Chapter 2

Day and night bleed into each other in the bunker. The lights are always on, and the light from the lamp beside Dean on the table is constant.

So he starts when Sam appears in the doorway, a large, dark shape at the edge of Dean's vision.

Dean scrubs a hand over his face and looks up.

"Have you been up all night?" Sam says, surprise in his voice as he crosses the floor.

Dean nods, stretches his arms over his head, not because he's tired, but because his joints stiffen when he doesn't move. He pushes the ledgers and files across the table and reaches for his coffee. "Ghosts don't sleep, Sammy."

The coffee is cold, and tastes of nothing.

Dean's dead. He doesn't need to sleep, or eat, or drink, or fuck anymore. Sex would probably be the same, no taste, no passion.

He sighs, pushes himself to his feet. Hot coffee will at least keep the chill from his hands, warm his insides. He shoves at the research on the table as he moves toward the kitchen. "Nothing so far. The usual angel healing and demon deals, but they're no good to us since we kicked those bastards out. Vague reference to a fountain of youth, but nothing we can work with."

"That's it? I left you there four hours ago. There's got to be more than that." Sam lifts down a cereal bowl from the cupboard. He's eating some weird organic muesli every morning at the moment. It probably tastes like cardboard to a living person.

"Get me some of that?" Dean says. "I've got the coffee."

Sam stares. "You feeling okay?"

Dean shakes his head. "Everything tastes like crap. I might as well enjoy something the way it's intended."

Sam fights a smile and grabs a second bowl. "Okay," he says. "Anything else I should know?"

"I want to be able to taste my goddamn burger, Sam." Dean watches coffee drip into the pot. "I'd like to put my feet up and watch some TV without having to unstick my joints at the end of it. I'd like to not be cold just for a second. I mean, don't we have heating in here?" He pulls two cups down, fills them, brings his own to his lips and closes his eyes as the warmth seeps slowly into his hands. "I'd like to have sex one last time before I start glitching out of my own meat suit and it's all over for good. But I can't see that happening." He turns around, opens his eyes. "Pale and dead probably not going to be topping anyone's list of kinks anytime soon."

"I don't know about that, Dean. You could always tell them you're a vampire," Sam says, and forces a smile. "A lot of women like that kind of thing."

"Angsty teenage girls like that kind of shit, and no. Hell, my dick probably doesn't even work anymore. I don't know why I'm even worried about it. I'd settle for being warm, seriously." He sits in front of a bowl of nuts and seeds, drinks his coffee, and it warms his throat, just for a second. He shivers as the cold returns. "Seriously."

Sam puts down his spoon and reaches across the table. The heat of his hand as he lays it against Dean's cheek is shocking. "Jesus, Dean. You're freezing."

"Cold as the grave, Sammy." Dean tips his head to the side, but won't pull away. Even just a little shared body heat helps. "Think I'd cook if I sat on the radiator? Long pig, anyone?"

Sam pulls a disgusted face and pulls his hand back. "Don't do that." He stirs his spoon around in his bowl, but doesn't eat. "You need body heat. I mean, I don't think it would hurt you to be cold, but if it's making you miserable—"

"And we're back to no one's going to want to tap this, Sammy."

"I mean, like, survival, Dean. If you're in danger of hypothermia, you strip down and share a sleeping bag. It's not about sex."

"And who do you propose I have naked cuddles with to keep warm?" Dean looks pointedly around the kitchen, but it's just the two of them, there's no one else.

Sam stares right back at him, tips his head to the side, like he's waiting.

Dean blinks. "Fuck my life," he says. "No, seriously. Just fuck it."

---

They bring more coffee back out when they hit the books again. The words are starting to swim in front of Dean's eyes, the old fashioned script of some long-dead Man of Letter's handwritten missives dry and boring. He glances at Sam's printed book, reaches over and grabs it out from under him, shoves his own file into its place. "Switch. You're better at reading that crap than I am."

"Hey." Sam is about to reach out to take it back when the phone at his elbow chimes. He reaches for it. His thumb moves over the screen a couple times, then he stares, reading.

"What's up?" Dean asks.

"Job," Sam says. "Three bodies in Amarillo. Drained of blood. Vampires?"

"Probably," Dean says.

Sam turns the phone screen off, stands, and starts sweeping paper into a pile. Then he looks down at Dean. "You coming?"

Dean stares. He looks down at the book in front of him, open to something about King Arthur, then back up at Sam. "Time's ticking, dude. We're just going to drop this for a few vamps?"

"People are dead, Dean. This is what we do. We can't just stop. And we've been at this hours. The job will clear our heads, it'll get you moving—"

Dean stretches his legs. His knees creak, and he cringes as the sound registers on Sam's face. "Shut up."

"Half of that is probably the cold, you realize?"

"Yeah, and going out into it isn't going to help, Sammy. Amarillo is like, seven hours from here. Seven hours in the car, motel with crappy heating, seven hours back—"

Sam sighs. "Fine. I'll do it myself. You just stay here by yourself and—"

Dean shoves up out of his chair. "Probably go batshit. Okay, I'm coming." He grabs his bag from the corner and opens it up, checks to make sure his favorite machete is still safe inside. "But I'm dead, dude. I look dead. You're doing the talking. I might just sit in the car with the heating turned all the way up until we find the bad guys."

---

True to his word, Dean sits in the car while Sam dons the suit and goes into the Police Station alone. It's a busy station, and Dean keeps his head down to hide his face. He probably looks suspicious, but looking dead would be worse.

Sam comes back out, shrugs off his jacket, and slides into the drivers seat. "They're covered in bites. Definitely vampires. All three vics were last seen at this bar." He holds a card out, trapped between forefinger and middle finger, waits for Dean to take it from him before he starts the car. "Guess where we're going."

"Skooterz Motorsportz," Dean reads. "Skooterzzzz. With a 'Z'. Classy."

"Yep." The steering wheel slides under Sam's palm as he turns a corner.

"Famous for our pizza and hot wingzzz," Dean says. He flips the card over and reads the back. "There's not a single 'S' on this card where there should be, Sammy. I got to wonder at the people running this place."

"All we have to worry about are the vampires." Sam's eyes are focused on the road.

"You mean the vampirezzz." Dean pulls a face as he stumbles over the extra sounds in a word that usually rolls off of his tongue.

---

There's a girl sitting at the end of the bar. She's looking at Dean.

"So if you see anyone like that," Sam says to the bartender. "Here's my card. Just give us a call."

Out of habit, Dean smiles at the girl, lifts his eyes in a greeting. She's cute, blonde in a wholesome, girl-next-door kind of way. She returns a tight smile and then drops her eyes. Dean's made a mistake. It shouldn't be so easy, when ten minutes ago he was chilled to the bone, when he's not even breathing because the beer smells good and he's got to block it out to avoid disappointment.

His eyes linger on her as Sam drifts away from the bar, heads toward the back of the building. She peeks up, her forehead lined with a frown, her lips pressed tightly together. She shifts on her stool, sinks back into it, and is still for a few moments.

Then she lifts her head, looks right at him. Stares, makes eye contact. She smiles, then tips her head back in a gesture of welcome.

Dean grins back, spirits lifting. Maybe this dead thing won't be so bad after all. He slips through the gathering crowd at the bar, and moves toward her. "Hey," he says, leaning forward so she can hear him over the sounds of squealing tires coming from the big screen TV.

She pulls back a little. Looks up into his face, eyes moving quickly over his features. "Hi," she says. It's friendly, but not overly warm. "Are you feeling okay? Because you look kinda sick."

Dean takes a step back. "Huh," he says, as the breath he was holding knocks out of him. "Damn."

She gives him that tight-lipped smile again. "I'm a nurse," she says. "And you look like you should be in the hospital."

Dean looks up, searches for Sam, finds him through the mass of shifting bodies, too far away to flee to quickly. "It's a bit late for that, lady." The front door is closer, and Dean pushes off the bar, heads for freedom, for the car, for safety.

It's warm inside with the press of bodies, but Dean pushes open the glass door and stumbles out into the cold. It hits him like the blast wave of a bomb going off, and he staggers under the sudden chill. "Sam," he says, even though Sam can't hear him from where he is right now. "Sammy, I should've stayed home."

"Yeah," someone to his right says. The voice is low and gravelly. "Yeah, you probably should've, Winchester."

Dean turns his head, nice and slow. It's a long time since he was afraid of a vampire, but he's wary, always wary. Even with Benny, even when he trusted him, he was wary. Vampires are too primal, too close to their hunger. "And miss this?" he says, bravado easing into his voice so naturally. He shakes his head. "Nah." His fingers itch to reach for a weapon, but the machete is in the car, and beheading vamps isn't something he should be doing in the well-lit entrance of a busy bar, anyway. "You and your buddies been hunting 'round here?"

The vamp, a young-looking, dark haired guy, grins, exposing rows of wet fangs. "Easy pickings, eh, boys?"

From the shadows, others appear, all of them young, all of them male, all of them grinning, showing their teeth. Dean's not afraid, even as he makes a headcount, even though there's seven vampires against one human—

Technically, Dean's not human. Not now, not anymore. He's a ghost, something a little like them. He's still capable of swinging a blade, though, still has the skills he learned growning up, honed in Purgatory. But without a weapon, he's vulnerable. He needs time. Needs to give Sam a chance to get the gear and back him up. "What are we doing here, boys?" He pulls himself up to his full height, jerks his head back at the door of the bar. "Shall we get a beer and talk about this?" He grins, holds his hands out to the sides. "It's on me."

The vampires all laugh, nod their heads, and then, as one, their lips tighten, close over the fangs, and their eyes all settle on him. The first one to appear when Dean came out the door speaks. "I think we should go back to our place for a drink." His eyes travel around the circle of his buddies, and his grin reappears. "On you."

Dean's eyes flick to where the car is parked. His gear is in the trunk, it's right there, but he can't get to it. He gives the vamp a bright smile. "Sure. We'll take my car."

"We've got our own," the vampire says, and reaches for Dean.

If it had just been the one, Dean could have twisted out of his grip easy, if it had been two vamps, still, no problem. Seven vampires at once, though, all grabbing hold of a part of him, he can't fight that. He gets out one word before a hand comes down over his mouth.

"Sam," he yells.