Slow Ride
The blade pressed a little further into Dean’s neck, and he actually felt the pinch of sharp metal piercing his skin before he processed the situation enough to fucking answer the crazy dude before you get decapitated.
“Vampire! Chick was a vampire, she was killing other people, I had to kill her, I didn’t want to,” Dean said quickly, trying to sound as authoritative as one can while at the mercy of an insane red condom with a sword to your neck. He raised his hands a bit, palms out as if in surrender.
“Yeah, and I’m a mutated ex-army kinda ex-mercenary who is immortal,” the guy droned. “Shut up, you two!” he says, directed once again over his shoulder.
“I’m serious, man, if you just don’t kill me, I can prove it,” Dean tried. His hands were out wider now, still appearing submissive.
“How you gonna do that, buddy?”
“Show you the fangs.”
“That head over there doesn’t have fangs, buddy. The mouth is open, and I can see it. She was probably screaming about getting her head chopped off.”
Dean gritted his teeth. “You have to poke the gums to get them to descend. They only come down when the vampire is feeding.”
“Ooh, kinky. Do it then,” the dude answered, moving the sword only enough for Dean to turn around with an exasperated huff. Dean walked with his hands still out, over to where the head had rolled. He had another sickening moment of remembering Thanos, but quickly shoved that down. He reached down, turned so he wasn’t blocking the guy’s view, and prodded the gums until the fangs descended.
“Weird. I’m still not sure I believe you. Since when do vampires exist and since when do random guys in flannel decapitate them? Pretty sure I read a book about that once. Talk about queerbaiting. Just kidding, I don’t read!” the guy rambled on, with a childlike tone. “Explain, now,” he barked out, dropping into a very deep and menacing growl in an instant.
“I just did, ugh, okay, well vampires exist, they don’t sparkle, sun only hurts like a sunburn, they do typically sleep in the day, but they can wake up. Dead man’s blood slows them down, but only reliable way to kill them is decapitating. They can be cured but only if they haven’t fed yet. I got turned once and was cured.” The fucking mask, which literally wasn’t even a face, somehow looked impatient. Dean continued rapidly, “Normally they catch a person or two and keep them captive as their own little buffet. This chick has an apartment right there,” he jerked his thumb to the left, signaling a building less than forty yards away, “with at least three people inside, who are alive and need help right now. They’ll probably vouch for me if you wanna meet them, I had to leave to chase her, but I told them I was coming back. They need help, man,” Dean almost pleaded. This guy was still too far away for him to make a move, the sword was too long. If it was a gun, he probably could’ve disarmed him at this point, if the guy had poked it all up on him the way he had this sword. “Also if someone see’s us they’re gonna freak out, dude, let me show you I’m not a murderer.”
“Alright, fine,” he says simply, shocking Dean. “Lead the way.” He sheaths the sword and gestures with an expectant look on his… mask.
“Well, we also gotta get rid of this body. We can put it in my trunk.”
“Wow. I wonder if Dopinder would put a body in his trunk for me. Well, here, let me help!” The guy almost squeals. Dean wonders how unhinged this guy really is.
The guy shoulders up the body and motions for Dean to take the head. As they’re walking back to Dean’s car, taking care not to be seen, the guy casually mentions, “Oh, and I wasn’t being sarcastic earlier. I really am an immortal mercenary, though like I said, I’m trying to lay off the killing. But if at any point, I think you are actually a bad guy, I will go back on that faster than you can even think, buddy. And I literally am immortal. I regenerate. So if you kill me, I will come back. And sooner or later, I will kill you.”
“What happens if I dismember you? Which part grows pack new parts?” Dean asks, feeling a little brave.
“Wh- uh, what?”
“Well, I mean, if I cut you in half, do two guys grow back? Will I be able to just, throw out the bum half and keep the other nearby so that every time it regenerates, I kill you again? Or would I have to worry about both? What if I burned the pieces? Would you be regenerated from the ashes? What if I built a box out of like, vibranium, and put the starter piece in the box, but the box was too small for a whole person and-”
“GOD, SHUT UP,” the guy shouts, startling Dean. They arrive at the car, and Dean stays silent, if only to increase the chances of getting back to help those people in the apartment. Serves the guy right though, he should have a taste of his own rambly insane medicine. “Not you, buddy, I’m sorry, I have voices in my head, you know how it goes,” he says to Dean with a shrug and nonchalant expression. They put the body in the trunk in some big trash bags.
They turn and walk back toward the apartment buildings, and the guy speaks again. “To answer your questions: no, theoretically yes, no, I would regenerate as I burned, if you could actually get me to ashes then yes, and ooh that’s a good one but I think being immortal in a too small box would be about the only thing worse than being immortal outside of a too small box. Pretty sure my brain and nervous system is usually one of the first things to make an appearance too, so it would hurt like a bitch.” At Dean’s incredulous look, the mask fucking smiles somehow. “I’ve tried, buddy. Everything. I do not recommend immortality.” With a clap on the shoulder, the guy pushes Dean forward and he stumbles, huffing as he walks up and picks the lock of the apartment building’s front door. The apartment itself should still be unlocked.
Rescue goes well, they get rid of any traces of Dean and make sure that all three victims get to the hospital. The victims thank Dean, which was nice of them. He doesn’t know what they’ll think or believe about this whole thing in the future, but that’s a problem for their therapists later. Dean and the guy make it back to his car and Dean stands awkwardly, thinking that he sort of needs this guy’s permission to leave, as stupid as it sounds.
The man notices his awkwardness. “Oh, I’m sorry, this is awkward. I guess you’re right, that bitch definitely had it coming. Vampires, huh. Who knew? Anyway, I won’t kill you. So, what’s your gig man, you kill vampires for a living?”
“Well, it doesn’t really pay so I don’t think you could call it a living, but yeah. Monsters, ghosts, etcetera.” Dean thinks of the credit card he has in his pocket, paid for by money from Tony Stark, which was Natasha’s doing. She was impressed with the quantity of his credit card and identity scams but not the quality, which was insulting. Dean’s been just fine for the last three decades of fake ID’s, thank you very much. Anyway, she insisted on setting up an offshore bank account for him with practically unlimited funds and no traceable connection to Tony Stark.
“Damn. So how many things are out there?” the guy responds. “I can’t just ask him- no, you listen, just let me have this damn conversation!” He recovers and turns to Dean again, waiting expectantly.
“Uh… a lot. Like, hundreds of types of things, and they differ from place to place. The lore is all regional and cultural a lot of the time. Other stuff changes, adapts, and all in all it’s just a lot of stuff. Most common and easy to miss are vamps, werewolves, and ghosts. Vamps and werewolves blend easily, and no one wants to fess up that they’re seeing dead people, and when they do talk, no one believes them.”
“That checks out, no one believes me about my voices either,” the guy says, looking put out about it. His mask actually takes on a sympathetic look, and seriously, how does that even work- “It’s probably lonely, isn’t it?”
“I mean, there’s a network of people who hunt, and people who don’t hunt but know about this stuff. We have less people after the blip.”
“Hm,” is all the guy says for a minute. Dean still feels like it’s an inappropriate time to leave, but he doesn’t know what else to say. He just puts his hands in his pockets and waits.
“Well, Dean Winchester,” and how the fuck did this guy know his name? “I’ll leave you be now. Sorry for thinking you were a murderer. I’ve been a little, itchy, if you will in the brain and heart regions since the blip, and no it’s not an STD! Anyway, trying to keep this no-killing promise is hard. I might have jumped the gun. But you’re cool, we’re cool. I’ll go,” he finishes, and with a melancholy smile on that mouthless mask, he turns and starts to walk away, shoulders slumped and dragging his feet. Dean doesn’t know why he does it, he honestly couldn’t tell you, but he does it.
“Wait!” The guy turns with a look of utter glee on his mask and Dean internally facepalms. What is he getting himself into?
~ Four Months Later ~
Turns out, a great hunting partner was what he got himself into. Deadpool was fucking fantastic to hunt with because he literally could not die. He couldn’t be possessed either, which was odd, because he couldn’t get a tattoo, but something about his condition made it impossible for a demon to possess him when they encountered her selling bad demon deals, mostly blip related. Turns out, fake people to replaced blipped ones were essentially zombies and that demon had to go. Deadpool willingly offers himself up as bait anytime it seemed effective, and it almost always was, and there was no guilt on Dean’s part because he couldn’t die. Well, minimal guilt, anyway. Dean still hadn’t seen his face, which bothered him, but the guy was pretty shut off about it. Which was even more suspicious because he never shut up about everything else. He hadn’t shared his name yet either, and even though Deadpool knew Dean’s name, he insistently called him “buddy” all the damn time. He was honestly a little annoying, but he was a reliable partner for the most part, and Dean had only had to deal with an actually dead Deadpool twice in four months, so things could be worse.
He wouldn’t call them close, but they had made the move to share a motel room for the first-time last week, which in a hunter’s book was a pretty big thing. Deadpool barely slept, instead hooking up a Nintendo switch and playing Mario Kart all night, but that wasn’t terribly annoying. Honestly, Dean thinks he rested easier knowing Deadpool was already awake to look out for anything.
They were currently working a shifter case in Jersey. Everything moved like clockwork. As Deadpool chaotically bounced around the room, sporadically fighting the shifter and confounding it when he continued fighting after multiple wounds, Dean moved from his concealed spot and took aim, firing two shots right into the shifter’s heart.
“YASSS, great job buddy! Perfect aim, you did so good,” Deadpool praised. It was weird, but after a few times, Dean learned that it really was genuine praise. Deadpool was pretty… overly encouraging, you could say. Dean tried to smile but it really was more like a grimace.
“Uh, yeah. You too, man. How’s that gash doing?” Dean said, motioning to the long cut on Deadpool’s left side of his abdomen.
“Oh, definitely caught something important on the inside, hurts like a motherfucker, probably a lot of internal bleeding,” Deadpool said casually, but Dean could see the tension. Deadpool was pretty much immune to minor pain because of his constant state of regeneration, so he says, but he won’t admit that big stuff still hurts, and Dean had gotten pretty good at reading him.
“You gonna make it back alright?” Deadpool had a place somewhere in New York, so they weren’t actually far from where he lived, but Dean didn’t think he was in as good of shape as he wanted to seem.
“Of course, I- well, hm,” Deadpool’s mask eyes did a widen-narrow thing, like he was woozy. But he never wobbled. Probably took a lot of effort to make sure he didn’t. “I might actually stay in, hluegh, Jersey, for this particular regeneration,” he said, masking almost perfectly the strain in his words and even making sure to add in the gag sound as dramatically as possible. But Dean could see the muscles in his legs quivering ever so slightly, and fuck, he was gonna pass out for sure, maybe die, Jesus fuck-
Thud. And now Deadpool was on the floor. Fucking fantastic.
~~~~
Dean had been specifically instructed never to remove the mask, even when Deadpool actually died, and so Dean just shouldered up the body and started making his way out of the abandoned elementary school they were in. It was creepy as fuck and this shifter had been using it as a hideout after the kids in this district got stuffed into the other school nearby since both were only half filled after the blip.
Dean didn’t know where Deadpool lived, so he just put him in the car and started driving to the city. Propped him up with a seatbelt and everything. It’s not like you could tell he was dead, what with the mask, and eventually he would wake up and either tell Dean where to go or go there by himself.
As predicted, two hours later as they just breached the outskirts of the city, Deadpool began to stir. He just twitched at first, then he started fidgeting and finally moaned loudly. After a low growl and another moan, he seemed to snap instantly to full awareness with a jolt that actually shook the car. Then it was Dean’s turn to growl.
“Sorry, buddy, reviving really is a shock to the sinuses!” he wheezes. “Internal bleeding. Huh. Haven’t tried that one in a while and now I fucking remember whyyy,” he whined. Dean just rolled his eyes, growing more accustomed to the antics.
“We’re in New York. You want me to drop you off?”
“Ooh, taking me home, huh cowboy?” he leered, complete with a reality-defying eyebrow wiggle on the mask.
“Just tell me where to go, douchebag.”
“Uh! Fine, you’re highness. But I’m not inviting you in,” Deadpool pouted, but gave the directions, nonetheless. Dean was a little shocked to see how nice the building they pulled up to was. It must have shown on his face, because Deadpool commented on it.
“Yeah, mercenary is a pretty well-paying job. I don’t do it anymore, so in like thirty years I’ll either have to move out or find another job paying at least seventeen thousand per month. But for now I’m all set.”
Dean just shook his head. He knew that he was certainly the best funded hunter in the world thanks to Tony Stark, but he still lived the same lifestyle. This mansion-building clashed with the image of Deadpool he had built up so far as a chaotic neutral with absolutely no attachment to reality.
“Do you, uh, wanna come in? It’s probably a sty right now but I know you were going up to Maine with that other guy after this for that clown thing and you should probably rest first. I have a guest bedroom with your name on it, buddy,” Deadpool offered. Deadpool wasn't actually coming on the clown case, because he had a merc mission. Not to kill anyone, because of his mysterious promise, but to capture/imprison some guy from a ring of human traffickers. Dean thinks he would be alright with that one dying. Slowly.
Dean did the math in his head and he still had two weeks until the clown supposedly was set to return, so he figured Deadpool was right. He hadn’t slept in fifty-two hours and he definitely felt it. “Lead the way. But I’ve told you a million times-”
“Don’t call me buddy,” they chorused together. Deadpool continued, “I hate to break it too you buddy, but Baby Boy is taken and those are my only two non-offensive nicknames so unless you want something like sugar-cheeks or bow-legs, power-bottom, maybe flannel-dick, I can-”
“Buddy’s fine, let’s just go,” Dean gruffs, getting out of the car and leaving a smug-masked Deadpool to snicker alone.
~~~~
Claire wheezed when she landed hard on her back, the wind getting knocked out of her. Before her lungs could recover, she was up again, dodging another blow and getting in a decent leg sweep that Natasha only just avoided. Unfortunately, Natasha used the momentum to get her off balance, and the light-headedness made her an easy target for the final blow, which Natasha pulled. Claire hated her for it. She slammed to the ground only slightly more gently than she would have if Natasha was a real enemy, but she still didn’t like that Natasha was pulling her punches for Claire.
But, seeing as she was on her stomach anyway with her hands behind her back and an assassin on her legs, it didn’t seem to make much of a difference anyway.
“That was better. Sorry for knocking the wind out of you, but getting up like that was good. Just make those first few movements sharper, buy yourself some time to back up and get that air back. Then you won’t get so dizzy,” Natasha said with a strained voice.
“Why are you pulling your punches?” Claire asked. Like all the times she had pestered before, no luck was to be had with the answer.
“When you stop losing, I’ll stop pulling,” was all Natasha said, though she did smirk slightly. At least she was in a better mood than yesterday. She had followed a lead on Clint for almost a week and it turned out to be nothing. When she got back the night before last, she was in probably the worst mood Claire had seen her in since moving to the Compound. Sparring with Claire sometimes cheered her up. Other times it made her look nauseous, but definitely not because of anything Claire did in the fight.
They cleaned up the gym together, and walked back to their shared floor. Natasha stopped outside of her own bedroom door and Claire paused, hoping they could hang out a bit. She hated seeing Natasha so stressed.
“Claire… thanks for trying to cheer me up.”
“You caught onto that, huh?” Claire smiled, because Natasha liked when she was happy. She was smiling more and more lately. It made her sad to think about, because she should have smiled more for Jody.
“You willingly got your ass kicked an extra three rounds and still improved? Definitely caught on,” Natasha joked back.
“I was gonna watch Netflix and look for a case, if you wanna join,” Claire tried.
“I need… some more time alone, I think. I’m not avoiding you, I’m just… tired.” Claire could tell she wasn’t just making an excuse. When she said tired, she meant the existential kind. Claire just nodded.
“Well, I’m here if you want company,” she offered.
“I appreciate it, kid.” Natasha hesitated, then pulled Claire in for a hug. Claire melted into it, wishing it was Jody and hating herself for thinking that. She loved Natasha, too. Not in a crush way, not anymore. In a real, life-companion kind of way. Natasha wasn’t motherly in the same way as Jody, but she was definitely as fiercely protective as her, and her role in Claire’s life was something like a mix between a mentor and an older sister or friend. The hug ended before Claire wanted it to, but she smiled nonetheless and let Natasha retreat. Before Natasha closed the door, she added, “Tony’s in the common area, by the way, he has something for you I think.” That was odd.
Claire continued down the hall to find Tony Stark on the couch in their living room, holding a package.
“Dean sent this,” he said simply. She didn’t respond, just took the package from him and sat down. She and Tony had an unsettling dynamic. She could never tell if he actually approved of her being here, even though he obviously allowed it. They rarely spoke, and if they did it was usually related to scheduling. Tony wasn’t really working so much anymore, but he and Pepper were dealing with the post-blip business side of things as well as they could. Rhodey was helping a lot too, because Tony was still a little on the weak side of recovery. But he was getting stronger. The starvation and oxygen deprivation had done a lot of damage. All the observational skills Nat had been teaching her kicked in as she assessed him.
His hair was clean, but dry, so he showered earlier today. His face was brighter, eyes more alert, so he wasn’t in a lot of pain and had eaten a proper amount. Circles under his eyes were average, so probably about six hours of sleep. The cane was nowhere in sight, so he had come up here without it, and given how okay he looked, that meant he was improving significantly. Or he had been here a while, long enough to recover.
“I can totally tell you’re Russian-spy analyzing me. Stop it,” he said childishly. Claire almost laughed, and Tony almost smiled. “You gonna open the package?”
“Uh, yeah, but if it’s from Dean you may not wanna see what’s inside. Could be anything,” she warned.
“Consider this training for my stomach as I recover. I’ll wait and see,” he said with just a ghost of humor in his tone. Claire opened the package and found inside a knife handle, very intricately carved with beautiful metal work on the ends and within the carving pattern, and finished with a hard, shiny coating, but no blade. Tony looked confused, and Claire was too, until she saw the note at the bottom of the box.
Found this in a crypt in Maine. Blade is only real when it comes into contact with something dark, demonic, etc. Thought it would be a cool birthday gift. Have only tested it so far on a tulpa, vampire, demon, and a spirit. Slowed the spirit down about as much as iron or rock salt, slowed the vamp down like dead man’s blood. Tulpa and demon died, even with the tulpa legend not mentioning this knife, so it’s a pretty useful tool. Helpful too ‘cause it can’t cut you and you’re never in the way of your own blade. Me and a friend added the lacquer, which is infused with dead man’s blood and holy water. Metal accents are silver.
Happy early birthday, kid. I know it’s not for a few months, but this is my present. I’ll call you soon.
Dean
“Wicked,” Claire marveled, passing the note to Tony and examining the knife. It really was beautiful. She couldn’t wait to try it out.
“Hunters,” Tony scoffs, not unkindly, and passes the note back. “When is your birthday, Claire?”
“August tenth,” she replies. Tony’s face drops like a stone, and Claire immediately wonders what she said, what she did wrong, but Tony recovers quickly.
“1997, right?”
“Yep,” she says cautiously.
“Huh. You would have been… four years older than my… my, uh,” his voice breaks a little and Claire wants to tell him he doesn’t have to say, but he presses on before she finds the words. “Well, Peter. He has the same birthday as you, though.”
“Oh,” Claire says, at a loss for anything else to say. She feels like she should be more tactful, but she genuinely doesn’t know how to react.
“I think you would have gotten along with his girlfriend.” Claire raises an eyebrow at that. Tony continues. “Well, not girlfriend, but a crush he… yeah, she was all dark and broody like you.” Tony tries to smile but he just looks constipated. Claire doesn’t know what to say or do, so she sort of just goes with instinct here.
“I’m sorry. It’s shitty. So fucking shitty. And I don’t wanna bullshit you, ‘cause I hate when people bullshit me. But I really am sorry you lost him.” She says quietly. She doesn’t know Peter, but she knows that Stark feels a lot of pain from this. Tony is silent for a minute or two, and they both stare at the floor.
“You wanna know why Natasha pulls her punches with you?” Claire hesitates, wondering how or why he knows about that, but she nods eventually.
“You’re her Peter. She’s watching you grow and improve, and she wishes she could protect you from every single thing, but I just-” Starks voice broke again, and he tries to hold back a sob that comes out sounding like a gasp for air. He composes himself. “She knows she can’t stop you from hunting, from fighting back against Thanos, from anything. And she knows better than to try. But the idea of someone getting the jump on you and winning that fight, for real? She can’t handle it. So she trains you to be better, and gives you all the protection she can, anything in her power to do. She pulls her punches because she can’t hurt you.” Claire was speechless, and felt like the air had been knocked once again from her lungs. It was so… heavy, to hear Stark like this. They barely talked, and he comes in and drops a bombshell like this?
“I’m telling you this… because I want you to know that you mean a lot to her. And it might be hard for her to say it, but you should know. You should never doubt it. Or think that you’re bugging her, or not worthy of her time and investment, because you are. Just… be careful, Claire. None of us is gonna try to control you, ever. You’re an adult, you can do what you gotta do. But just… don’t be reckless, okay? Please.” Tony looks shattered, and the bright-eyed recovery she had seen earlier seems to have seeped out of him, leaving an empty shell behind.
“I won’t. Be reckless, I mean. I won’t be reckless. I- Um, thank you, Mr. Stark,” she said, but paused when he actually flinched at the name.
“Call me Tony, please,” he says breathlessly.
“Yeah. Tony. Thanks for bringing me the package.”
“Thank you, Claire. You’re… nice to have around.” Claire actually huffs a small chuckle at that.
“Compliment of the year,” she says dryly.
“Consider it an early birthday gift,” he says weakly, but perks up enough to give a wink, before standing and walking to the hall. He turns back to say one more thing before leaving.
“Don’t tell Natasha I had this conversation with you. She’ll be all embarrassed and start thinking I wanna talk about feelings, just blegh. This is between us,” he states.
“You got it, Tony,” Claire says. And she gives him a smile before he leaves. His own lips twitch, like they’re on their way to their own.