Dean Winchester and Logan Echolls (No, not like that.)
Rated R for language
SPOILERS: Some vague Supernatural ones; some for Veronica Mars, through Season Two (also very vague)
Written for innie_darling, who said I needed to write it.

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He's sitting in a shitty dark bar in a shitty dark part of town, just like a thousand bars in a thousand towns, nursing a beer and looking for somebody he can lift a few twenties off of in a game of pool. Looking like he's not looking, just drinking. Looking somewhere else than the bottom of your drink can get a fellow in trouble. This place is bad news. This place is tune in at eleven, sixty car pile-up bad news, just waiting to happen, just itching for an excuse. He knew that before he walked in. No big. He won't shame himself in a throwdown. His daddy taught him better than that, and anyway it's been so lazy in the monster-bashing business lately. Maybe he's worried he's gone soft. Maybe he wants somebody to make him some new trouble, because he's tired of all the trouble he's already got. A man with spare time to dwell is a man in a black place. But, tonight the customers are all women who'll give you gifts that keep on giving, and men who'd kill you and dump you off a lonely dock for looking at them cross-eyed. Nobody's in the mood for a game of pool, and that's a damn shame, and why did they name the place The River Stix anyway, if nobody wants to get up a fucking game of pool?

Then in steps this kid. Skinnier than Sammy and nearly as tall. A self-conscious walk half liquid, half lanky like he doesn't know how to work his long arms and legs yet. Dean remembers that age, not fondly. Kid's got hair like he stuck a fork in a toaster and a "come punch me" smirk on his baby face, and Dean thinks somebody will likely oblige him.

The scarred bartender with the greasy combover stiffens when he sees the kid, his eyes frosting over cold, colder, coldest -- and this smug pissant is gonna get worse than punched, Dean realizes, since here he is swaggering to the bar and dropping onto the stool next to Dean. The bartender walks over, wiping his hands on a rag like he'd rather twist the kid's neck than the grimy gray dishtowel.

"You got some balls on you," he growls. "Showing your face in here again."

"You don't like my face?" the kid asks, sweet as a treetop angel.

"I'd like it better ripped off your skull, and hung on the wall."

The kid turns around on his stool, casing the bar with a studious frown, one index finger pressed to his lips. Then he points to a spot just above the dartboard. "There," he says. "Perfect." He lifts both hands, like he's framing a movie shot. "Set it off with some tasteful lighting. A couple of sconces, maybe. What do you think?"

"I think you're goddamned lucky Liam and Danny ain't here."

"Gee, that's too bad. I've got some information for Mr. Fitzpatrick." The kid props his elbows on the bar, leaning toward the bartender. "A little tidbit I uncovered in my official capacity as Honorary Deputy to the Mayor. I think he'll find it really interesting."

"Whatever game you're playing, it's gonna get you killed."

The kid makes a face. "No. You say, 'Whatever game you're playing, it's dangerous.' Then I can say..." He lowers his voice. "'Danger is my middle name.'"

"Hey," Dean says sharply.

Both the bartender and the kid turn to look at him, the bartender with flat malevolence, and the kid narrowing his eyes like he thinks Dean's sitting here just to give him a stern lecture with maybe some Powerpoint slides thrown in.

"What're you drinking?" Dean asks.

The little shit looks startled for a second. "Beer."

"FYI," Dean tells him, "if you'd said mojitos, I'd'a killed you myself." He holds up two fingers. "On me."

The bartender grabs two cold ones and bangs them down on the bar between Dean and the kid, then stumps off, nursing his dishtowel like a grudge.

"Thanks," says the kid.

"I'm Dean."

"Logan."

"What are you? Fifteen?"

"Eighteen," Logan snaps.

"Sorry. My bad." Dean twists the cap off his beer and takes a swallow. Now he's closer to the kid –- Logan -- he sees a look in his eyes that's not a teenager look. A look that's seen too much too fast; he sees that look in Sammy's eyes. He used to see it in the mirror, but now he's getting a hard, deep down dead look sometimes, and he can't decide which troubles him worse. "Trying to get yourself killed this evening?"

Logan opens his beer and flicks the cap down behind the bar with a purposeful carelessness, like he's hoping somebody's gonna slip on it and crack their head open. Fury steams off him like heat from summer asphalt. Dean can almost see the air shimmer.

"You always this nosy?" Logan demands.

"I'm a people person."

Logan grins, there and gone fast, like Dean caught him by surprise.

"There's better ways," Dean adds. "Guns are manly, but they're iffy. I recommend a tall building."

"I'll take that under advisement, thanks."

Dean sits and drinks his beer and watches Logan out of the corner of his eye, but he's mostly watching the bartender put his back to Logan for the time being, in favor of dirtying up all the glasses with his dishrag. Dean and Logan have the deep end of the bar all to themselves. Of course, Logan's gotta be rock stupid, walking in here; Dean figures he can lighten the kid's wallet, and he's about to suggest a game of pool, when Logan speaks up.

"So, Dean. What do you do for a living? Drug dealer?"

"No. But, I think that guy..." Dean starts lifting one hand to indicate.

Logan shakes his head. "Just making small talk."

"You really do wanna get punched in the face, don't you?"

"Have you killed a lot of people?"

Dean raises his eyebrows.

"Come on," Logan says with a shrug of one shoulder. "Fess up. You said you were going to kill me."

"I said I'd kill you if you ordered a mojito."

"A place like this, everybody's a criminal."

"Guess that makes you a criminal."

"Well, I was wanted for murder a few weeks ago."

Dean smiles. "What happened? Victim rose from the dead? Man, I hate that."

Logan ignores what he undoubtedly figures is sarcasm, asking, "So? Do you? Kill people?"

"Not for a living."

"Okay, you're a serial killer, then." There's a playful note in his voice.

"Don't generally kill people."

"Generally."

"Not generally, no."

"Small animals?" He thinks he knows Dean's fucking with him, but that other look, that too-old look -- his curiosity has chased it off like a skulking stray, and now his kid's eyes match his kid's face.

"Nope. I kill things." Dean says.

"You mean like... objects? You've got a mailbox vendetta, or something?"

Dean grins. "Things that go bump in the night." He pushes back the sleeve of his leather jacket, showing Logan the long, twisting scar running up his forearm. "Werewolf gave me that."

"Doesn't that mean you're a werewolf, too?"

"Nah. He didn't get his teeth in me."

"That sounds like a fascinating line of work, Dean."

"Shitty benefits. No retirement plan. 'Course, I don't plan on living past thirty."

"I'll drink to that," Logan says.

He raises his beer. They clink bottles, and they both drink.

"And what brings you to Neptune?" Logan says conversationally. He's smiling now, part smirky, part tickled. "Business or pleasure? Vampires, maybe?"

Dean cocks a thumb roughly northward. "You want Sunnydale for vamps. Hellmouth. Used to be Bloodsucker Central, back in the day. Just a big crater in the ground, now. The little bro and I, we're just passing through. Headed for Solvang. Chasing a demon. Body-hopper. Nasty bastard."

"Uh-huh," Logan says.

"What's your story?" Dean asks. "Why you drinking at The River Stix?"

"I'm here for the ambiance. Everybody knows my name. It's just like Cheers. You want another round?"

"Sure." Dean thumps a palm on the bar to get the bartender's attention, and the guy nods, acknowledging his request for another round. Logan takes out his wallet and slides a couple bills across to Dean.

"My turn."

Dean nods his thank-you.

Logan starts peeling the label off his empty with the same elaborate precision as all his movements, turning the bottle around and around, unwinding the wet paper in a thin, even strip. After a minute or two, the bartender comes back, thunks down a couple more beers and the bottles wind-chime against one another as he scoops Logan's cash off the bar with a grunt that probably isn't a thank-you.

After another minute or two Dean says, "This is no place for you. Go home."

"Haven't got one. It burned down."

Dean says without thinking, "Was your mother..."

Logan's body goes entirely still. "You know, they show that episode of Tinseltown Diaries every two hours," he tells Dean with a smile on his face like a snarl. The stray dog is back, nosing for scraps and looking like it used to be somebody's pampered pet. Like somebody kicked it out of the car and drove off, left it to fend for itself and get rail-thin, rabid and wolfish.

"Hey," Dean holds up a hand. "Don't really know what you're talking about. I don't keep up on current events, and if I said something to piss you off, I'm sorry."

Logan's eyes shift to Dean's face and then away again, to his bottle. He goes back to work peeling off the label. The fresh beer sits untasted, sweating a widening ring on the dull scuffed surface of the bar. "Why'd you ask about my mother?"

"Don't wanna go all Hallmark on you, but my mom died when I was a kid. When our house burned down. That's all."

Logan doesn't say anything.

"Go back to wherever you parked your X-Box," Dean adds gently. "Bartender's right. You'll get yourself killed in here."

"Maybe." Logan's expression turns wistful. "Standing-room-only funeral, people sobbing and throwing themselves on the coffin, hearts broken, lives destroyed, everybody accusing each other of murder, a media firestorm, then a nice marble memorial with a fountain. Oh, wait. That was my girlfriend. Or was it my mom? I always mix them up, 'cause they both fucked my dad. Never mind."

Now Dean thinks he's the one getting bullshitted, although he's not sure. Maybe just wishful thinking. Another flash of almost-Sammy-sight, a glimpse under that baby face the bartender threatened to rip off his skull. Logan has seen terrible things. Not ghosts, not vampires -- not something you can salt and burn, and dust off your hands and call it a night. He's seen human beings cozy in their warm, brightly lit world, believing themselves safe enough to be really, truly, breathtakingly cruel to one another. Dean gets a chill up his spine for the first time in a very long time. Whatever troubles he and Sam and Dad have, however fucked up they might be, they're still a family and they've still got each other's backs, and he's suddenly, shamefully grateful for the small mercy of not being this child.

"You know," Logan says lightly, as if the previous five minutes never happened, "this whole town is convinced I'm Satan. Maybe you and your brother should stick around. Bust out the exorcism kit."

Dean tucks a hand into the pocket of his battered jacket, pulls out a single bullet, and sets it on the bar.

"I thought you said guns were iffy," Logan says.

"Pick it up."

Looking amused and intrigued again, Logan picks up the bullet.

Dean tells him, "Pure silver. Engraved with the Lord's Prayer. Blessed by a priest. You're not Satan. You're not even a bush-league demon. Sorry."

"Aw, crap. And I thought those career-placement tests were accurate."

"Pack up the fire and brimstone, and am-scray."

Logan holds the bullet close to his nose, trying to make out the tiny writing, but Dean knows he's going to need a magnifying glass for that. He glances past Logan as he spies Sammy walking into The River Stix like the beginning of a joke or a John Wayne movie, flicking a quick look around to size up the place. Sam comes over, eyeing Logan and the silver bullet that Logan keeps rolling between his fingers like he's reading Braille.

"Logan." Dean says, "My brother Sam."

"Hey," Sam says.

"Hey," Logan says.

"What's up?" Sam asks with the look that means, Do we need to take care of business?

Dean rises to his feet. "Bending elbows with my friend, here."

Logan lays down the bullet carefully on its flat end, and pushes it across the bar at Dean.

"Keep it," Dean says.

"Seriously?"

"You gotta be prepared."

"For things that go bump in the night?" Logan asks with an arch smile.

Sam shoots Dean a pointed look.

"You never know." Dean claps Logan on the arm. "Take care of yourself."

"Yeah, you too. Watch out for werewolves."

Dean follows Sam out of The River Stix, feeling Logan's eyes on his back. In the parking lot, the Impala waits under a dim, jittering streetlight, beside the ugliest fucking yellow truck Dean's ever seen. Sam chucks Dean the keys, and Dean unlocks the doors, sliding in on the driver's side.

Sam slams his door and demands, "So? What did he tell you?"

"Nothing we can do anything about."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Dean says as he coaxes the engine into turning over, "it's not our line of work."

"Okay, then what... you like striking up conversations about hunting with random strangers?"

Dean laughs. "Chill, Sammy. We were just swapping a couple 'a tall tales. That kid didn't believe a word I said. Probably not."

Sam eases down a bit in the passenger seat, relaxing, and Dean knows exactly what his brother is thinking, because he's thinking it too: motel, full night's sleep, maybe even smooth sailing 'til they get to Solvang. But then Sam says, "Why'd you give him the silver bullet?"

Dean rolls the Impala out of the parking lot, and it’s a moment before he answers Sam, his gaze focused on the road ahead.

"Sometimes, one silver bullet is all you need."

THE END
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