "You're really out of it, aren't you, Dean?"

"Get off me," Dean snarls, fear finally rising up from the pit of his stomach and lodging in his throat. "You don't know shit."

"Oh, but I do," the demon replies, nodding and smiling. "I see it all, you know. And you're in major denial, man. About all kinds of things. You fuck up all the time, for one. With the scarecrow, with Mordecai, with Madison. Should I go on? How many times have you nearly gotten Sam killed when you're supposed to be protecting him? If you'd really given a shit about your baby brother, you’dve killed that werewolf bitch on sight. Or better yet, you'dve left him at Stanford instead of dragging him on the road with you."

Dean opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out.

"Jessica'd still be alive, too."

"You fucking bastard," Dean manages to spit.

The demon laughs derisively, holding Dean firmly in its grasp, big hands clutching both of Dean's shoulders. "But you just thought of your own bad self, didn't you? You ripped Sam away from his dream, killing his true love in the process. And in a pathetic attempt to even the score, you let the Madison live, didn't you? You didn't kill it just because you couldn't bear to break your little Sammy's heart. Again. You so wanted your bro to have his fuck puppet, that you let the monster live. Why is that, Dean? Doesn't make sense to set Sam up with someone else when that's not what you really want, now does it? Dude, you're not even thinking straight."

"There was a chance...we thought we'd saved her."

"But you didn't, did you?" the demon replies with a smile It‘s seen the cracks in Dean’s armor. It knows it’s winning. "You failed, Dean! Not only did you fuck that up, as usual, but you ignored your instincts, and because of that, Sam's been turned. Nice work. Really."

Dean tries to wrench himself away but the demon's grip is too strong. "Fuck you," he says, turning his head away to stare off into the distance.

"Don't you wish," the demon hisses, drawing Dean in close.

Dean's crushed against the demon's body, his head buried into the demon's neck. He can feel the demon's erection grinding into him, and Dean's helpless to keep his own cock from responding in kind. "You're not Sam," he growls, hating himself for not fighting harder. Even though he knows he's held fast by a demon, the thing's still wearing Sam's skin.

But it feels like Sam.

Talks like Sam.

It even smells like Sam.

The demon snorts and nuzzles the side of Dean's head, its breath hot against Dean's sweaty skin. "Attaboy, Dean. Just let go. And no, you can't fuck me." The demon roughly kisses the side of Dean's neck, nibbling and biting with rapidly increasing intensity. It grinds its hips into Dean's stomach, finally lifting its head. "But something tells me you'd really like it if I did the fucking right now."

"Sammy," Dean moans, unable to stop himself from rutting against the creature that's so like his brother. "Forgive me, man."

The demon bites down hard and Dean closes his eyes and screams out, the demon's fingers clutching and digging deeply into his skin.

"Hush, now," the thing murmurs into Dean's ear. "It'll all be over soon."

The demon shoves Dean to the ground, and Dean rolls away, yelping in pain as his head impacts with a large rock.

He opens his eyes: the sky's gone all dark and blood red, lightning flashing as it forks jaggedly through the roiling clouds. "No," he wheezes out, concentrating with all his strength to wake up, to end the dream. “Stop. Make it stop.”

"This isn't over until I say so," the demon says, stepping over Dean and stripping off his shirt.

Pearl buttons rain down on Dean, and he tries to push himself away, but Sam's on him in an instant, straddling his hips and smiling.

"Please," Dean says, shocked at how weak and thready his voice is. "Don't hurt Sam. Take me instead. Take me."

Lightning flashes as Sam nods, his expression suddenly knowing, almost sympathetic. "Oh, I intend to," Sam says softly. “Don’t worry; Sam won't ever be alone. It'll be awesome, Dean. The whole Winchester clan, together again." He leans down, his face inches from Dean's. "Re-united. In Hell."

Sam laughs, and Dean ceases his struggles when he sees Sam's eyes go silver and his teeth elongate into fangs. Sam's fingernails turn into claws, and as Sam's fangs sink into the flesh of his neck, Dean closes his eyes and lets out a shuddering breath. Dean arches his back, pressing into Sam, whose claws rake their way down his torso, ripping through his shirt, tearing through his skin. He moans as Sam's erection grinds into his, and Dean can feel the stickyhot of his own blood seeping along his skin and pooling in the hollow of his neck. "Not so bad," he murmurs as Sam drives his fangs ever deeper...

“...not so bad...”

...his eyes crack open slowly, and at first Dean's surprised that Sam isn't right there on top of him. He jerks to a sitting position, his bare chest and back coated in sweat. He glances about, at first completely lost and unsure of where he is. Untangling himself from the blankets, he swings his legs over the side of the bed. His fingers unconsciously go to the side of his neck, feeling for the bite marks, for the blood. The realization that the dream is over slowly creeps into Dean's blurry mind, and he takes a deep breath and stands up.

"Shit," he says, shivering in the chill air and leaning over to swing the nearby window closed. He clamps his arms across his chest, his hands rubbing his upper arms for warmth.

The usual bullshit dream. A bit of a variation, though, with Sam growing fangs...

"Sam!" Dean cries out, suddenly fully awake and aware. Aware of where they are and why, and that Sam's not in the bed. "Fuck!” Dean looks around frantically for his shirt. It's balled up on the rough floorboards, and when he reaches for it, Dean sees something in the shadows of the far corner of the room.

Something with silver eyes.

"Sammy?" Dean says tentatively, his stomach turning to stone. "You okay?" He slowly pads his way across the small room, and as his vision adjusts to the late afternoon light, he makes out the shape of someone huddled in the corner. "Sam?"

"Hey," Sam says so softly that Dean can barely hear it.

Dean rushes to Sam's side, kneeling down and throwing an arm around his brother's shoulders. "What happened?"

Sam's pressed tightly into the corner, his long legs drawn up and his arms curled around his knees. He shudders slightly, sparing Dean a brief glance before looking away to study some point off in space. "Nothing," he says. "Bad dreams. Felt wrong on the bed, open, kind of exposed."

Dean rubs Sam's shoulders. "C'mon, let's get you dressed. It's fucking freezing in here."

Sam looks to Dean and nods, pausing a moment before trying to stand.

Dean slings one of Sam's arms around his neck, and together they manage to make it to the bed without falling over. Dean's beginning to really worry now that the full moon is so close.

Sam's eyes...that's a new one.

They drop down heavily onto the mattress, and Dean leaves Sam sitting there while he moves to root through their duffle bag. "Are you hungry?" he calls out over his shoulder. When he doesn't get an answer, he stands and turns around, a fresh set of clothes for Sam in his hand. "Sam?"

Sam just sits on the bed and stares, and Dean can't help but notice all the new hair that's appeared on Sam's chest and torso. Even the hair on Sam's head has grown incredibly fast in the past week, now reaching down to the middle of his back. Effects of the Lycanthropy at work, obviously.

"No," I'm not hungry," Sam replies softly. "Not at all."

"Okay," Dean nods, tossing the clothes to his brother. "But you probably should try to eat something anyway. Not that there's likely to be much to choose from around here. Wherever we're at, that is." He tries to laugh, but it comes out all wrong.

Sam smiles anyway. "Just outside of Slatina, I think. Corbu, maybe."

"Okay, professor."

"Decent sized city. Should be a market there or maybe even a McDonald's."

"Don't tease me," Dean says, watching as Sam steps into his boxer briefs. He's long ago thrown off any feelings of guilt or wrongness when he stares at his brother's body. They've both been through too much together, shared too much, if there is such a thing.

Sam stands up slowly, wincing in pain as he pulls up the underwear.

"What? You sore again?" Dean asks, stepping in to steady Sam.

"Yeah, I ache all over. Probably from sitting on the floor for so long." He notices Dean's odd expression. "What?"

Dean shakes his head. "I think I know why you ache." He steps right in front of his brother and looks up. "Stand up straight, man."

"Dean," Sam protests. "I don't know what difference it makes..."

"Just do it," Dean insists.

Sam nods and straightens up, his eyes going wide. "Holy shit," he murmurs.

"Yeah, something like that.”

Dean's more than used to his little brother having a good three inches in height on him. Sam’s always seemed uncomfortable about the whole thing, preferring to wear flat soled athletic shoes rather than the big heeled boots that Dean wears. This evens out the differences in height between them, putting Sam's nose roughly at Dean's eye level.

Over the past month, though, they'd both noticed that Sam had grown a bit taller. And now, both in their bare feet, Dean’s staring directly at the hollow of Sam's neck.

"Damn, bro," he whispers, also unable to ignore how much larger and more defined Sam's muscles are. "Looks like you've tacked on some more height overnight."

"Shit, what's up with this?" Sam says, his voice threaded with worry. "This can't be due to the lycanthropy, can it?"

Dean cranes his neck to meet Sam's gaze. "I don't know." That much is true; there's so much they don't know about the curse and how it progresses that Dean's given up worrying about it. "Must be, I guess."

"We didn't observe anything like this in San Francisco. None of the werewolves there..." He steps around Dean and gestures at himself. "None of them grew like this."

Dean shrugs. "We don't know that. We didn't meet Glenn or Madison until after they'd been infected and undergone their first Change. This could be a normal effect for all we know." He puts up his hands. “Glenn was pretty furry.”

Sam rolls his eyes and plants his hands on his hips. "Yeah, but he wasn’t that tall."

"Maybe he was a dwarf before he was turned."

"Not funny, man. Shit. This is great. Just great. Dad's notes or the stuff Bobby gave us never mentioned this."

"Yeah, you're right there," Dean agrees. "But Bobby also said that what he gave us is really thin. Unsubstantiated rumor and myth, really. There's certainly a shape-shifting aspect to this lycanthropy thing, though probably not as graphic as what Landis showed us in that movie of his. And just because we didn't see anything like it in San Fran doesn't mean it doesn't happen. There could be different levels or degrees of infection, as well as a few different species of werewolf out there."

Sam tosses his head. "I suppose that might explain why the legends vary and contradict each another so much. There could even be variations that show up from person to person."

"There you go," Dean says with a crooked grin. "Let's try to keep our perspective and treat this like any other case."

"Okay," Sam replies. "But you've gotta admit that we're way out on a limb here. And our time frame is pretty short, too."

Dean moves over to Sam and snakes his arms about Sam's waist. "That's why we're in Romania, man. For all the stuff we don't know."

"You're putting a lot of faith in this alchemist person," Sam says. "He or she might not even exist."

"Luthar's real enough. Bobby wouldn't steer us wrong. Looks majorly skanky, though."

Sam nods "Yeah, he sure looks rough. But then again, if the guy lives in places like this, it's no wonder."

"I guess. Aside from that, he looks pretty damn shifty, too." Dean pokes the end of his tongue against his cheek and winks.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Jesus, Dean."

Dean shrugs. "He's gonna take one look at you, and..." He mimes stroking himself.

"You're really disgusting, ya know that?"

"Yeah."

Sam shakes his head. "Besides, if things keep going like this, I could end up in a circus freak show or something."

"Oh, I dunno. Things could be much worse." He slowly presses his groin into Sam's thighs. "Of all the possible side effects, these aren't too bad. You could be growing scales, extra limbs or even gills."

"Not helping," Sam replies with a snort.

Dean chuckles. "Well, the thing is, I sort of like it, Sasquatch. I don't mind looking up, and you're getting awfully damn buff, dude." He licks at the base of Sam's neck. "Works for me."

Sam shakes his head and hugs Dean firmly. "Only you could take a problem like this and turn it into something smutty."

Dean chuckles. "Always look on the bright side of life."

"Okay," Sam replies. "And you look like shit, by the way."

"Thanks," Dean snorts. "Love you too, bro."

"You didn't sleep much last night." Sam runs his fingers through Dean's unusually shaggy head of hair. "Nightmares again, right?"

"Nothing to worry about. Same old crap."

"They're getting worse."

"Are they?"

Sam nods. "Yeah. Want to talk about it?"

"Nope."

"Dean."

"Sam."

Sam gently pushes Dean away from him. "You've always said it's a good idea to talk about dreams. The imagery could be important."

Dean shakes his head. He hates it when Sam turns his own words back on him. The fact that Sam's right is completely irrelevant. "Like I said, they’re the usual bullshit. Demons on parade in Hell, complete with depressing prophecy. Cue lightning and scary yellow eyes. End of story." He exaggerates a smile and flutters his eyelids. "Satisfied, Dr. Phil?"

"Jerk," Sam shoots back.

"Bitch," Dean replies. "Hey, I'm fine. You're forgetting that you're the one that needs help."

Sam grunts. "No, I'm not forgetting anything. But what's going on with you is every bit as important."

Dean waves a hand. "I'm fine, really. And I'll be even better once I have a shower and some decent food."

"A shower sounds like a great idea," Sam agrees.

As Dean considers the prospect of a joint shower with Sam, he notes the smile fading from Sam's lips. "All right, now what?"

Sam shakes his head. "Nothing, really. Just thinking about this alchemist. What they really know, if anything."

"Sam," Dean says, a hint of warning in his voice. “We‘ll just have to wait and see. If it doesn‘t pan out, we‘ll try something else. We always find a way, right?"

"The full moon's in two days," Sam points out.

"Yeah, I know. We're running out of time."

"Dean, if this alchemist can't help..."

Dean buries his head into Sam's furred chest. "They can."

"But..."

Dean pulls away and paces the room. "I fuckin' hate it when you do this."

Sam spreads his arms. "What? When I try to maintain perspective? To be realistic? You know what you have to do if things don't work out."

Dean whirls about to stare at Sam, his jovial mood evaporating instantly and his jaws clenching as he tries to maintain composure. "Why do you always have to steer the conversation to the same fuckin' point? What's up with that? Do you get off on reminding me all the time?"

Sam clears his throat. "I just want to make sure we're clear on this."

Dean throws up his arms, then lets them fall, his open palms smacking against his legs with loud slaps. "Don't worry, little bro, it's fuckin' crystal!" he barks out. "I've got a whole clip of silver bullets with your name on ‘em." He makes a gun shape with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. "If we don't figure things out in time, then..." He points his finger gun at Sam's head and flicks it savagely. "Blammo, first shot right between the eyes, then one to the heart. And I'll empty the clip for good measure. Good enough?" Dean stalks to the small window next to a ratty wardrobe and stares out of it. "Fuck, Sam!"

Sam moves behind Dean and leans down, nuzzling Dean's shoulder. "Sorry, man. I hate to piss you off like this, but...”

"But what, Sammy?" Dean snarls. "How many more times are you gonna make me say it? Do you have a clue how hard it is for me to even think it, let alone talk about it?"

"Yeah, I can imagine," Sam says, encircling his arms around Dean's chest and hugging him tight. "I know how hard all of this must be on you."

"Do you? Do you have the slightest fucking idea what it would be like for me without you? You're all I've got left, man. I don't want to...I couldn't keep going if you're not here."

"I know that."

"It's fine. Everything'll be just fine."

"You keep saying that. Maybe I'm getting a little tired of hearing you repeat it, over and over. Sounds like you're trying to convince yourself as much as me."

Dean sighs. "I fuckin' hate this shit. Can we just drop it for now, and talk about it later? Like, in fifty years?"

"Yeah, whatever," Sam snorts. "I just need to be sure that if things go wrong, that you'll save me. That you won't let me live like some murdering monster. That you'll...you'll..."

"We'll get through this," Dean says through clenched teeth. "Failure is not an option, okay?"

Sam nods. "All right." He kisses the nape of Dean's neck and steps backward.

Dean turns around but remains silent for a long time, simply staring at his brother. "So, here's the plan, then: we head for Slatina, which shouldn't be much more than forty, fifty miles, right?"

Sam nods. "Sounds right."

"We find a place to stay, clean up, eat, and maybe even grab some rest before meeting Luthar at the crossroads."

"Works for me."

Dean flashes a thumbs up. "Awesome. And if we make good time, we can do something about those clothes of yours."

Sam shakes his head. "That's hardly a priority right now, is it?"

"Just thought I'd mention it."

Sam pulls a face and walks over to the dresser, peering into the cloudy and cracked mirror hanging above it. "Holy shit, I look like hell." He bends down to sift through their duffle, extracting a hair brush. "Could use a haircut," he mutters as he drags the brush through his tangled locks.

"Remember, one hundred strokes," Dean says as he picks up the battered enamel wash basin and heads for the door.

Sam flips him off and Dean laughs, making his way down the narrow hallway to the nasty common bathroom at the end of the hall. It's nothing but a toilet and a small sink. After waiting for what seems like forever, Dean fills the basin with warm water.

He probably shouldn't be too critical of the hostel place; they had pounded on the owner's door well after dark, and the old woman was pretty clear that the only room she'd had left wasn't her best.

By the time he's back in their room, Sam's finished with the brush and struggles to tie his hair into a ponytail.

Dean sets the basin down on the dresser, and they both set about washing themselves as best they can.

Dean doesn't say anything, and neither does Sam.

Dean watches as Sam dresses, struggling with clothes clearly too small. He wonders if there's such a thing as big and tall shops in this Slatina place, as Sam's in desperate need of some new duds.

Sam tries in vain to adjust his jeans, clearly not pleased with their fit.

"Told ya," Dean says.

Sam shrugs.

What could Sam say? Dean pulls on a reasonably clean pair of jeans and t-shirt, Sam's words echoing through his brain. Yeah, he does say that things will be fine an awful lot. And Sam's right again; it's as much for his benefit as it is for Sam's.

So what of it, then? That's how he really feels though, that everything will work out, despite the hopelessness of it, despite the odds stacked against them. Dean's got faith that things'll be fine, if for no other reason than his own sheer, force of will. And he hates losing. Especially when the stakes are so high.

The Dark isn't going to get Sam, they'll eventually destroy Yellow Eyes, and they'll be able to settle down a bit.

Have a life. Just Sam and him.

Maybe even a house somewhere. With a big barn to work on the Impala and lots of trees and no one else for miles.

Maybe a hunt every now and then, if they want.

Simple.

Easy.

Hopeful.

Hope for the future, for Sammy.

That's what it is, really. The one little thing that he allows to intrude into all the bullshit.

That's what keeps Dean going. Sometimes it’s the only thing that does.

He looks up and Sam's standing there, dressed and ready to go, his head cocked to one side and a slightly confused expression on his face.

"You okay?" Sam asks.

Dean flashes Sam a crooked smile. "Yeah, I am. Just thinkin'."

Sam doesn't say anything as he grins in response.

"Let's go," Dean says, opening the door for Sam and gesturing to the hall. As Sam passes by, Dean's reminded by something from his most recent dream. Demon Sam in the dream was very tall, too.

About as tall as Sam is now, with long hair.

Fucking nightmares.

Dean closes the door behind him, following Sam down the hallway. He reaches around to the small of his back, making sure that his gun's there, tucked securely in the waistband of his jeans.

He doesn't have to check to ensure the bullets are silver; that's all he's been using ever since San Francisco.


~~~~~ <~*~> ~~~