Supernatural: Next Generation

It had taken a lot of contemplation, but after the second day Ben finally decided it was time to sell his car. It was the next obvious choice, really. The cash he’d got out of the poker tournament with had been enough to cover the rest of the hotel charges and food, but following Claire or vise versa would be a waste of gas, and both of them were well aware how much gas cost those days.

And he wanted to get her into a clinic to check her vitals, just to make sure she wasn’t getting an infection from his shoddy stichwork. The last thing he could handle right then was dealing with the guilt of her getting hit with a huge fever. Once the trunk was cleaned and they’d had a decent night’s rest, Ben went back to the hotel to pack up his stuff and agreed to meet her at the nearby dealership.

It was definitely true; the second day was always the worst. Last night, the pain from her wound maintained a low roar in her entire bloodstream, managed by the liquid fire in Ben’s flask. In the morning, at least the discomfort was centralized, but it’d also intensified--condensed like a freaking plasma star on the side of her leg. Claire ate a handful of Tylenol for breakfast and packed after Ben headed back to his hotel. The anti-inflammatory medicine did its job, though she was forced into a longer conversation with Rev. Kingsley when she limped up to his office to say her ‘thank yous’ and ‘goodbyes.’ Every other step tingled and pinched, and sliding a new pair of jeans over the wound was a lot less fun than she anticipated, but true to her word, she and the red GTO pulled into the dealership parking lot within five minutes of their meeting time.

She found Ben already in the office talking with the dealer, midway through the paperwork and looking a little worse for wear. The dealer was midway through a pitch to try and get him to trade it in for a newer car, but Ben was already shaking his head even though he didn’t interrupt the man.

“...good value, given its mileage. You kept her in good shape. You’ll get a decent trade for it.”

“No thanks, man. Cash is fine by me.”

Claire carefully eased herself into the tweed-looking chair beside Ben, and handed him one of the extra large Dunkin’ Donuts coffees she carried which he took with a grateful smile. He looked like he was having a childhood pet put to sleep. She couldn’t help but feel bad--a little sympathy never hurt anybody.

“All right, man, if that’s what you want. Lemme double-check the books real quick’n see.”

Ben muttered a quiet ‘thanks’ before taking a deep drink from his coffee, then looked sideways at Claire. The dealer blinked behind his screen, taking a breath.

“How’s 28,000 sound?”

( Ben very nearly spat out his coffee. “What, dollars?” )

***
Ben seriously thought about sending the money back to his mother. Having a paper trail wasn’t a good thing in his line of work, to be frank. Then he had a genius idea: loading up gift cards. It took the better half of the day, but by the end of it he had a stack of gift cards almost as thick as a playing deck. It made his brain hurt a little.

They’d gone to the clinic to have Claire’s leg looked at as well, just to be safe. The doctor had frowned a little at them, saying that regular thread wasn’t exactly the most sanitary way to handle that kind of wound. Within the hour Claire’s leg was restitched and she was given a prescription for antibiotics and vicodin once Ben explained that they were traveling sales reps and were going to be on the road again for a few more days before heading ‘home.’

Knowing that it was back to the grindstone the following day, Ben decided to find the nicest hotel in town and check them in. Someplace that had room service and pay-per-view, and maybe a really nice bathtub. It was just a case now of did they share one room, or get two with some sort of joiner. He’d never been in those kinds of hotels before, but surely they had to exist. He’d seen them on TV.

( “Not sure I even /want/ to get used to this...” )

***
Funny how room for dessert mysteriously appears with the smell of cherries and dark, rich chocolate, even after stuffing herself mercilessly for the last forty minutes. The piece of chocolate cake in front of Claire was slowly disappearing, bite by bite between the pain-killer and Lite Beer mix of giggles and snickers. The phrase ‘fat and happy’ flashed through her mind about ten minutes prior. Now, Claire found herself overcompensating for nearly ten years of an almost monk-like existence, grinning stupidly at the bright smile and sharp hazel eyes across from her.

( “I /really/ thought you were gonna hurl on his shoes...” )

***
It was nearing 4AM by the time they finished Return of the Jedi. Ben refused to watch the prequels on grounds that they were shit and Hayden Christensen was a terrible actor, so they’d premised the three movies by watching Ghostbusters and Caddyshack. Needless to say, Ben thought Bill Murray was a god among insects.

It was the second time Ben had ever seen Claire drunk, and in all honesty he kind of liked drunk Claire. Drunk Claire smiled and giggled a lot more than Sober Claire did in the small amount of time that he knew her, and she had this look about her that he found himself enjoying immensely. Her hair would tangle around her too-red cheeks and her amazingly clear blue eyes would get glassy and when she smiled, he felt it in his groin.

“You okay over there, Chuckles?” he asked her once she’d settled down on her bed again. “Good for one more?”

By that point, Claire had made herself lazily comfortable without any regard for how one was supposed to lay on a bed. She was half-curled on her side with a thick pillow loosely clutched to her chest--the majority of her hair sprawled off the side of the bed, twitching for the floor each time she moved. She shifted, peering at him from across the space between the two beds. Like most of the sentences she managed to start in the last hour, this one started with a delicately scoffed laugh.

“One more beer or one more movie?” Her cheeks were apple’d and Claire’s abs actually hurt from laughing--but she didn’t even feel the gash in her leg anymore. Honestly, Claire probably couldn’t feel her legs in general by that point.

“We might be out of beers,” he said, half the words coming out as a grunt as he leaned sideways over the gap between his bed and the table between them to check. Sure enough, the twelve pack was empty and the sodas still remained untouched. “Yep. Out. So another movie? Or somethin’ else?” ( She exaggeratedly arched one brow at him, even squinting one eye to close, then snorted comically at herself. )

- THEN -

NOW

“Punctuality is a virtue.”

Claire jangled her wrist to twist the cheap and too-loose watch back in place--it had a tendency to flip around the wrong way. The last twenty minutes went by at a snail’s pace, sitting alone in the front seat of a road-tested GTO from the mid seventies, until Ben finally slipped into the passenger seat.

“Sorry,” he muttered, putting a small bag at his feet and strapping in his seatbelt before he flashed her a small but sheepish smile. He didn’t offer any other explanation and simply nodded his head in the direction of the road. “Let’s go.”

That sheepish smile was returned with one of her own, though Claire’s was much more kin to that of a Sunday school teacher scolding a tardy ten-year old. The expression was short-lived, broken by the turn of her keys, and the throaty growl of the refurbished engine. She eased into the Tuesday evening traffic, lead by the blinker of course.

( Wanna know the real reason I followed you? )

------------------------------------------
The prior night’s attempt had resulted in failure as he and Claire had tracked the two shapeshifters leaving the gym, but only because they hadn’t been fast enough; they hadn’t been spotted. It was easy to guess what their next target would be, once Ben and Claire exchanged notes. Their predictability should have been a huge giveaway to the cops, but their lacking ability to pin any two people down to the string of robberies was the only thing in their favor. When they’d walked into the little clothing store the following afternoon, dressed as employees coming in from their lunch break, Ben and Claire had been waiting for them. A quick glance up at the safety camera monitors had tipped them off. They’d been in chase for at least ten minutes. Ben was actually a little surprised that Claire managed to keep up, given her small stature, but in the brief moment when she’d been in the lead he couldn’t help notice that she had legs that went on forever.

Now, however, was not the time to properly admire that.

His lungs felt like they were on fire, but he was determined to pin down at least one of the shapeshifters before having to reach for his gun. He didn’t want to have to fire out in the open; the gunshot would cause alarm and police would be called, which was too much damn trouble. They were gaining on them, even after they’d split off and separated. It could be handled.

Or at least, that’s what he thought until he saw which way they were heading. A large, open-air rock festival had spread out over the city square they’d exploded into. If he didn’t get his hand on at least one of them before they reached the crowd, it would be all for nothing.

“You sonofabitch, stop!” he hollered, reaching out for what appeared to be the female of the two, but his fingers only brushed against the fabric of her hoodie.

Apparently these two had the foresight to nab the shape of local track stars; Claire hated running, and especially hated running the back alleys of Detroit after a cold rain. The shifters had split off at a T-section three blocks back, and against her better judgment, she and Ben had split off after them.

The ‘male’ kept throwing glances over his shoulder, and Claire swore she caught the hint of a satisfied grin in his profile. Every time she got within grabbing distance, his pace picked up just enough. It didn’t take long for the notion to set in.

He’s toying with you.

Claire hesitated when her target veered around the alley corner. The prick of instincts seemed to make her legs a little heavier with the conscious anticipation of an ambush. The brick bit into her jacket and pulled at the loose pieces of her hair as she neared the blind intersection, intent on listening for footsteps or the dangerous lack of them. Unfortunately, her hard, burning breaths were drowned by the sound of a crowd. Claire peeked around the corner cautiously, then felt her face get tight at what she saw.

“...oh, Hell.”

( GRAB HER! )

------------------------------------------
There was no way they could do what they were planning to do at either the church or Ben’s hotel, so with limited options they shoved the shifter into the trunk and started driving out of town. Her shouts were relentless and never-ending, and no amount of blaring Black Sabbath would drown her out. Ben scowled in frustration as he drove them out of the city limits, his eyes fixed on the road ahead of them.

Claire focused on the halo of light she manipulated over the atlas spread across her lap. She’d bought one of those zoning maps her first day in--a habit, just in case she needed to know where the non-residential districts were in a hurry. Of course, it wasn’t hard to find such areas in Detroit. Half the city was already an industrial ghost town. She just did it to cover the noise.

“Here should be good,” she said solemnly, and pointed down a cracked asphalt road lined by a crumbling industrial park. Ben flipped on his blinker without verbally responding. The brief pause between songs made the next scream from the shifter so loud he winced. He was really looking forward to wasting her.

Once he found a good place to park he killed the engine, unclipping his seatbelt and reaching behind him to grab up his duffel and his gun. He knew from his research that shifters couldn’t make themselves smaller, but they could definitely make themselves thinner, and they’d been on the road long enough that it would have given it plenty of time to change into another form.

“Ready?”

A very familiar prayer was underneath Claire’s thoughts, as constant as it was comforting, whenever she was about to leap feet first. Ben’s words were a cadence to it, and she looked at him, but was silent--all the confirmation he needed was in her eyes. On the next breath, which lingered on her lips, she stepped out of the car, gun in hand.

( Ain't no room for normal with some people. You two know that more than anybody. )

------------------------------------------
Her room at St. Ireanus wasn’t exactly four star accommodations; it was little more than a fold-away bed placed in the corner of one of the basement sitting rooms. There was a love-seat in front of one of those electric fireplaces, two book shelves full of scripture and donated books, and a toddler play table in the opposite corner. Everything had that mixed smell of stale coffee and dust, mixed with church candles and incense. It was a smell Claire found especially comforting.

“Bathroom’s off to the right, there,” she mentioned with a huff, that last stair was slightly uneven and sent a vibration of discomfort through her leg, and up her spine. It melted away by pins and needles.

He adjusted his arm around her waist so that he could better help her, half-tempted to skip the hobbling and pick her up. She couldn’t have weighed more than 110 pounds wet. Awkwardness was the only thing that kept him from doing so.

He caught the doorknob with his free hand once the were in range and twisted it open, giving it a nudge with his boot before he lead her through the door.

“Where’s that sewing kit you mentioned?”

She eased, with his help, down to the side of the bathtub, using the edge of the sink for a bit more support. “In the duffel by the couch, far right pocket.” First thing, Claire shrugged out of her jacket, then the police issue shoulder holster before wringing her hands under the tap.

Ben was only gone for a few moments, returning with the little kit and a silver-plated flask which he immediately unscrewed and offered to her wordlessly. Claire flicked the water off her hands and accepted it, then gave it a quick exploratory pass under her nose. She recoiled almost instantly, both eyes wide and watering.

“Whoa! What in the world...”

( Family recipe. You're gonna need it. )

“That’ll be $110.”

Benjamen Braeden tried not to flinch at the price, reaching into the depths of his jacket to find his worn-out wallet.

“Can I pay half cash, half credit?”

“Yes, sir,” the hotel clerk replied. It was just as well, since he’d only had about $65 in the billfold. He was going to need to find another poker game or pool table in the near future in order to make up the difference. Of course, there had been the option of staying at Kim’s apartment on the couch, but the problem with that was that he wouldn’t be able to spread out like he was prone to do.

Besides, Kim had a new boyfriend, and that would be all kinds of awkward.

His mom would understand the charge on the card. After all, she’d been the one to push it into his hand and tell him to use it if he needed to. It didn’t make the guilt go away, though. Ben hated having to rely on his mother’s help.

Once the exchange of money and services was made, Ben picked up his bag from where he’d rested it at his feet and headed out of the lobby in the direction of his room. He was barely through the doors before he’d started getting to work.

The bare wall just to the left of his single queen bed was quickly filled with taped-up newspaper clippings and computer print-offs, names and key phrases standing out in bright yellow highlighter. Once that was finished, out came the city map. Four separate thumbtacks were pressed into its surface, forming a visible trail in the shape of a crooked J midway through the city. Ben took a few steps back and looked at his work, his hands automatically flipping up his laptop and pressing the ‘on’ switch. He reached for the phone in his pocket with the intent of calling up the police station when it suddenly buzzed in his hand, startling him, the ring-tone picking up after a second or two of delay.

Mama, I'm coming home / Times gone by seems to be / You could have been a better fri--

Ben flipped the phone open and tucked it between his ear and his shoulder.

“Hey, mom.”

( “I thought you were gonna call me when you got into Detroit?” )

***

The laptop screen cast a blue haze that cut through the unlit darkness of the basement office in St. Ireanus Episcopal Church. Claire pinched the bridge of her nose and sighed at the impending headache. She’d meant to run to the corner 7-11 for a package of light bulbs when she discovered the office’s one desk lamp burn-out, three hours ago. Somehow it just kept escaping her attention.

Instead, she’d been focusing on the time-line drafted on her screen, which mapped a string of too-similar instances across the Midwest for the last three years; piece by piece connected after what had been, at that point, a full day of researching. But right now, her eyes were spent. She needed a break.

( Read more... )

***

( Unfortunately, Ben hadn’t been able to afford the pie. )

***

There was a visible stutter through the club as the DJ abruptly went from one song to the next, one nearly a beat slower than the other. The dancing masses didn’t seem to mind, though, bumping and gyrating along with the house music. Though the air conditioner was working hard, spewing frozen sour air out into the room, sweat seemed to dampen every forehead, the air thick with body odor and alcohol.

A young man with brown, sun-kissed hair sat sprawled on a bar stool with a beer in hand. He looked out over the crowd without really seeing, looking half asleep. He seemed to be the only person there who wasn’t at least tapping along to the beat.

Squirming through the crowd, a woman with dyed-blond hair squeezed against the bar next to him. She shot him a wide smile before turning to the bartender and mouthing her order for two beers.

Cocking his head slightly, the man shifted to put two fingers on the table, walking them towards her. When his fingers hit her elbow, he spread them slightly, before humping them against her arm. She looked over at him, then down, then burst out laughing. Grinning, he leaned back against the bar.

( “I’m Jesse.” )

TO BE CONTINUED...