Three Days

~~~~~ THREE DAYS: Three ~~~~~


“Shit.” Dean jiggles the small toggle that controls the driver's seat position. He's tired and way too achy, which isn't a surprise considering he's barely slept in twenty-four hours.

“What now?”

“Damn thing. Just tryin' to move the seat a little, and I musta hit the wrong button.” He tries again, and the seat tilts forward. “Too many fuckin' gadgets. What's wrong with a simple knob and lever, huh?”

“Don't fight it, Dean,” Sam replies around a grin.

“Ya need to be an astronaut to operate this thing.” He fiddles with the toggle some more, and his seat moves back to what feels like the same exact position as when he started. Giving up, he shifts around as best he can, finding a vaguely comfortable position.

As much as Dean hates their rental BMW, it was a far better choice than the the other options that'd been available at the Bucharest airport. There was no freakin' way he'd ever be caught dead in a car named Panda. What the hell had the numb nuts at Fiat been smoking when they'd came up with that? Why not the Toucan or the Aardvark? Aside from the stupid name, the tiny tin can had been butt ugly to boot.

Sam had suggested something called a Vectra, but when Dean'd caught sight of the jet black BMW 3, he knew that he'd found their ride. At least the color was right.

The damn thing was soft and cushy in all the wrong places, and rode so quietly Dean could barely tell if it was running or not. It had a decent radio, which Sam clearly appreciated, and Dean couldn't complain about the handling. He'd never admit it to anyone, but the BMW sorta put the Impala to shame in that respect.

And considering the crappy condition of some of the roads they'd encountered so far, Dean was thankful for the sturdy German suspension, which was getting one helluva workout.

He vowed to never complain about the condition of the roads back home again.

It sure as hell as been a stressful stretch of days. Suffering through a series of trans-continental and trans-Atlantic flights hadn't been a cakewalk, either. Good thing Bobby'd slipped him a handful of Valium to knock off the rough edges while flying. Dealing with passports and visas had been a new experience, too. Basically, a major pain in the ass. But it had to be done if there was any chance that Sam could be saved from the first Change.

It had totally sucked that Sam hadn't shown any signs of an impending change until only a week ago. Up to that point, they'd believed that Madison's attack hadn't transmitted the lycan virus. All blood tests had come back normal, save for an odd variance that clearly wasn't anything close to what they knew to be lycan blood elements.

So now they were running around at the last minute, scrambling for any possible lead that came their way. It couldn't get much more desperate than flying to Romania to meet some shady character in the middle of nowhere.

As luck would have it, Slatina was located due west of Bucharest, but no main road connected the two cities. Sticking to the highways would have taken them nearly one hundred miles to the north, and then another one hundred south, well out of their way. Sam'd charted a more direct route, using secondary roads, which the GPS thing had calculated to be just over one hundred ten miles total.

Of course, the GPS didn't tell them that a good portion of their route would take them over roads that were either poorly paved, partially paved, or somewhere in between. They'd also discovered one or two were nothing more than glorified cow paths.

As if that weren't bad enough, they'd encountered slow-moving tractors, wayward herds of sheep and the occasional horse-drawn hay wagon, all of which had conspired to drive Dean to distraction in no time flat. He'd even gotten them stuck once, the BMW sinking up to the door sills in mud.

They'd received unexpected help in the form of the last farmer they'd passed, who'd actually hitched his horses to the mired BMW's nose and yanked it from the mud with relative ease. The older guy never said a word during the whole process, simply smiling and nodding as if he did that sort of thing everyday. Hell, for all Dean knew, he did.

After that, the jet lag caught up with both of them, and with the imminent onset of nightfall, they'd stopped in the next town they'd ran across, a place called Corbu. More like a village, really, but it did have a few modern conveniences.

At least the young guy manning the tiny fuel station had spoken some decent English, directing them to the hostel where they'd spent their first night in Romania.

Now Corbu and the hostel were an hour behind them, but they'd barely covered twenty of the fifty or so miles to Slatina.

“Man, this sucks,” Dean mutters, impatiently waiting for a spot in the road wide enough to pass the latest obstruction, in this case, a tractor hauling a huge cart filled with what could only be manure. Really fresh manure. He powers up his window.

“Just don't get us stuck again,” Sam says, jabbing radio buttons.

“Thanks, genius. I'll remember that.” Dean notes what appears to be a wide, flat and hopefully dry section of gravel just ahead and whips the BMW around the manure wagon. “What's the name of the next place we're looking for?”

“Uh, hang on.” Sam revives the GPS. “A town called uh, Potcoava. I think.”

Dean grunts, easing their car up to 40. The road ahead is blessedly clear of hay wagons and sheep.

“Sorry, man. Guess we shoulda stuck to the main roads.”

“Nah. Just look at all this scenery we'd have missed.” He spares Sam a wry grin, noting his brother's definitely despondent tone.

“We'd probably be in Slatina by now.” Sam stares out his side window. “My fault.”

“Cut it out, okay? We'll get there. And we've got plenty of time.” He glances at Sam again. “Grab some shut eye. You sure as hell didn't get enough sleep last night.”

“Neither did you.”

“I'm good.” Dean lies. “I'll wake you when we hit Slatina.”

“Dean-”

“You're whupped, Sam. Just do it.”

“Fine.” Sam reclines his seat all the way back; a minute later, and he's snoring.

“Told ya,” Dean sighs, attempting to find something other than foreign pop or dance crap on the radio.


********* ~*~ *********


“Hey, Sammy, we're here, man.” Dean jostles Sam's shoulder.

Sam lurches forward in his seat, throwing an arm in front of his face. “Whoa! Dean!”

“Down boy! You're cool!” Dean watches as Sam blinks repeatedly, clearly confused. “We're in Slatina.”

Sam gulps down some air, nodding as he takes in the rather bustling city street they're parked on. “Yeah, sure, okay.”

“Are you?”

Sam nods. “Yeah. What time is it?”

“Almost noon, Romanian Standard Time.” Sam makes to speak but Dean cuts him off. “Had to take a detour at that Potato place.”

“Potcoava, you mean.”

“Whatever. Bad bridge on the planned route, so we had to take a little detour. Like twenty miles north.”

Sam eyes the GPS by Dean's thigh. “You used that?” he says, rubbing an eye.

“Fuck off, techno geek.” Dean gestures through the windshield. “We're here, aren't we?”

“Sorta looks like a miniature Pittsburgh.”

“Yeah, sorta. Check it out.” Dean points across the street.

“MiniMAX?”

“Guy at the gas station said it was the closest thing to a Wal-Mart within fifty miles. If we're gonna find new duds for you anywhere, it's gonna be there.”

“Dean, I'm fine.”

“Dude, you're seriously groovin' the high-water nerd look. All you're missing is the pocket protector full of pens.” He opens his door and steps out, bending down to peer at Sam. “It's embarrassing, really. C'mon. We'll take care of your wardrobe malfunction, and then we need to check out what looks like a Subway, right down the street.”


********* ~*~ *********


The MiniMAX joint actually turned out to have a fair selection of recognizable products, and Dean'd been right: Sam found a couple pairs of suitable jeans that fit, as well as a decent new pair of boots. They'd also stocked up on essential supplies, especially batteries.

The possible Subway turned out to be a combination sandwich shop and diner. Fortunately, there were pictures of everything on the menu board, as there hadn't been a soul in the place spoke English. Or felt like it, anyway, There was something definitely gamey about the burger-like sandwich that Dean ordered, but it hit the spot anyway. They ordered several items to go, and set out to find one of only two hotels in all of Slatina.

“That's it?” Dean asks, sliding the BMW into a parking space. “It looks like a an overgrown Motel 6.”

Sam rounds the back of the car as Dean pops the trunk. “Since when are you so picky? Most of the time, you go for the skankiest motel we can find.”

“Anything's gotta be better than that hostel.” He slings his duffel over his shoulder. “So this was some presidential palace or something?”

Sam nods toward the hotel's entrance. “That's why the call it The President. From what I've read, Ceausescu built it for his personal use, and when he was ousted in '89, it was turned over to the private sector and now it's a hotel.”

“Shouldn't it be The Dictator, then?” Dean smirks. “ The place had better have a good bar.”

The interior of The President turns out to be far swankier than its bland exterior promised. The staff is courteous and speaks amazingly good English. Their bellboy gives them a quick tour, and the place boasts far more amenities than they're used to, including a pool that isn't green, a sauna, whirlpool baths, and even a workout room.

Dean's eyes pop as they pass the well-equipped bar. “Now that's what I'm talkin' about.”

Their third floor room, while on the small side, features a balcony with a decent view.

Dean sends the bellhop on his way, an American $20 bill an apparently sizable tip.

“Feeling generous?” Sam says, grinning.

“Boris was very helpful.” Dean closes and throws the deadbolt and chain on their room's door. “He sure seemed to like you.”

“Dean, his name's Fane. And he was just doing his job.”

“Right. Like staring at your ass is part of his job.”

“He wasn't staring at my ass.”

“How would you know? I saw the whole thing, though.”

“Is you mind ever out of the gutter?”

“Nope.” Dean examines the oddly shaped light switches. “Definitely different from home, huh?”

“I guess,” Sam comments, dropping his shopping bag and shrugging off his backpack. “Different, but not. Look.” He indicates the large flat screen television on the wall.

“Cool. Wonder if they get Spike TV.” Dean glances in the bathroom. “Two toilets.”

“One's a bidet.”

Dean nods, staring at the king sized bed. “Oh, yeah. Those European ass washer things. Ritzy.”

“You don't have to use it if you don't want to.”

“Haven't needed one so far,” Dean replies. “I do want to hit up that bar downstairs. I could use a few hits of Jack about now.”

“What about in there?” Sam indicates the small refrigerator next to the low dresser.

“Bingo!” Dean holds up two miniature bottles of Jack Daniels, tossing one to Sam. “Drink up, little bro.” Dean downs his whiskey in two gulps, tossing his empty bottle into the wastebasket.

Sam mimics his brother, but his bottle bounces off the rim and onto the carpet.

“You so suck, man,” Dean chides.

“You don't usually complain about that,” Sam shoots back, flipping him off.

“At least we're here. And we've got about five hours before we meet Luthar. He'll take us to this alchemist, and with any luck, we'll be back here before the bar closes. How far is that crossroads from here again?”

Sam shrugs. “M'not sure.”

“Why not? You're the one with the GPS thing. Whip it out, Mr. Spock.”

Sam pulls of his jacket. “Aye, aye, captain.” He squats down, fishing about in the backpack for a moment before extracting the GPS. “Ah, okay. According to this, about thirty kilometers from here, near a place called Oporelu.”

Dean throws off his jacket, falling backward onto the bed. “Sounds awesome. What's that in miles?”

“About twenty.”

“So about a half-hour from here, give or take. Wandering sheep notwithstanding.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Cool.” Dean captures Sam's gaze. “How you doin'? Feeling okay?”

“Yeah, fine.” Sam grins crookedly. “A power nap, a bite to eat and some clothes that fit really seem to do the trick.”

Dean nods, taking in Sam's new low-slung jeans and black t-shirt. His brother does look better, more at ease. Not to mention hot. But then again, Dean always finds Sam hot, no matter what he's wearing. Or what he isn't.

“How about you?” Sam asks.

“Fine as frog hair,” he lies. “Oh, man.”

“What?”

“Nothin'. Shoulder's still a bit stiff from our last gig. That Glockner bitch packed a mean punch.”

“Well, we put her down for good,” Sam says. “And we managed to ditch Hendrickson, too.”

“For now. Fuckin' FBI.” Dean stretches, finding the bed far too comfortable. “Probably should grab some z's while we can. We've got time before the meet-up.”

Sam nods imperceptibly before staring at the carpet. One of his big hands rubs at the thick stubble on his chin. “Maybe, but I'm not really tired. Wired, I guess.” He laughs, and Dean knows it was meant to be light, airy. Nonchalant. But it comes out all wrong.

Sam steps out onto their small balcony. “Wow, what a view. Come see, Dean.”

“No thanks. I'm too bushed to care.” And he is. More tired than he cares to admit. The shot of Jack has done him in.

“I think I can just make out the Danube through the trees.”

Dean sits up, shedding his jacket. “So? Just another river.”

Sam turns, his expression clearly one of disappointment. “Like the Amazon is just another river.” He snorts, furrowing his brow and turning to stare off into the distance again.

Dean hoists himself from the way-too-comfy mattress to join Sam on the balcony. “Fine. You're right.” He gestures widely. “That's one awesome river. I think.”

Sam glares. “Is everything a joke to you? Something to be trashed and made fun of?”

Dean shrugs. “No. Not everything. Most things, though.”

“Forget it,” Sam says, whirling around to head for the bathroom.

Dean reaches out, easily catching his forearm. “Sam.”

“What, Dean, what?”

“I'm sorry.” His chest tightens. “I'm just...ya know...” Shit. Here it goes...

Sam sucks in a breath. “No need to apologize.”

Dean steps close, looking up into his brother's eyes. “I'm thinkin' maybe I need to.”

“Dean, really-”

“I'm a hard ass, you know.” He only half-believes himself. “And we're both strung out.”

Sam shakes his head and makes to speak, but Dean interrupts.

“I may not be an Einstein, but I'm always here, okay?”

Sam blinks hard, throwing both of his arms around Dean's waist. “I know that. I've always known that.”

“So if I don't know exactly which river or country I'm lookin' at...”

“...Dean...”

“...just don't hold it against me, okay?”

Sam clears his throat. “I won't, and I don't.”

Dean feels his resolve crumbling; just too many damned hours of trying to keep upbeat and hopeful taking their toll. Or maybe the caffeine pills that he'd been popping were finally catching up to him.

What the hell were they doing here, anyway? How can he pull this off? The chances of actually curing Sam are astronomical. Bobby'd tried to tell him that, even before they'd left the States. But what other choice did he have?

“Dean?” Sam's staring now, clearly concerned.

Dean hates losing control like this. But the more he tries to keep it all in, the more he tries to keep his game face on, the more it disintegrates. The see-saw tilts, and he's falling. Now he's the one that needs reassurance.

Comfort.

All that chick-flick stuff he's always so quick to make fun of.

But he's stronger than that.

He's got to be.

For Sam.

So he tries to pull away, but Sam keeps him close.

“Dean, it's okay. Really.”

Dean blinks, drawing upon the last shred of strength he's got left. “I didn't mean to let you down, Sammy.”

But he's too tired, too weak; the levee breaks, and he goes under. “Sorry.” He buries his head into Sam's chest, embarrassed by the telltale sting of tears. He fucking hates going soft like this, but it's too late now.

“Oh, man.” Sam hugs him even tighter, one hand wrapping around the back of his head. “It's okay.”

Dean relaxes into Sam, closing his eyes and struggling to smooth out his uneven breathing. He tries to focus on the good times, those few and far between moments when Azazel and every other horrible thing seemed so far away.

But all that fills his mind's eye is smoke and ash and blood-red dust.

The smashed Impala. Sam's glowing eyes...and fangs.

Sam hugs him impossibly tight for a moment before releasing him. “C'mon,” he says softly, tugging at Dean and turning him around.

Dean opens his eyes, relieved that his brother's aren't really yellow. “Sam,” he manages to choke out.

But Sam shakes his head, gently forcing Dean to sit on the bed. “Try to relax,” he says, kneeling and working to unlace Dean's boots. He pulls them off, stuffing the laces inside the tops and placing them neatly in front of the nightstand.

Dean sits, motionless, numb almost, and it feels like every bit of energy is somehow draining right out of him.

He watches as Sam kicks off his Pumas and arranges them right next to his boots. That's his Sam: always organized, even if the end is nigh. Sam pulls off his t-shirt, neatly laying it across the arm of the chair by the window. He nods to Dean, a tiny half-smile struggling to come through.

Dean shrugs out of his flannel and lifts his own shirt off.

Sam takes them both and carefully places them over his on the chair arm. Sam then unbuttons his jeans, which he has to push down over his very muscled thighs. “C'mon, you to,” he says, nodding to Dean as he folds his jeans and lays them on the chair's seat cushion.

Dean lifts himself from the bed, doing as he's told.

Sam's in control now, and though he doesn't let it happen very often, it's the right course to take. He feels calmer already, now that the burden's been lifted. He hands Sam his jeans, watching as Sam folds them as carefully as ever. He can see Sam's thick cock straining at the fabric of his fancy undershorts.

Fuck that they cost a shitload of money; they look incredible on Sam.

Sam points to Dean's undershorts. “Those, too.”

Dean complies, tossing his shorts to Sam, who adds them to the pile.

Sam tries to smile, but like so many things lately, it doesn't turn out right. He leans in and yanks down the bed covers. “Get in.”

Dean flops into the cushy mattress, sighing at how totally comfortable it feels. He watches Sam pull the vertical blinds most of the way closed, plunging the room into near darkness. He shifts over on the bed, his fingers tracing over the length of his erect dick. If he really works at it, he almost feels safe.

For a little while, Sam can drive.

Sam approaches the bed and stands there for a moment.

Dean can barely make out Sam's face, his brother's features reduced to shadow on shadow.

Sam shoves down his boxer briefs, tossing them to the floor in what amounts to an act of sheer abandon. For him, anyway.

Dean knows the significance of it and smiles in spite of himself. Sam's little demonstration had the desired effect. The kid knew him like a book.

He watches as Sam climbs into the bed, his hard-on bobbing heavily.

Sam pulls the sheets up, climbing on top of Dean and sliding his long dick against Dean's. He settles to the side slightly, finding a comfortable position and nuzzling the nape of Dean's neck. “Relax, man. I've got you,” he breathes, the scratch and tickle of his thick stubble incredibly arousing.

“Relax,” Sam repeats, gently grinding his hips into Dean.

Dean closes his eyes and does exactly what Sam says.


********* ~*~ *********


Dean rolls over in the hotel bed, feeling like an overly sated mosquito ready to pop. Not totally one hundred percent, but recharged enough to get a grip again. And nothing seemed to put a shine on a rough day like a nice, slow fuck.

He'd tried to sleep after he'd let Sam have his way, but as usually was the case when his mind was overflowing, he couldn't. He'd only managed to doze, only flirting with the boundary of unconsciousness, Sam's soft snores strangely soothing instead of distracting.

And it'd probably been a good thing that he didn't really sleep, because if he didn't sleep, he couldn't dream. And the last thing he needed was another visit to his screwed-up dream scape.

At least he'd been able to re-build his facade, sufficiently to function, anyway. The press of the unknown was still there, as heavy as ever, but he had it at bay again.

For awhile.

He slips out of bed without waking Sam, grabbing another shower even though he doesn't really need it. Who knew how long before they'd get the chance again? A few hours had passed, but they still have plenty of time to make the crossroads. So there's no rush. Which was good, for a change.

Dean emerges from the bathroom, still sopping wet and clutching only a towel, to find Sam up and out of bed, staring out of the window again. Even though Sam's shoved open the blinds, it's still pretty dark in their room.

Dean guesses that their window faces east, as the compressed skyline of Slatina visible through the glass is bathed in shades of pink, orange and crimson. The cloud banks filling the horizon beyond look bruised, angry, reflecting the ultra-red rays back into the room.

Dean's reminded of when he was a kid, and of those oddly quiet moments just before a kicker thunderstorm. When the sky in Lawrence looked like this, it'd always been time to batten down the hatches.

The room's awash in red light and shadow. Dean can almost see the light fading away, leaving only darkness.

He notes that Sam's still naked, and he watches his brother watch the light fade for what seems like forever. Sam's just too damn gorgeous, especially now. Part of what he loves about Sam is that he doesn't think he's good looking...at all. But Sam's wrong.

Dean's just about ready to speak when Sam looks over his shoulder. Dean moves toward him, loosely wrapping the towel around his waist. He desperately wants to say something, anything, to explain, to say thanks at least, even if doing so might not be the brightest plan. Even if saying something would threaten his hastily rebuilt emotional barriers.

Sam turns fully around, pausing only a moment before approaching, his form a stark silhouette of shadow against the canvas of the bloody sunset.

Dean's words evaporate as Sam steps up to him, stopping just long enough to plant a quick kiss on his forehead. Then Sam's gone, moving away and disappearing into the bathroom.

So no words had been needed this time. It was their way. Sometimes words didn't seem like enough...other times, a simple look or half-smile spoke volumes.

Dean yanks the blinds closed and turns on both bulbs of the reading lamp next to the chair. The sickly yellow light from the lamp beats the bloodbath going on outside...

He's dressed and ready to motor by the time Sam finishes in the bathroom. Dean's also packed the bare necessities to take with them, a sort of Hunter's emergency pack. They're both in silent mode, so neither one says a word as they file past the front desk and Dean stows the duffel in the trunk of the BMW.

They make good time heading out of Slatina, and soon the commercial buildings and apartment blocks fade, replaced by fields, the occasional industrial complex, or dense copses of trees. Dean heads north on a much smaller side road, still paved but far more desolate.

Twilight slides into night, the sky blank and starless through increasingly rare breaks in the trees.

The road twists and turns as the terrain turns more rocky, the flat lands giving way to rolling foothills. Only one other vehicle passes them, headed in the opposite direction.

Sam stays quiet, obviously content that he's discovered a radio station that plays the alternative emo crap that he enjoys so much. Normally, Dean'd bust his eggs about the music, but this time, he lets it slide.

They arrive at the crossroads only a few minutes after the appointed time, finding Luthar impatiently chain-smoking as he leans against a beat-up compact station wagon.

“Definitely our boy,” Dean comments, slowing the car to a stop.

“I think that's a Citroen,” Sam says, never taking his eyes from Luthar.

“A what?”

“The car. It's French,” Sam replies, still staring at their contact as he gets out of the BMW.

“Whatever,” Dean mumbles, killing the engine but leaving the lights on. It's blacker than pitch this far out in the boonies, and he sure as shit isn't going to size up this Luthar guy with just a flashlight.

Luthar stubs out his cigarette on the fender of his car, flicking the butt off into the darkness. He folds his arms across his narrow chest, a definitely unfriendly expression on his face.

Sam's within a foot of the guy by the time Dean's able to get a good look: Luthar's shorter than Dean, his dark, shoulder-length hair streaked with a crapload of grey. The guy's thin, his face haggard. He looks like he hasn't shaved in a week, which doesn't do him any favors. Despite all this, the guy's eyes are wide and bright.

Luthar glances at Sam; he smirks before looking back to Dean. “You are late.” It's a definite statement. And a pretty pissy one, at that.

Dean's surprised at the deep, smooth tone of the guy's voice. It doesn't fit at all with the scrawny body. But before he can conjure a suitable comeback, Sam chimes in.

“Sorry about that. We're still jet-lagged, I guess.” He thrusts out his hand. “You must be Luthar; I'm Sam Winchester.”

Luthar eyes Sam's hand as if it were covered in shit. He makes no move to return the gesture. “I know who you are,” he says, looking up at Sam with obvious disdain. “Bobby tell me all about you.” He glances at Dean. “Both of you.”

Sam withdraws his hand.

“And how do we know you're who you're supposed to be?” Dean plants both hands on his hips, the heat of anger rising up and out of his collar. Bobby'd given them a photo of Luthar before they'd left the States, so there was no doubt that this was their guy. Still, Dean can't resist the urge to fuck with the little prick.

“Who you think?” Luthar shots back. “Who else be at crossroads here, now? Mary Poppins?” he blows out a breath and shakes his head. “You want some code word?”

Pretty snappy comebacks. Dean's immediate impulse is to force the creep to eat his ratty Guns'n Roses t-shirt.

This is the guy Bobby'd sent them half-way around the world to meet? This arrogant little dick could help them? Sure as fuck doesn't seem possible...

“Uh, Dean,” Sam begins, clearly anticipating an outburst.

Luthar snorts. “We waste precious time.” He taps out another Marlboro and lights it. “You follow. Okay.”

“To this alchemist?” Dean says, taking a step toward Luthar.

“Just follow.” Luthar doesn't favor Dean with so much as a glance as he climbs into the rusty wagon. The engine splutters to life, and with a grinding of gears, the car heads off down the side road.

“What a fucking dick,” Dean mutters, watching as Luthar's taillights fade.

“Maybe he is-”

“Maybe? Are you kidding? The guy makes Ash look like a nun.”

“C'mon, we're losing him.” Sam yanks on Dean's arm, turning him back toward their car.

Dean follows, any remnants of relief dissipating amongst the oily fumes spit out by Luthar's clunker.

They have no trouble catching up to Luthar easily, his old wagon no match for the BMW. They follow him for nearly an hour, down rougher and increasingly narrow roads, Sam's radio station eventually dissolving into static. No freakin' way that Dean would ever run his Impala over shit like this.

“This is fucked,” Dean spits out.

“Just keep on him, okay?”

Dean's about ready to ram the asshole off the latest wagon trail they're on when pinpoints of light appear through the densely packed trees on their right; the next second, Luthar pulls into the parking area of what appears to be some sort of...roadhouse. Or inn. Or something.

By the time Dean's able to park the BMW next to a huge truck that looks like it's straight from the Second World War, Luthar's already disappeared inside.

“What the hell is this?” Dean fumes, slamming his door. “This can't be right.”

“Dunno, Dean. Not what I was expecting, either.”

“This guy'd better be able to lead us to the alchemist.”

“Bobby seemed pretty sure he could.” Sam trots to catch up to Dean. “He fits the physical description, that's for sure.”

Dean nods, knowing that Sam's right.

And he's got to calm down. He's barely put himself back together, so a freak out is definitely not in order. No matter how satisfying it might be to serve Luthar a knuckle sandwich. Or three. “Yeah, yeah,” he replies, turning to size up the roadhouse...or whatever it was. “Check it out.” He points to the small windows set high along the front facade.

“Bars. Probably iron,” Sam says. “Same with the second floor.”

“Tryin' to keep out more than highwaymen, that's for sure. Look.” Dean indicates deep carvings on both wooden posts flanking the entrance.

Sam whips out his penlight. “Definitely for protection. Demons, spirits, vampires...you name it, they've got a ward for it here.” He slips the tiny flashlight back into his jacket pocket. “We're not in Kansas any more.” He flashes a weak grin.

Dean returns the expression, feeling anything but jovial. "No shit. Helluva location for a...a whatever this is."

This place was off, no doubt about it. The whole area felt wrong. Whatever tiny bits of familiarity they'd discovered in Slatina were far behind them now.

As well as cellular service.

Welcome back to bumfuck.

The last thing he and Sam needed right now was to walk into some kind of trap.

And his internal alarms were raging.

“Once we're inside, look for other exits, pronto.” He checks his Glock, flipping the safety off and slipping it back between the waistband of his jeans. He watches as Sam readies his PT-92. “I don't like this, man.”

Sam doesn't say anything, simply running a hand through his tangled mane of hair and nodding toward the entrance of the place.

Dean opens the door and steps into a dark entryway, his mind racing. He's half expecting Rod Serling to appear and welcome them to The Twilight Zone. He can sense Sam right behind him as they enter what appears to be a rather standard combination bar and eatery. Super rustic and very well used, but not outwardly threatening, either.

A fair number of patrons are scattered about the dim interior, their conversations hushed, oddly restrained. Not at all like a bar back home. A few turn to stare them down before returning to their drinks or food. You'd think they had Americans busting in the front door everyday.

“There.”

Dean follows Sam's gaze, noting a short hall on their right, apparently leading to restrooms. Dean absently wonders that those might be like when he notes another exit across from the end of the bar on the far left wall. “And there.”

Sam nods. “Not as bad as I'd thought.”

“I still don't like it.” Dean scans the room, noticing a cloud of smoke hovering over a corner booth furthest from the bar. “There's chuckles.”

They find Luthar slouched down, smoking away with a nearly empty mug of beer in front of him. A full mug of beer sits on the other side of the table. Luthar spares them a quick glance. “For Hunters, you almost get lost too easy.” He nods toward the full mug of beer. “Dean. Sit.” He sounds like he's ordering a disobedient dog around.

“Listen, squeaky,” Dean begins, Sam's hand instantly clamping onto his shoulder.

“Dean. Chill.”

Luthar laughs. “Yes, Dean, must chill. Sit.” Again, that fucking condescending tone.

Dean feels Sam's hand squeeze his shoulder hard. “Fine. But I'm not sharin' a beer.” He slides into the booth opposite Luthar, raising his hand to flag down what appears to be the lone waitress in the joint.

Sam makes to sit, but Luthar shakes his head.

“No. Not you!” he barks, pointing to Sam. “Business with brother first. You go to bar and wait. Now.” He swallows some beer, slouching back down into his bench.

Dean's ready to burst, but he notes Sam's pained expression, so he struggles to regain control. Why the fuck did everything have to be so difficult? “Sam, hang out at the bar. We've gotta set things straight.”

Luthar laughs again as Sam nods and ambles over to the bar. Dean notes that the shaggy bar guy intently watches Sam's approach; he's got a beer drawn for Sam by the time he gets there.

“You must, how you say, chill, Dean,” Luthar drawls, draining his mug. “Your brother, he will be fine. Do not worry.” He nods to the mug in front of Dean. “Drink. You had long drive. I order food also.”

“I'm not hungry.” Dean looks over at Sam, who's actually sitting at the bar and sipping on his beer.

Luthar follows Dean's gaze. “Brother is fine.”

Dean eyes the good sized mug of beer in front of him. In all actuality, he's pretty thirsty, not to mention hungry. He and Sam hadn't eaten since lunch, and Dean's stomach was letting him know it's far past time to chow down again.

“Nothing wrong with beer.”

“What?”

Luthar nods to the mug again. “Is not drugged, if that what you think.”

“I don't,” Dean replies, unwilling to admit that the thought had already crossed his mind.

Luthar shrugs, “No matter.” He reaches across the table and snags Dean's mug. “How you say? Up yours!” With that, he gulps down at least a third of the mug's contents.

“Uh, that's a not what we say.”

“Apologies for my English. Teach myself from satellite dish. Fox News very, very good, eh?” He takes another large swallow of beer. “But I do not like drinking alone.” He turns to the bar and yells something in Romanian or whatever to the waitress, who yells something back, clearly annoyed.

Dean watches as she fills a fresh mug from the single tap.

“Now you can be sure beer okay.”

Dean's head is starting to ache again.

He didn't expect things to go smoothly or easily, but then again, he didn't expect anything like this.

True, he'd never really been out of the States before; Tijuana and Niagara Falls really don't count, since they're both so Americanized. And yeah, he and Sam were once again in the wilds of by-god Romania, so things should be a little different than they are at home.

The waitress plops the fresh mug of beer down on the edge of the table, favoring Luthar with an expression that could've wilted fresh flowers. Or melted lead.

“Thank you, Trini,” Luthar says, and Trini responds with another barrage of agitated Romanian.

“Girlfriend?” Dean says, reaching for the beer.

“Oh, no, no,” Luthar replies, shaking his head vigorously. He chuckles, downing more beer.

“Well, she should be.” Dean takes a tentative sip of the beer; it's ice cold, which is a major plus. Another swallow, and he's fairly certain that he likes it.

He watches Trini out of the corner of his eye, and she's still shooting daggers toward Luthar. She's built like a brick shit house, but she wasn't unattractive, exactly. Her expression is pretty harsh; definitely the type that tends to be permanently pissed off.

“Trini not my type.”

“Sure. Whatever.”

Dean draws sips his beer, focusing on savoring the flavor of the brew.

He'd definitely felt somewhat less stressed after succumbing to Sam at the hotel. For once, he'd totally let go, and Sam had done some really amazing things. Inventive things. Someday he'd have to ask Sam where he'd picked up all that stuff; what Sam could do with his tongue alone...whoa.

But he still feels wasted. He shifts on the uncomfortable wooden bench, while Luthar just stares at him. Some more. Take a picture, dickwad...

He glances around the small bar one more time. Or maybe they call it a pub here...

A few people had left, but more had come in.

It was weird.

Everyone was so subdued, quiet, moving slowly and deliberately, as if it were an effort for them to do it. But the people didn't look blank or tired. They smiled, they laughed and they listened attentively, but they did it so, well, privately.

Dean felt as if he were watching some sort of closed circuit television feed with the sound turned off.

He couldn't recall the last time he'd seen so many people in the same room manage to remain so damn quiet. Sure, there was a very faint murmur of conversation underneath the clink of glasses and muffled noises from the kitchen, but aside from the nearly mute wide screen, that was it.

He'd been to funerals that'd been more lively. More cultural differences? Possibly, but his gut says it's something else.

He glances back to Luthar, who looks totally bemused.

“Have different ways,” he says with a nod.

Dean freezes, his mug poised to his lips. Had little creepo just answered his mental question? And it had happened before, hadn't it? He swallows some more beer, Luthar's bright eyes locked onto him.

Telepathy? Mind reading?

There was no real evidence to either support or deny the phenomenon, and while there'd been cases of those who seemed to possess the ability to discern another's thoughts, they always had to be in physical contact with a subject in order to do it. So that couldn't be happening here, could it? Or maybe the beer was drugged. But it couldn't be, as he'd seen Trini pour it straight from the tap.

“Ah, here is Trini again.”

Dean's startled, nearly losing the grip on his mug. He looks up to see the the waitress glowering down at him, more annoyed that ever. She hadn't been standing there a second ago. At least Dean didn't think so.

“You look tired, Dean,” Luthar says. “Food be good for you.”

“Wow, great...dinner,” Dean mumbles as Trini drops a plate in front of him. “Thanks.”

She stares back as if Dean's forehead has sprouted antennae. “Hmphf,” she grunts out, loping back toward the bar.

“Hookay.” Dean pokes at the steaming mound with his fork. He guesses that it's supposed to be some sort of stew; by the smell of it, roadkill special.

“That means she likes you,” Luthar barks out, laughing so hard he nearly spits out his last swallow of beer.

"I'd give my left arm for a cheeseburger about now. One with extra onions," Dean says to no one in particular. He pokes his fork around his plate, trying to discern exactly what's in the blue plate special. "I'm dyin' here." He looks to Luthar, who only smirks in response.

"Should not be so picky," Luthar drawls, his low, deep voice completely at odds with his appearance. "Is good food."

Dean snorts. "Yeah, it might have been. Last week."

"Typical American. Arrogant. Rude. No respect." Luthar swallows the remainder of his beer and hefts his glass, signaling for another. He stares at Dean and lights another cigarette. “Should eat. Maybe long time before have chance again.”

"I bet you're your Mom's favorite, right?" He sticks his fork in the middle of the stew and shoves the plate away, grabbing his own glass of beer. At least the beer was good. "Christ. This sucks."

Luthar chuckles and leans back, apparently in no hurry to talk, which is really starting to get on Dean's last nerve.

Yeah, Luthar's their contact, and they needed him to find the alchemist, but the squirrelly little jerk seemed more interested in insulting them than providing any useful information. They really didn't have time to screw around like this. Why hadn't they gone directly to the alchemist? Why this half-assed attempt at hospitality?

All the assface does is drink, smoke, burp and scratch himself.

Dean looks over his shoulder, confirming that Sam's still hunched over the bar, nursing his own beer.

"Brother is fine. Do not worry."

"Wow, you really care. Thanks." Dean drains his glass just as Trini slams down two more beers.

Luthar hands her some wadded up bills and grabs his glass. "You must be patient."

"We don't have time to waste, dude."

Luthar nods. "Patience." He slurps down some beer, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

Dean looks over to Sam again, and this time their eyes meet. He can tell Sam's about ready to jump out of his skin. He knows how much Sam hates being so dependent on other people, so fucking needy and almost begging for help. Sam's used to being the man with the plan. But this time out, he's way off into uncharted territory.

Sam's put his trust, hell, his very life in Dean's hands. It's always been his job to protect Sam, but the pressure's really on now, and Luthar's cloak and dagger patience-is-a-virtue bullshit's starting to drive him up the wall. And then there's the staring crap.

Sam forces a smile and looks up at the huge, flat screen television over the back bar. There's a soccer match going on and Dean watches for a second, vaguely amused and surprised at the high-tech flat screen. It stands out like a sore thumb in the otherwise run-down bar.

Pub. Inn. Whatever the fuck.

The place makes Harvelle's look like The Ritz.

Luthar burps again. “See? We have some modern niceties, yes?” He gestures to the flat screen.

Dean turns his attention back to the food on his plate. Maybe the stuff didn't look that bad, after all. Luthar probably had a point, too, about not being able to eat again anytime soon. “Aw, hell.” He stirs the stew with his fork, skewering a hunk of mystery meat and what appears to be a piece of onion. He pauses, the fork frozen in mid-air, gravy dripping from it.

Luthar snorts, his cigarette sliding from one side of his mouth to the other.

Dean shovels the food into his mouth, bracing for the inevitable gag reflex. Which doesn't happen. He chews tentatively; the stuff isn't half bad. He scoops up another forkful.

“Told you food was good. Must trust me.”

Dean looks at Luthar, who's wearing one of most smug expressions possible. “I should eat.”

Luthar leans back and crushes his spent cigarette in the ashtray. “First thing we must have, Dean, is trust. Cannot move forward without it.”

“Trust is earned, buddy,” Dean replies around a mouthful of food. He glances at Sam, who's staring back at them. “So far, you've done nothing to show that you can be trusted.”

Luthar doesn't respond; he simply watches as Dean works through the stew.

Dean shakes his head, wondering where the hell Bobby dug up such a loser--

“Bobby and I, old friends,” Luthar says quietly, his beer mug poised to his lips. “Know Bobby long time. Very long time.”

There he goes again, answering an unasked question. Just perceptive? Good at reading body language and facial expressions? Maybe, and creepo sure as hell stares enough.

Dean mops up the last bits of gravy with the hunk of stale bread. And what the fuck was the guy talking about? That he knew Bobby for a 'long time'? He didn't look much older than Sam, really. A little wasted and drawn. The rode hard and put away wet kinda thing. But old as Bobby? No freakin' way.

“How do you know Bobby? Exactly?”

Luthar gestures vaguely as he stares at the ceiling. “Long time ago. Was in your country. In bad trouble. Bobby help. So I owe.”

“And here we are,” Dean mutters, pushing his empty plate away.

“Yes, here you are.”

“So what, uh, how did Bobby-”

Luthar cuts him off with a wave. “Details not important.”

“I say they are.” Dean leans across the table, doing his best to adopt his most intimidating expression. He's pretty much had enough of this twerp's antics.

Luthar pauses a moment before leaning in as well. “Only detail that is important is at bar.” He stares Dean down, his large, grey eyes brighter than ever. “You stop pushing, Dean. Or else-” He leans back again, throwing both arms wide. “You alone in strange country. No friends. And full moon tomorrow night. Sam will Change. For good.”

Dean feels the heat burn in his chest, rising out of his collar and up his neck. “You scrawny little bastard.”

Luthar shrugs. “Put stupid pride away to help brother.”

“Hey, everything okay?”

Dean looks up to see Sam standing there, worry plastered all over his face. Before he can answer, Luthar snorts and laughs.

“Yes, yes, all is fine. Okay.”

Sam looks to Dean, his brow creased, knuckles white around his beer mug.

“We getting to know each other,” Luthar continues, smiling broadly to reveal disturbingly yellowed teeth. “Go back to bar and wait, yes?”

“He can stay,” Dean interjects, sliding over to allow Sam to sit.

“No, he cannot!” Luthar barks out, his voice amazingly deep and resonant. Commanding, even. He looks to Sam. “You will go. Wait until I say.” He points to the bar.

Sam looks helplessly to Dean for a quick moment before striding back to his place at the bar.

“I want my brother in on this,” Dean says through clenched teeth. “He should be right here.”

“Is not time,” Luthar replies. “We are not finished yet, you and I. Only then can brother be part.”

Dean opens his mouth to respond, but Luthar cuts him off.

“Is not, how your say...negotiable. Make up mind. Want my help or no, choice is yours.”

Dean feels ready to explode. “That's why we're here, you fuckin' asshole!” he raves, pounding on the table with his fist. “God dammit, just tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it!” He then notices that the place is deathly quiet. Looking around, he sees that nearly everyone is staring.

“Calm yourself.” That voice again. “Is becoming tiresome, this game. I do not have to be here. Many other, better places I could be.”

Dean can feel those sharp grey eyes boring into him, flaying him wide, pinning him down. “I just need to help Sam. He's my brother...he's-”

“He is all you have left.” It's a statement more than anything.

“Yeah,” is all Dean can manage to say.

“He is everything to you.”

“Yeah.”

“You love him.”

Dean looks up to stare at Luthar. “He's my brother.”

“Is more. You know of what I speak.”

“It's not-”

“Do not to lie, Dean,” Luthar says softly. His eyes are now strangely soothing, gentle. Knowing. “Blind man can see. Two of you are sides of same coin. Joined. Together.”

“So what,” Dean mumbles.

Luthar drags on his cigarette. He leans back, smoke billowing from both nostrils. “You are lovers.”

“It's not...it isn't-” Dean gazes longingly at Sam.

Luthar holds up a hand. “Is fine. I do not judge. Love powerful force. For good. And for bad.”

“Hasn't done much good so far.”

Luthar leans over the table again. “You are wrong. Is only reason both still alive. Is only thing that will save Sam now.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Luthar stares back for a long minute. “You love him.”

“I've already said that.”

“Have not said.” Luthar's eyes are blazing again.

“Look, I don't get what-”

“Must say, Dean.”

“I-”

“Say!”

Dean feels too hot all of a sudden, as if the air in the pub has instantly become more dense, heavy. Oppressive. Luthar stares at him, waiting.

“I love him.”

“Who,” Luthar commands.

“I love Sam.”

“And?”

“And I'll do anything to save him.” Dean blinks, horrified to feel the sting of tears in his eyes. What the fuck was going on?

Luthar nods, a satisfied smirk on his face. He leans back and drains his beer mug. “Is good. Very good. I hear what I need to hear. Good start.” He gestures for a refill. “I knew you stubborn, Dean, but had no idea just how much.”

“I've gotta save him.”

“You will.”

Trini arrives with two fresh mugs of beer. She scowls at Dean as she scoops up the empty mugs and plate.

“Come. Have another beer.” Luthar dismisses Trini with a curt nod. “Will be difficult road ahead.”

Dean swallows a good portion of his beer in a single gulp. “So this alchemist-”

Luthar interrupts him again. “So many questions. Have plenty of time. Have until tomorrow, midnight. Over twenty four hours.”

Dean takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself. “Look, you gotta see things from my side. I can't let Sam Change. I don't want it, Sam doesn't want it. I gotta stop that from happening, somehow. And if I can't stop it...if I can't fix it...” He tails off, staring at Sam again.

“Will not come to that. Trust me. But all depends on you.”

“I'll do anything,” Dean mumbles, still watching Sam. “Anything.”

“Good. Must be clear on this. You will do as you are told, yes?”

Dean snaps his attention back to Luthar. “Yeah, fine, whatever this alchemist wants...within reason.”

Luthar shakes his head. “Is no reason. To save brother, you listen. You do. You not question. You trust. That is all there is. Either do, or go.”

Dean sighs, deflated, tired, beaten. He's come up empty, he failed, so now he's gotta trust some skinny, scruffy wacko in order to save his Sammy. What else can he do?

“I'll listen.”

“Good. I believe you, now.” Luthar glances over his shoulder, watching Sam watch the soccer game. “Is very special, your brother.”

“Yeah, he is.”

Luthar's gaze turns back to Dean, locking in again, his eyes firebright. “Special gifts. Dark gifts.”

Dean doesn't reply. What can he say? It's true...

Luthar grins. “Much better, Dean. You learn to trust me. We finish beer, then go. All three of us, yes?”

“Yeah. Sounds good.” He grins to Sam, who smiles crookedly in return.

Luthar lights another cigarette. “Yes. It does.”


~~~~~ t b c ~~~~~