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.
“I’ve been mapping the places hit since I got here, but I’m probably missing a lot. Not a whole lotta reason behind anything besides being fairly low-key and always being closed at night,” she explained, and flicked her eyes toward him in the dim dashboard light. A pang of curiosity was definitely there, about what had made him late. The better look she got, the more she recognized it; the subtle glaze behind his eyes, the heavier posture. Could’ve been a mirror, far as she was concerned. “There’s a six pack’a Mountain Dew in the back seat.”
Ben groaned in gratitude, having already unsnapped his belt by the time she’d finished ‘six pack.’ He grabbed the lot of them and brought them into the front seat, resting them in his lap as he tugged a can from its plastic ring prison. With a metal snap and a distinct hiss, he started chugging it down. The can was half empty before he finally pulled back for a breath.
“Thank you.” He swiped the back of his hand over his mouth, his eyes briefly going out the window. “I’ve got at least eight in the city. I found two more after I got back that matched the MO.” Claire nodded, ducking toward the dash to read the next street sign.
“Last one was an Applebee’s?” She looked at him again for confirmation.
“A waitress and a closing manager,” he said with a nod. “They haven’t been located yet, but the names on the report are Martha Weatherby and Austin Scottsdale.” Ben finished off the can and crushed it against his knee. He couldn’t deny feeling worried about why their bodies hadn’t been accounted for.
Good, they were on the same page for sure, which eased Claire’s anxiety to it’s usual dull edge. She shook her head a little, easing into the right turn lane of a busy intersection. “I had the waitress in the storage rooms--thought I had her pinned, ‘course that was before I knew there was more than one.” A little frustration cut into her eyes. Claire was still chastising herself for not allowing the possibility sooner. “The other had to have been the one to lock me in the hallway.”
Ben turned to look at her with surprise in his eyes. “Is this before or after the diner just now?”
He hoped it was before, if only because he would feel horrible for not having been there to be her back-up. Two against one was always nasty; she was lucky she was only locked in a hallway and not killed or made the next flavor of the week.
“Two days ago,” she confessed with no small amount of lingering disdain for the incident. “Had to worm through the frickin’ air vent before they made me a scapegoat--” Claire reached across the bench seat for one of the cans sitting against his thigh, and twisted it away from it’s plastic. Ben froze for a brief instant, then relaxed and let out the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding.
“I swear, I still smell like fried onion and smoke.”
He cracked a smile at her. “Nah, you’re fine.”
After bracing the can against her leg and cracking the top with a fingertip, she returned his smile with a small one of her own in the light of faint gratitude. In her years of doing what they did, she - like most others she’d met - had a way of focusing on fun details to drown out the too-close-calls. She hadn’t been thinking of it at the time, but as her one target slipped away from her, the other had closed the door behind her--she wasn’t only trapped, but surrounded and outnumbered. That could’ve ended so much worse.
Three alleys down their next cross street, Claire pulled into a mostly-vacant parking lot. The dark but unmistakable symbol of a Gold’s Gym dominated the large picture window facing the street--but she eased the cherry red beast behind the side-street dumpster so they had a clear view of the plain metal back door. Ben immediately reached for the bag at his feet, tugging it up into his lap and pulling out a small hand-held digital recorder. It was on and open in an instant.
Ben unsnapped his seatbelt, leaning forward so he could balance the recorder on the dash and point it so it was in the right direction. After adjusting the zoom, all that was left was the fun part: Waiting.
Father, keep my mind and eyes open... Claire thought to herself with a gaze through the windshield, her fingers flexing by reflex, kinking the soda can. ...no more traps.
A moment of silence went washed down with a few quiet gulps of warm carbonation, then Ben had her soft attention once again. Several hours of acquaintance had yet to produce a reason why he was so familiar. Maybe he just had ‘one of those faces,’ but that theory was bunk--especially with her memory.
“You wanna know the real reason I followed you?”
Ben’s lips quirked slightly, but he kept his expression mostly even as he kept his eyes trained on the viewing panel of the recorder. A couple smartalicky responses jumped to mind, but it was going to be a long night and he still didn’t know her well enough to make those sorts of jokes.
“Sure.”
Claire squared her shoulders a little more toward him, unsatisfied with all the side-long looks. The new angle only confirmed everything she knew whenever she got a purposefully good look at him.
“I know your face,” she said with one corner of her lips pulled into her cheek. She knew how it sounded, but there was no better description she could come up with, however much she tried. “I know we’ve never met--I would remember. But I still know your face.”
The lingering smile around his features faded. He’d never met her in his life, and he had no idea why he would look familiar to her, but he had a pretty good idea how find out.
“How’d you get into the business?”
Claire’s lips pressed into a straight line, and she settled back against the vinyl, facing out. This conversation, no matter who was telling it, was never an easy one. Of course, she never shared such with anyone outside of the well shadowed network she had built over the last several years. There had been little need for it, otherwise.
She released a breath through her nose, slightly heavier than normal. “My father and I are Vessels.” There was so much more to that story, but their kind were always stingy with details of certain things--at least until a measure of trust had been achieved. She trusted Ben enough to extend her contacts to him, to work together on this endeavor. Further than that would take time.
His gaze finally drifted to her, his eyes widening slightly. He’d learned about vessels from the books Carver Edlund had written. The ones that helped him learn more about his father.
Ben couldn't remember the man, for all that his mother had shown him pictures from a year he didn't remember living. It had been the vague memories from his childhood that had come back to him while reading the books that had him asking his mother who Dean Winchester was in the first place.
He’d spent then next year chasing a ghost, only to find nothing. No trace, no news, and no answer every time he’d tried to call him on the last known number his mother had. For all he knew, Dean was dead. His one lead -- a man named Bobby Singer, who his mother gave him the address to -- had already passed on, and the salvage yard was nothing more than a graveyard of rusted out cars.
“Yeah?” he prompted. Such a short explanation didn’t really give him any insight into her story.
Claire nodded, watching the door with her own eyes while the recorder watched through a lens and an LED screen. In her mind’s eye, she vividly pictured the bright blue eyes of her father, turned toward her from the walk in front of their porch, speaking in a voice that wasn’t his. Perfect detail in memory, always in the back of her mind--but she was actually focusing on it right then.
The can in her hand made a hollow noise again, under her fingertips. “The angel has him, somewhere around the world. I’ve been tracking him as best I could since I was fourteen.” She looked across the seat to Ben once more, and once more was tormented by the known lines and angles of his face. Like something she’d seen in a dream. She swallowed thinly, then went back to watching the gym door. “I haven’t seen him since.”
When her eyes connected with his Ben averted his gaze, a frown twisting on his mouth. Their stories were so alike that it made him want to shiver.
“I’m looking for my dad, too,” he said quietly. He huffed a breath of a laugh, then shook his head sadly. “I knew him once, when I was a kid. But I can’t remember anything. Mom told me... there was an angel who came and healed my soul, whatever the hell that means. He took my memories away. It’s kinda fucked up, actually.” His expression grew solemn. “It was against my will. He didn’t even ask me.” Claire pressed her lips together tightly, rolling them in thought.
Then, they turned up in a very vague, very colorless smile. “I gotta admit--I see the appeal.”
“Yeah well, I don’t,” Ben scowled, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s no better than being possessed by a demon, what he did to me.”
“I’m not saying it was right,” she started back, sipping from the can before going on. Her voice lowered a few shades. “I just know I’ve seen a lot I wish I couldn’t remember.”
“We’re lucky nothing else came after us,” Ben said with righteous anger. “Dad was a hunter. Probably one of the best. But he abandoned us. What wouldda happened if the angel took my mom’s memories too, and then something came and tried to killed us? We wouldda had no idea what was going on, or how to stop it.” Ben clenched his jaw and looked out the window. “I thought angels were supposed to do God’s work. How’s taking away my memories of my dad s’pose to do be helpful, huh? Answer me that.”
Claire just looked at him for a moment, her expression almost completely neutral. When she finally looked back out the windshield, her nostrils flared with a longer sigh than usual. “Someone once told me ‘Man is too volatile to understand God’s plan. Only be a part of it.’” She shifted in her seat, suppressing a little flare of tension that bloomed through her chest. “Right after I found my mother dead in her own bathtub--a demon made her slice every major artery she could get to.”
Ben felt his stomach twist up and a wave of sickness settle in his chest. He felt ashamed getting in such a fit over lost memories when Claire had experienced something so awful. He couldn’t even bring himself to look over at her.
“I’m sorry.”
Claire was silent for a moment, but shook her head faintly, dismissing his apology. It wasn’t needed.
“We’re all a part of something bigger; most of us never even have a glimpse of it.” She took another drink, finishing off the can. “I think we can agree they are the lucky ones.”
Ben chewed the inside of his cheek but didn’t say anything. Ignorance might’ve been bliss, but he didn’t like the idea of people not knowing how to defend themselves. It was why he hunted as he searched. He took a gulp from his Mountain Dew silently, eyes back on the building they were staking out.
“What’s your dad’s name?” Claire asked out of quiet curiosity. She’d met many in the life, and in the light of their common ground of missing fathers, maybe there was a slim chance she could help Ben. Maybe she’d met him before.
“Winchester,” Ben uttered, his voice pitched low. “Dean Winchester.”
Claire felt like all the air had been sucked out of her lungs. Her chest stilled and felt heavy, her eyes unfocused on the middle distance before they turned up toward the roof of the car, when her lips parted for a deep breath that she sorely needed. She could see his face, so easily, with the same ease as her own father’s features. His brother as well: the two men who’d followed Jimmy Novak back to their Pontiac home, who were there when her life was turned upside down and inside out. Ben looked up sharply at the noise. All the color had left her face.
“Hey, breathe,” he prompted, authority eking into his voice. His arm went up to slap her on the back, but Claire’s snapped to action in base instinct and pinned his to the dash before he could touch her. Ben’s eyes widened further. Then, and only then, did she actually push out a startled, shaky breath.
“Sorry...” she managed to mutter and immediately let his hand go. Claire cleared her throat of the thickness that seemed to strangle it, and looked down at the seat between them. “I’ve met your dad, and your uncle.” Her eyes finally lifted to him, wavering with her own form of apology. “They were with my dad before he left for good.”
It was his turn to blanch.
Ben wasn’t the type of man to believe in fate. Fate had never done him any favors, and the only faith he had -- to humanity -- hadn’t exactly been all that rewarding either. Sometimes he could give a nod to coincidence, and he’d began to rely on luck since he’d barely managed to keep his head above the water in both his living situations and the hunts he’d picked up along the way, but fate? Fate was what his mom used to tell him about when he asked her questions about why things happened the way they did.
Ben wasn’t so sure he could discredit fate anymore. He stared at Claire in wide-eyed wonder, pale as a sheet and wondering why, oh why, had he asked her to sit with him in that diner. There would be no ridding himself of her now.
Just by the way he openly stared, Claire could tell the answers to all the questions she had for him, knowing her own tenacious research had barely turned up little more than fragile footprints in a low-tide area, would go unsatisfied. Still, she couldn’t help the hard line of comfort she felt at the miraculous connection. It was terrifying and rejuvenating at the same time. He was white with shock, as she was sure she’d been like not thirty seconds ago. Claire wouldn’t - couldn’t - torture him like that.
“Funny little world, huh.” She gave him a small, but genuine smile. The compassionate urge to grab his hand and squeeze was strong, but she bit it back.
Ben gave a laugh he didn’t quite feel, scrubbing his face with his hands.
“Yeah, hilarious,” he muttered. Ben took the opportunity to turn his eyes back on the digital recorder again, if only so he had something else to look at beside her. A bit of movement inside immediately caught his intention and he leaned forward, his eyes skimming over the device to look straight out the window instead. Claire’s eyes instantly snapped on the same thing Ben watched.
The metal door had opened, maybe an inch or two--enough for someone to peek through. Claire went still. When Ben caught her movement out of the corner of his eye, his gaze moved back down to the viewing panel.
There was a very clear, very definite glare of white coming from the eyes of the head that appeared in the space of the door.
“Jackpot.”
“No cars around for a block,” Claire whispered, eyes fixed on the pair. “Wherever they’re going, it’s on foot.”
“If we follow them, we might be able to find their lair,” Ben whispered back, though a small part of him wondered why they were whispering in her car when the windows were rolled up and they were on the opposite side of the street. He frowned slightly in thought.
“Though... if we start the car now, they’ll hear it.”
“Then I guess I’m not starting the car,” she said dryly, and patted the small bulge of keys in her jacket pocket. Ben flushed but didn’t say anything, rapidly putting the camera back into the bag and pushing both underneath the seat. The shifters wandered, casual as ever, toward the walk that lead to the main street. The second their back was turned, Claire squeezed the door handle to it’s soft click.
------------------------------------------
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.”
The female disappeared between two bodies, still running, and Ben growled out in frustration but refused to give up chase.
“Move! Move!” he shouted, trying to disperse the crowd. A few lurched out of the way, but he still managed to slam into a few shoulders on his dash to follow.
Getting further and further ahead, the female shot a glance back and ended up barrelling head on into a tall young man.
Jesse stumbled back, swearing. He probably would have gone over if it weren’t for the press of the crowd.
“Hey!” he snapped, seeing the pretty, slim woman right herself.
“Sorry, sugar,” she said with a smile before taking off.
Frowning, Jesse, checked himself, and froze when he found an empty back pocket.
“My wallet!” He bolted into the crowd. “Move! HEY! MOVE!”
Ben watched the crowd instantly part ahead with shock, though they were quickly refilling the space once the other man sped through them. With a grunt of effort, Ben pushed himself even harder, calling on every ounce of reserved energy left in him.
Even with the crowd’s help, the woman was slippery, and they were near the end of the square when Jesse finally caught her arm. She jerked around with a snarl, but Jesse wasn’t there for pleasantries.
“Give the wallet back, now!” he snapped.
The woman’s hand obeyed immediately, though her eyes looked down at it in shock. Jesse didn’t care, taking it with a scowl.
Ben nearly ran straight into them in his haste, just barely catching the exchange in time. His mouth fell open like a dead fish and his eyes went wide. What the hell!?
It took him a few seconds to reboot his brain, and when he did he quickly shouted, “Grab her!”
Jesse looked up and the woman tried to jerk away, but he gripped her tight on instinct. With another snarl, she punched him in the nose. His head snapped with a crack and he stumbled, letting go of her.
“Goddammit!” Ben snarled, managing to burst forward just in time to throw an arm around the shifter’s neck and yank her back into him hard. Already the crowd was responding to the violent scuffle, and somewhere a voice shouted out to call for security.
No, no, no, no! Ben panicked inwardly, trying desperately to drag the shifter to the ground. If the police were called, he wasn’t sure there’d be a way to keep her in his scopes, and there was still Claire and the other one to worry about.
Still bleary-eyed but his bloody nose already stopped, Jesse stared at the tousle. He’d thought the voice that called to him had been security, but this guy was definitely not.
“Whoa, mate, what’re you doing?” he said. “If she took something, just ask for it back!”
“It ain’t about takin’--” he was cut off when the shifter threw her elbow into his ribs, sending all the air out of his lungs and momentarily making him lose his hold. She managed to get back to her feet again before he swept her legs out from under her and pinned her down.
Claire’s chase had been futile the moment she rounded that corner--the male was gone, melted into the crowd she filtered through for the last five minutes, until the sounds of commotion drew her attention... along with just about everyone else. She cut through the crowd on the intuitive gut instinct that’d kept her alive for so long, and busted into the blob of space surrounding Ben and the other shifter.
“S’okay, folks,” Claire suddenly belted at the crowd around them; one hand produced a fabricated badge from her back pocket, complete with leather casing. Get a’hold of her, dammit. She showed it quickly to the onlookers, who reacted as most did when faced with any symbol of legit authority; gaping looks and sometimes a step back. Over their shoulder, the line of festival bouncers were wading through. Claire shoved the badge into her pocket and jumped into the fray, helping Ben get the female to her feet--with a discreet silver blade against her kidney. “Less of a scene you make, the better...”
As soon as Jesse saw the badge, he shifted back. Clearly this was some sort of take down and had nothing to do with him. He had his wallet and his nose had already mended, so no need for him to stick around. Except his band hadn’t been up yet. Wiping at some of the blood on his upper lip, he decided to clean up and then finagle his way backstage. It’d be safer back there anyway.
With a last look at the oddly young cops, he disappeared into the crowd
------------------------------------------
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.
The trunk had gone silent, the crunch of their footsteps on the gravel the only noise. They approached slowly, and Ben shot a last look at Claire before throwing the trunk open, his gun aimed at the shifter’s head. What he found were Claire’s wide, blue eyes staring right back at him. The real Claire made a small noise as her breath caught in her throat.
“Oh please God, save me!” Claire-in-the-trunk cried, her voice hitching.
There was a beat, and then she lashed out. Her hand jerked for Ben’s gun while her foot kicked at Claire’s. She wretched her hand back just a millisecond too late. Three fingers and the side of her thumb took the brunt of the sting, jarred against cobalt before the gun skidded across the gravel.
Ben, however, had been ready for it. With quite a bit of force, he flipped the shotgun in his hand and beaned her with the butt straight in the face. She fell back with a scream, already bleeding from a split in her forehead. She slid on the gore inside the trunk.
“Why can’t you people just leave us alone?!” she snarled.
“Shaddap,” Ben spat back, shifting the gun in his hand so he could pass his bag over to Claire. She still looked shook up at the shifter’s choice. Truthfully if he hadn’t already been on an adrenaline high, he probably would have reacted similarly. As it was, the shifter was still wearing the hoodie from the city square. He was unimpressed.
A small part of Claire understood the possibility, but actually looking at a mirror copy of herself was a bit more jarring than she anticipated. Hand still stinging, she took Ben’s bag and shouldered it, giving her doppelganger a good acidic glare as she bent down to get her gun.
Once Claire was upright again Ben reached in and grabbed the shifter firmly by the hair and the arms. The zip ties had held, but there was a quarter inch of room where there hadn’t been before. He barely registered it, instead making a disgusted noise at the state of his trunk.
“Disgusting,” he hissed, twisting the struggling shifter so that her back was to him and walking her --fighting him all the while-- deeper into the abandoned building. “Y’know, changing your face just lost you some leverage, sweetheart. I’m gonna have to clean up that shit now.”
Claire was very quiet, bringing up the rear behind him and the shifter with her gun poised and aimed at an angle to the floor. She hadn’t had hopes on the outcome of this particular job, considering her research and only singular experience with one--but the thing had taken her shape. That made a big difference. Regardless of how insignificantly malicious this one - and its partner - may have been, she couldn’t have it wandering around with her face. Or Ben’s, for that matter. She turned a silent look over the parking lot before stepping into the dark warehouse behind them. Father, forgive me. It was just a matter of time.
“This is gonna go one of two ways,” he said to the silent shifter, his eyes darting ahead to find somewhere to put her down. There was a support column in the middle of the room and he steered her toward it.
“Claire, get some rope outta my bag,” he told her before continuing to speak to the shifter. “Like I was sayin’. You’re gonna call your mate and while we wait for him to show up --assuming he’s still a him at this point-- we’re gonna have a little chat about what it means to be a responsible citizen in this country.”
“Oh sure, lemme just pull’im up on my phone--” the shifter sneered through corrosive sarcasm. Claire’s normally quite serene-looking face was twisted tight with contempt and hatred, and she hissed when she connected forcefully with the pole. The original Claire wasted no time - or effort - in lashing her there. The impostor sent her a side-long look in the process, grinning in one corner of her mouth. “Oooh, pretty fuckin’ metaphorical, huh Clairey?”
Claire’s jaw set, but she said nothing. The shifter scoffed and snickered.
“Don’t make me slap the shit out of you, sweetheart,” he told the shifter, his eyes fixated on her rather than looking at Claire. Once she was secure, he pulled out his phone and opened it.
“Give me the number,” he ordered.
“Why the fuck should I?”
Ben brought his rifle back up to her face and glared. “Either cooperate or I kill you. Pick one.” The shifter went a little stiff, but her stare remained equally cold. The real Claire Novak stared silently on.
“You got silver shells in that monster, Benny?” Getting shot in the face would sting like a motherfucker, but it wouldn’t kill her. The shifter was unimpressed, but her sneer mostly evaporated when Claire suddenly moved, and a solid, burning silver butterfly knife made it’s presence known between her third and fourth rib. Ben connected eyes with her briefly before turning back on the shifter again.
“Never said it was gonna be a quick kill,” he retorted, giving her an ugly smile. “I got silver buckshot. Might not kill ya, I’ve never tried it before, but it’ll definitely make me feel better about havin’ to clean up your pond scum.” He paused. “So what’s your choice?”
The carbon-copy flared her nostrils and tried to squirm away from the blade tip pushing through her hoodie, then swallowed thickly. “882-555-8750...”
Ben dialed the number, keep the gun aimed aimed at her face. The moment he pressed the ‘send’ button he flipped it over to speaker. It rang twice before someone answered.
“Where the fuck are you, motherfucker!?” an angry male voice shouted.
“Language,” Ben said in a condescending tone. “There are women present.”
“I’ll KILL you--!”
“D’you really wanna say that when I’ve got your mate tied up and lookin’ down the barrel of my gun, Billy Bob?” Ben interrupted.
“Its just the two of’em, Baby!” the shifter shouted at the phone. “Some fucker an’the bitch from the Applebees--OW!” Claire ‘accidentally’ let her knife twitch.
“That’s right, just us and the missus,” Ben chimed in. “All we’re missin’ is you and then we’ve got enough people for Candyland! Y’mind picking up some Diet Dr Pepper on your way, honey?”
“Where are you?!” the angry voice on the phone demanded.
“Wow, you’ve really got no manners at all? Did your mother raise you in a barn?” Ben asked, brows arched at the shifter borrowing Claire’s face. “We’re in the industrial park on the edge of town heading north. You’ve got one hour to get here, or we’ll kill your mate.”
Ben didn’t wait for a response, promptly hitting the ‘end call’ button before turning the phone off altogether. Once the phone was pocketed he turned his gaze back on the shifter in front of him.
“Now. Tell me: Why y’gotta go stealin’ from everybody and doin’ lord knows what to your loaners?” She leered at him with no lack of rancor that made her half-grin poisonous.
“What? Like you don’t steal a little somethin’ now and then?”
“I hussle,” he countered. “There’s a difference. You ruin people’s lives; Normal, innocent people, so you can what... buy the newest Toyota hybrid? Eat at a fancy restaurant? We wouldn’t come huntin’ folk like you if you didn’t act like fuckin’ heartless monsters.”
“S’all a matter of perspective, isn’t it?” Impostor Claire snickered coldly. “This world’s just what you can cut out of it--and I know for a fuckin’ fact that you two are reeeeally good at mental gymnastics.” She pressed her lips together and notched a brow, mocking the same expression Claire often used while at the diner. “Force yourself to believe something hard enough--nothing else matters.”
“Bullshit,” Ben said flatly. “If that was the way of it, there’d be mass chaos. Don’t like you aren’t doin’ this out of anything less than selfishness and spite.” He lowered his gun and crouched so as to be level with her face. “You could easily go out there and get a job like a normal person. It don’t matter what you are: it matters what you do. Every choice you make has a consequence. If me’n my friend hadn’t caught you, someone else would’ve.”
The shifter outright laughed; a sound that was just barely this side of sanity. “A normal person?! Check the mirror, Ben’N’Jerry’s. Ain’t no room for normal with some people, and you two know that better than any.”
Ben was really getting sick of the nicknames, but he didn’t flinch. It was pointless to try and argue with a creature who changed its face every day of the week.
“So what you’re saying is, you’ve got no intention of changing?” he prompted.
The slightly maniacal grin on Shifter-Claire’s face suddenly cooled, though it was definitely still present. A beat past, when she just held his eyes before she went on in equally chilly tones.
“What is it exactly you want us to do?”
“Stop stealin’, stop makin’ trouble, and assimilate,” he said. “Simple as that. You’ve got a mate, and that’s half the rat race. Everything else should be easy for you.”
The shifter was quiet for another beat, but so was the original Claire, standing half a step behind her, watching the exchange with a chilly detachment. The Claire tied to the pole then warmed her grin, paying perfect attention to Ben. “Well now, that doesn’t seem too bad, does it...”
His eyes narrowed at her. “Don’t patronize me, sweetheart. I’m giving you the choice. If you just tell me what you think I wanna hear, you’re gonna be tasting Claire’s knife. Count on it.”
“And who’s face am I s’posed to wear, huh Benji?” she said, tilting her head. “You gonna let me wear this little angel while I put on a pantsuit and go to work like a good little girl? You don’t know shit about us, what it’s like. You think it’s so easy? Then you assimilate.”
“Pick someone dead, then, I really don’t care,” he said flatly. “I know you can.”
“You really don’t fuckin’ get it,” she said, leaning her head back with a laugh. “It ain’t like we were born runnin’. We tried the normal way, but we ain’t normal. Ain’t ever gonna be normal. You say we’re fuckin’ over people’s lives; we were fucked over just being born. Normal ain’t something we can pretend, no more than you.” Her eyes fixed on his, giving a smirk. “So why don’t you stop pretendin’ you were ever gonna end this any way but one.”
That was all the prompting that the true Claire needed--it’d been drawn out long enough. Any more, and she ran the risk of succumbing to emotion that would only complicate the situation. She leaned in close from behind the beam the creature was tied to, smelling her own shampoo in the same exact hair--a surreal experience, to put it lightly, and not something Claire would count as ‘easy’. She whispered low and even, in tones that could only traverse the tiny distance between her lips and the shifter’s ear. “God, forgive me. Go in peace.”
“Claire, don’t--!”
Then Claire pushed the blade through fabric, skin and muscle, directly into the heart. The shifter only had enough time for her eyes to widen, a sharp breath cut short, before she sagged where she sat.
Ben stared for a moment in shock, his heart beating so hard and so loud that it temporarily drowned out all other sound. He hadn’t been done yet; there was still other avenues to try, other points to push home, and then it had all been stolen away. He closed his eyes to stop from seeing the blankness in the shifter’s dead eyes, turning away from the scene before he dared to open them again.
What he saw may as well have been a mirror of his expression on the other shifter’s face, even if he hadn’t borrowed it. Then there was only rage, and it started to rush him. Out of reflex Ben brought up his shotgun and fired it. A growled scream split the night right after the bark of the gun. The remaining creature lurched back with the blast’s momentum, doubled over in blood and pain.
“...COCKSUCKING SONOVABITCH!” he howled, staggering forward and gaining speed.
Ben cursed and dodged, nearly falling over in his haste to get away. If it’d seen Claire stick the knife, though, there was no telling if he’d go after her first to avenge his mate or keep up chase after having been shot in the chest. He needed to be quick.
Really should’ve just used a goddamn handgun, he thought manically, backtracking as quickly as he could to his car and hoping that he’d be followed.
The shifter didn’t head after him, though, his head jerking around to Claire, and his mate’s identical body. Snarling, he ducked behind a pillar. “Fuckin’ coward!” he yelled, a hand pressed over his buckshot wounds. “You have your fun, huh, torturin’ her before you kill her?!”
Claire had gone cold, steeled in the grip of adrenalin. The moment Ben’s gun blast had gone off, she’d exchanged her knife for the pistol holstered under her jacket. She eyed the pillar the thing used as a shield, gun raised. Besides the echo of her own blood in her ears and the scrape of grit under her feet, the night was still, and heavy. “She went quick,” Claire replied to the dark, coldly honest.
“You also said you weren’t gonna kill her for an hour, so fuck you!” Wincing, he pulled his revolver from the back of his pants, flipping off the safety. “Your pal’s gone, honey, so you an’ me are gonna take it nice and slow.”
In one swift move, he shifted aside just enough to get a shot at towards her kneecaps. Pain ripped through the side of her thigh as the bullet cut clean through denim and muscle. Claire bore down on her own teeth, hissing through the burn. Not for the first time in her life, the urge to swear almost left her lips.
“Took the wrong body,” she snarled, one hand planted over the thick flesh wound--the other held fast to her weapon, as she too took shelter around the nearest pillar. “You knew how this would end!” Father, keep me strong Claire’d had close calls, scratches, breaks, bruises and burns, but this was her first bullet. It hurt a Hell of a lot more than the movies made it look.
“So do you, darlin’,” he said, peering carefully around his pillar to gauge the distance between them. “Hunters got no better endin’s than us.”
Pushing out fast, he made a run for her pillar, moving for the far side.
It was all the opening Ben needed. He took aim and shot, watching as the silver bullet entered the shifter through its back. It staggered, then fell with a heavy thud, blood slowly pooling outward. Ben took a few deep breaths, trying to calm himself.
“Claire?”
“Here.” Her voice was equally rasp and riddled with a tension that wasn’t just nerves. She leaned her back heavily against the rusted out pole, her eyes fixated on the still body that’d fallen not three feet from where she was, her gun still held at the end of a rigid arm. The warm slickness beneath her palm throbbed with each heartbeat, searing with a sour heat. Ben trotted quickly over to his abandoned duffelbag, grabbing it up and heading in the direction of her voice. He found her within moments, his face going pale at the rush of blood oozing out around her fingers.
“Thank god for boy scouts,” he muttered under his breath, dropping down next to her and diving into the bag once it was open to pull out his medkit. “Is it still in you?”
“Don’t think so,” she panted, then held her breath before it broke free again once more. Claire let her head thunk back against the pole, and she swallowed thickly, her eyes closed. “Still sucks.”
“I know,” he said. He moved her hand away and winced as the blood dribbled out even faster, tugging out his pocket knife from his breast pocket and sliding it into the small space, blade-side up. The knife was sharp enough to slice through the fabric like it was paper.
“Hold still, okay?” His voice had gone gentle, and the next move explained why: Claire felt a rush of fire expand outward as he poured peroxide over the wound to clean it, getting in close to make sure nothing had gotten past the top layer. She immediately went stiff, every muscle infused with molten metal, and her back arched from the strain of keeping everything else as still as possible.
“Thaaaat sucked even more...” Her eyes were open again, but she only saw in shades of red and black until the peroxide started to bubble away. Fortunately, nothing appeared to be stuck in with the ripped bit of flesh and skin. Ben pulled out a small package and ripped it open, pressing it into the wound before finding her hand and pressing it against it.
“Put pressure on it,” he told her, already going back to the kit to find a length of ace bandage to hold it in place.
“You were a boy scout?” she breathed through a slightly crooked grin, slowly regaining control of her muscles as the roar of pain dissolved into a good hard ache. Though the night was cold, the strain had left a sheen on her skin, and it felt like it was collecting every bit of grime in the dirty air.
“Mom made me,” he explained away, though he didn’t go into the details of it. It sounded a little embarrassing in hindsight.
“I got a sewing kit back at the church...” But she wasn’t going to be able to drive for a day or two.
“Oh this’ll be fun,” he said with a hint of dryness mostly aimed at himself. “Never stitched a person before.”
“It’s not that complicated,” she promised. The adrenalin was coming down, and she was starting to feel the exhaustion that came with it.
He bit his lip, carefully taking the bandage and starting the slow but firm wrap around the gauze. He went silent for a few moments as he worked, keeping his eyes pointed downward.
“I wasn’t gonna ditch you.”
Claire had been watching the progress of her temporary bandage until that moment. She lifted her eyes to his face, even though he wasn’t looking at her, his profile obscured by the occasional dark spear of dark hair. After a reflexive wince at another twinge in her leg, Claire looked back down at his hands. “I know you weren’t.”
“I’ve never done this with somebody else before,” he admitted in the same quiet voice. She looked at him again.
“I’m not the first you’ve met though...”
Ben kept quiet, carefully clipping the bandage in place. His hands were covered in her blood. It all made him feel a little sick. What were they going to do with the other bodies?
Salt and burn ‘em, came an answering thought. It wasn’t in his own voice. He visibly shuddered.
“I’ll help you to the car.”
------------------------------------------
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...”
“You’re s’posed to drink it, not smell it,” he said with a hint of amusement and a slight shake of his head, shifting on his feet. Before she had a chance to Ben took it, taking a swig as if to demonstrate before passing it back. He barely flinched.
“S’a family recipe. You’re gonna need it.”
Family recipe, huh? Claire gave the thing a dubious look that transferred to him, though it was only skin deep. “So was turpentine.” Still, she knew he was right. With a little hesitation, she set the small rim on her bottom lip and tossed a small swig back. Unfortunately a tiny bit actually touched her tongue. Her throat seized for a moment, and she blocked the cough with her forearm.
Ben gave her a sympathetic smile, putting the sewing kit on the lip of the bathtub so he could take off his shoes and socks and roll up his pant legs.
“Take a breath first, then hold your nose,” he instructed gently as he stepped into the tub. Her eyes were still watery from the first swallow when they turned up to him. Her look clearly expressed how little faith she had that his proposed method was going to do anything for the taste of battery acid.
She cleared her throat and steeled for another swig, but not before conveying a quick opinion: “I think you burned your taste buds off.” She twitched the flask back and forced down the gag reflex enough to swallow.
“Eh, sense of taste. Who needs it,” he said dismissively. Once he was at a crouch in front of her he started to unravel the bandage. The gauze was soaked through by the time he exposed it. This was definitely not going to be fun.
“Not me, after this,” her voice was rusty from the booze - at least she hoped it was booze - for all she knew by the taste, he’d siphoned off an old diesel tractor and put it in a flask. At least the burn was helping to distract from the dull roar of pain throbbing from her thigh. The last layer of gauze peeled away, and Claire hissed in a sharp breath through her teeth and her free hand clawed into the shower curtain. That prompted another quick, deeper pull from the flask, and another small coughing fit.
Once the wound was exposed Ben took up the bottom of her pant leg, quickly and carefully rolling it upward. The added constriction as it gathered up her though would help lessen the blood flow, at least a little. This was really going to suck.
“Talk to me,” he encouraged her, opening up the sewing kit and working as fast as he could to thread the needle. Her answer was yet another cough after her third attempt to force his ‘family recipe’ down, blinking away the blur.
“Exactly how long did it take you to get used to this crap?” Claire’s voice was tight again; tight from the liquor and tight from the pain. The tourniquet-like effect of her destroyed jeans amplified the way it throbbed, which amplified the heat radiating through the whole side of her body. She could die a happy woman if she never, ever got shot again. And she knew it could’ve been so much worse.
Ben gave a quiet laugh at the memory. “Me and my buddy Nick, summer after sophomore year of high school, spent three days fishin’ and campin’ over by Lake Michigan. I remembered watchin’ my dad make up a batch once, so I thought I’d give it a go.” He smiled a little. “I don’t remember much outside of pukin’ my guts out the next morning after day one, but lucky for me Nick brought a camera. Good times.”
“Sign me up,” she said dryly and forced another swallow. This time she didn’t cough, but the delicate scattering of freckles across her nose were getting hot. Her lips and the tip of her nose were starting to tingle, as well--sure signs that whatever it was, it was working. She took a moment to focus on him. Subtle nuances of tension were obvious, but that was to be expected. Their last hour was something that would’ve scarred ‘normal’ members of society. Still, she made a mental note to stop putting the booze down--even though the flask was already on it’s way back to her lips.
Once the needle was threaded Ben looked down at the wound again. It had already started to bleed. He swallowed, pausing to turn on the spigot before briefly taking the flask from her. He could almost taste her lips along the metal, something fruity like strawberries. He filed the thought away, reaching for the lighter in his breast pocket so he could sterilize the needle.
“You've really never done this before?” she asked, her voice cottoned by the subtle intoxication, but it was also gentle as the way she took the flask back, and set it upright on the sink ledge.
“Nope,” he said simply. He’d sewn a few patches on to jeans and a leather jacket he’d worn until eating it on his bike once, but other than that his sewing had been limited to what he’d learned in scouts. Ben looked up through his lashes at her and gave her a crooked smile. “You’re my first time. Be gentle with me.”
The wolfish little grin was surprisingly disarming, considering what he’d just told her. Claire’s nose wrinkled when she smiled back at him, and cleared her throat. “Let’s try it the other way around...”
“You’d rather be on top?” he quipped, his smile only lengthening. In spite of herself - and a lot of thanks went to the booze - she snickered.
“A’least...lemme talk ya through it.” If that was a pun, Claire didn’t know or care. It sounded like one, but she still meant it, regardless of the very faint way her words had started to slow.
“Yes, ma’am,” Ben replied, looking up at her again briefly before steadying his free hand on her skin. The sting that resulted caught her breath, but the messages were taking a little longer to reach her brain. She did feel a subtle warmth spread from under his palm. Thank Heaven for small favors.
“Kay, pinch the skin together,” she actually did it with her own two hands, the pads of her cleaned fingers a few inches away from the gash, which was dripping thick crimson globules down the curve of her leg and into the tub. “Don--don’go too deep.” Clair blinked, mulling and blushing over how she’d fallen into the apparent pun-war.
Ben bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything, but he did sneak a quick glance up at her. A blush had crept over her face, making a bridge from one cheek and across her nose to the other. Something squirmed in his stomach that had nothing to do with the hole in her leg. He took a breath and then let it out, then did as he instructed and pressed the point of the needle into the skin.
The familiar pinch sobered her up enough to remember to actually brace for the next one. As the needle pushed through, trailing the sterile black string behind it, Claire tried to keep her breaths as steady as possible, but they still cut through her nose and shook a bit with obvious strain. Claire closed her eyes and leaned back against the shower wall; she tried conjuring one of her favorite songs to drown the growing agitation in her leg, the more it was poked, the more angry it became.
It felt like hours before he’d finally managed to seal up the cut. Several times he’d had to stop and pour a bit of water over it, and by the time he was finished there was an obvious cramp in both his hands, but that didn’t matter. With one last rinse of water Ben turned the faucet off and stepped out of the tub again, disappearing quietly from the bathroom to get a fresh packet of gauze and some medical tape.
Claire took the moment of solitude to let go of every muscle she hadn’t realized she was flexing. It all released as a sounded, shaken breath from open lips, both hands moved to cover and swipe at her face. It felt hot, and mental and physical exhaustion was mixing sourly with the booze and adrenalin in her system.
Breathe, Clairey. She dropped her hands and looked hazily down at the pink and splotchy red ruin of her leg. Her fingertips trembled when she touched the inflamed skin near by.
“You okay?”
Ben stood in the doorway looking at her, his face touched with concern. She looked over her shoulder at his half-shadowed figure, and lifted a hand to push a piece of hair away from her eyes. She gave him a small smile and a less-than-enthusiastic nod.
“Could be worse,” Claire confessed quietly. The flask caught her attention again, and she was tempted. Very tempted, but falling asleep while drunk wasn’t exactly a smart option. Ben crossed over to where she sat and offered his hand to her to help her up. She accepted without a word, and grabbed the flask on the way out.
“Any idea where you’re goin’ next?” Claire had asked before she knew the words were slipping away from her, thanks to the alcohol and her own curiosity. The latter was a lot stronger than she was ready to admit. The job was over--his friend’s dad would eventually be exonerated with an alibi and lack of evidence.
Ben gave a weak shrug as he lead her carefully over to her bed and helped her sit on it. However once he had, he didn’t know where to go. He wasn’t sure he could leave her by herself with a clear conscience.
“Wherever the next job takes me,” he said after a moment. Claire couldn’t help but laugh a little, albeit softly, and with a touch of ‘drunken giggle.’
“Y’sound like a Bon Jovi song.” She slouched back against the wall and sighed a bit. The new angle brought a lot of her fatigue back to the front of her mind.
“Hey, Bon Jovi rocks on occasion,” Ben countered, arching a single brow at her and smirking with the opposite corner of his mouth. She looked up at him and mirrored the expression, though maybe a little slower than she normally would have.
“Never said he didn’t.”
“All the same.” He paused, licking his lips and studying her silently. What would have happened to her if he hadn’t been there to watch her back? They’d pinned her in the Applebee’s, too. That wasn’t to say he didn’t trust that she had it in her to take care of herself, but being alone out there was never a good idea. Even cops had partners when they went in to bust up a crime. Dean had had Sam. Maybe Claire was supposed to be his Sam.
Or maybe you’re just lonely, a critical voice inside him spoke up. He couldn’t deny the truth in it entirely, even if he wanted to.
“What about you?”
Claire’s mind was slowly dissolving into the warm embrace of whatever concoction he had in that flask and much needed sleep, but she kept her eyes open, despite their obvious weight. Had she considered the facts of the matter consciously - which she would, in the morning - it reflected the uncanny level of base-line trust she had developed with him over the course of the last couple days. Be it fate or faith, the two mixed strongly behind Claire’s eyes when she looked at Ben. Especially now. She was a creature that followed God’s signs when he laid them out--commonly without question.
“Wherever the job takes me.” She gave him a leaning grin before letting her eyes close again, her fingertips flexed faintly on the plane of her stomach. He smiled faintly in response, his eyes lingering on her again.
What’s the worst she can say? he asked himself, chewing viciously on his lower lip. He steadied himself with a slow breath, then nodded.
“Y’wanna come with me?”
Claire opened her eyes and let them focus. She peered up from her lashes at him, half-lidded and sleepy, but very much aware of her thoughts and surroundings. Also, the tiny flutter somewhere in her gut. She immediately labeled it as a sign.