Those of Good Purpose – Chapter 1

Day 286

Spokane, Washington – 10:51am

Well before Dean had called her with the news of Sam's disappearing act, Hannah was already having something of a bad day. She had been woken up in the predawn twilight, with the psychic noise of the hotel sounding like a high pitched fire alarm in her mind. For reasons that perhaps only God could understand, her gifts had decided to pick today to go haywire.

For the first few hours of the morning she hadn't been unable to shield herself from the random thoughts of the other guests at Clark House, which she could only equate with being yelled at by a group of hostile drill sergeants for two solid hours. Then when she had finally gotten that under control she had blown up her kettle and her hair straightener.

So not only had she not had a cup of tea prior to Dean's call, she was also having a very bad hair day, with half of her hair neatly straightened and the other side a fly away tangle of curls; a true Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde affair that left her wondering if she should risk fetching another straightener from Charlotte's trunk or wet her hair again and allow it to dry in it's natural fluffy curls.

Disgusted with it and the prospect of destroying her third electrical appliance of the morning, she had simply dampened it all down and pulled it back into a French braid and refused to look at it any further.

Then Dean had asked her to return to Spokane, which she had done without question despite the growing sense of unease that was tying her stomach into hard knots of apprehension. Since the rail yard, Spokane had felt ominous to Hannah. There was a taint to it that she couldn't work out if it was real or imagined, but all she knew was that she hadn't exactly been in a hurry to come back. She looked down at the note in her hand, just confirming that she had the right address and then hurried up the stairs to the apartment above.

Hannah knocked on the door, and waited patiently for a response, unconsciously straightening her jacket and smoothing her trousers. She heard movement within and a second later the door was opened revealing the tall blonde that Hannah had seen in the rail yard a few nights before.

Before Hannah could even speak, the woman's face showed signs of her recognition, her eyes widening and jaw slackening and falling towards her chest. Hannah was hit full force with a wave of fear so acute it almost doubled her over.

The woman had tried to slam the door, but Hannah had fallen forward under the force of the extreme emotion that had just assaulted her senses and the door hit her shoulder and rebounded inwards against the terrified woman, stealing her balance and sending her sprawling backwards. It took Hannah a moment to realise that the screaming that she heard was actual noise coming from Wendy's mouth and not just something in her head.

She straightened herself gingerly, glancing down the hall on either side to see if Wendy's cries had garnered her any unwanted attention and not seeing any curious heads come out of doors, Hannah slipped inside the apartment, quickly closing the door behind herself to try and contain the commotion.

"Calm down" Hannah instructed in a voice that was made harsh by her own pain. She didn't know if she wanted to clutch at her belly that rolled uncontrollably under the weight of Wendy's fear or cover her ears, that were ringing from Wendy's blood curdling cries.

"Please calm down." Hannah pleaded "I am not here to hurt you."

Her shields must have abandoned here yet again if Wendy's reaction was affecting her so intensely, so in a manoeuvre of self defence, Hannah pushed her back against the door and slid to the floor, pulling her knees up under her chin in a vein attempt to protect her stomach from the onslaught of pain that was making it heave.

Wendy scrabbled backwards, her arms flailing wildly as if Hannah had entered her house with a bloodied chainsaw. She had fallen awkwardly on her injured hand, but ignoring the pain, she found her feet and ran to her bedroom, emerging moments later with the gun Sam had left her pointed directly at Hannah.

Hannah looked up from the floor and seeing the gun in Wendy's hand she sighed a little. She was getting incredibly sick of people sticking guns in her face. On the up side, at least now Wendy had stopped screaming. Hannah studied the tall blonde, she trembled and the gun shook ominously but she stood tall in spite of her fear which Hannah had to admire about her.

"Get the hell out of my house" hissed Wendy between clenched teeth.

"Please Wendy" said Hannah, eyeing the gun nervously. Normally the gun wouldn't have caused her too much concern, but given how fickle her gifts had been today, she wasn't convinced that she could stop a bullet if she had to. "I am just here to speak with you; I honestly mean you no harm."

"I don't believe you" Wendy retorted heatedly

"I know you don't" said Hannah, wishing for all the world that she could stand and look the woman in the eye. She felt overly vulnerable being on the floor, but there was not much she could do about it, and if she had to be honest her less threatening pose was probably the only thing saving her life. "But whatever you have been told about me...I promise you it isn't all true."

Hannah took a moment as Wendy studied her to project a sense of calm into the room and noticed that Wendy's breathing deepened and the gun shook less.

"I just want to talk to you Wendy, you can keep the gun on me the whole time and then I'll leave you in peace, I give you my word."

"How do I know that I can trust you?" said Wendy shifting her weight between her feet nervously.

"Trust has to be earned" replied Hannah, still pushing out calming thoughts into the room "I guess I will have to earn yours. Let's just start with the other night. If I had wanted to hurt you I could have. I think you know that right? But I didn't, I tried to help you fight off all those dogs, I could feel your fear, just as I can feel it now."

Wendy stood unmoved by Hannah's words; she remained silent, starring at Hannah through eyes that were the strange combination of anger and fear.

"Alright" Hannah relented, her legs starting to ache "How about this, that gun you are holding won't hurt me if you fire now."

"You can stop the bullets?" questioned Wendy with a hint of awe in her voice.

"No" replied Hannah "You have the safety on."

Wendy's face shifted from anger to despair in a heartbeat as she glanced down at the gun and realised that Hannah was right. Rapidly she flicked the tiny switch disengaging the safety and tried to regain her hard edged composure, but it was too late her eyes filled with tears of frustration and her face could not hide the self deprecation that she felt for her stupidity.

Hannah felt the other woman's despair wash over her in a cold wave that made the hairs on her neck stand at attention and her exposed flesh break out in goose bumps. She immediately regretted her words, but she could hardly take them back now.

"Don't worry" Hannah said soothingly "The tough girl act doesn't sit well with me either. I still leave the safety on and I've been carrying my gun for nearly 6 months now."

"Are you carrying it now?" questioned Wendy so softly that Hannah felt it, more than heard it.

"No." she replied with a gentle smile impressed by Wendy's question. The girl was frightened but no stupid. "Like I said, I'm not here to hurt you, I'm here to talk"

"Do you mind if I stand?" Hannah asked, and when Wendy said nothing, Hannah took that as consent and pushed herself to her feet, groaning slightly as her body complained to her about its hideous mistreatment. She rubbed unconsciously at her hand wondering why it ached so intensely, until she realised that she was actually picking up on Wendy's pain.

"Do you need to get some ice for your hand?" she questioned pointing at Wendy's bandaged hand. "I can sense how much that is hurting you. I promise I won't move from this spot while you tend to it."

"Please" said Wendy almost begging "Just say what you have to say and get out of here."

"Alright" Hannah didn't want to cause the poor woman any more grief, after all, she was about to ask her for help.

"Dean called me this morning, he asked me to come here and see you." Hannah began and instantly she felt Wendy stiffen and the gun in the tall woman's hands was raised and retrained on Hannah's chest.

"I was there the other night; I know what Dean said to you. He said he would shoot you if he ever saw you again." hissed Wendy and Hannah could sense that she was loosing this woman. The emotional barriers she was erecting were almost physical walls to Hannah's senses and she held up her hands in supplication.

"That was before." The words hurried past her lips in explanation.

Wendy's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Before what?"

"Before Sam skipped out on him in Huntington."

Wendy cocked her heard, almost like a dog that was confused by a sudden noise. She craned her neck forward like she had misheard Hannah.

"What?" she said slowly, as if somehow making the words slow down would bring clarity to everything.

"Sam left Dean in their hotel room in Huntington at some time this morning. Dean isn't sure when, but he took the truck and all their weapons."

Wendy was silent for a moment as if she was considering everything that Hannah had said.

"Sam wouldn't do that." Wendy said finally, she was trying to bring confidence into her voice, but Hannah could feel the underlying confusion in her word.

"I agree." said Hannah flatly "It is very unlike him, that is why Dean is so worried. You haven't heard from Sam, have you?"

Hannah had intended to be a little more subtle, but somehow that question had found its way out of her mouth.

"No, not since they left." Wendy said almost automatically, but she tensed when she realised that she may had let a vital piece of information slip. What she didn't realise is that Hannah didn't even need her to answer; she could feel the truth of it as clearly as if someone had painted it on the wall behind Wendy's head.

"Why wouldn't Dean just call me himself? Why would he send you?" questioned Wendy, and again Hannah was reminded that this tall beauty was more than a pretty face.

"Honestly?" Hannah said with a slight shrug "He wasn't sure if you would be honest with him if Sam had made you promise not to tell. Dean knows that I can sense the truth and would know if you were trying to hide something."

Hannah didn't want to come straight out and accuse Wendy of lying; after all, she was still at gun point, but she thought how she put it had a certain element of tact and diplomacy to it. That fact that Wendy didn't pull the trigger was also probably a good sign.

"Well you must know I am not lying then?" stated Wendy a note of caution in her voice.

"Yes I do." confirmed Hannah with a small smile

"Is that all?" questioned the tall blonde, the gun beginning to weigh her hand down.

"No" said Hannah, easing her hand bag from her shoulder and pulling out one of her cards and scribbling a cell number on the clear white back.

"This is Dean's mobile number. If you hear from Sam, would you mind calling him and letting him know. He just wants to know that his brother is alright. If you feel it is necessary, you can call Dean and confirm everything that I have told you."

Hannah held the card out to the other woman, but Wendy hesitated to take it, almost unwilling to put her injured hand forward and certainly unwilling to put down the gun and use her right hand.

"I'll just put it here" said Hannah putting it on the small table by the door then holding her hands up again, palms open to show that she hadn't palmed anything or touched anything that she shouldn't.

Wendy nodded her head, an almost thankful gesture.

"I better get going, you need to attend to that hand and I've been making you uncomfortable all this time." said Hannah and moving slowly and easily she moved across the door, until she felt the door handle in the small of her back. Reaching behind herself, she opened it, trying not to take her eyes from Wendy's face.

"Sam said that you saved his life once." asked Wendy, and the question was so unexpected that it left Hannah in stunned silence, merely blinking at the woman across from her.

"Yes, that's true." Hannah finally answered, puzzled by what had prompted Wendy to even ask.

"He also said that he sensed a darkness in you…like evil." she said, and finally Hannah understood the questions and the deep seated feeling of confusion that she felt coming from the girl.

"Yes, that's probably true too." answered Hannah honestly, there was no point lying. She understood coming into this that she would have to give a some of herself to earn the trust that she and Dean both needed from Wendy.

"Why should I trust you then, why shouldn't I just shoot you right now?"

Hannah held the woman's dark brown eyes with her own for a long moment before she spoke.

"Because, just like me, you are choosing good over giving in to the darkness. Everyone has the capacity for great good or great evil; it all just boils down to choice."

With that Hannah slipped out of the door, leaving Wendy feeling battered by her conflicting emotions. She hadn't expected such candid answers from Hannah and it had left her feeling that the picture that Sam had painted of the woman might not be complete. Wendy knew that Hannah was dangerous, she could all but feel it in the crackle of the air around the woman, but was she the evil that Sam accused? Now Wendy was no longer sure.

Nampa, Idaho – 11:37am

'You know you're having a bad day when…' thought Dean as he listed off the litany of things that had happened to him in the past 24 hours. Not only had Sam disappeared without a trace, taking their only mode of transportation and all their weapons, the only car that Dean came across in Huntington that he could steal was a baby shit brown, 84 Oldsmobile Cutlass that smelled of old cigarettes and cat pee.

For the first forty miles, the radio had been stuck on a country station that played Jimmy Buffet and Charlie Daniels back to back, until with a strategic tug of the wires under the dash, Dean had silenced it forever. He hated having to damage the vehicle, but there was only so much country music that one man could take. He was certain that in some states it was even considered cruel and unusual punishment.

Dean was headed for Utah, which was the last place that he and Sam had spoken of before Sam had taken off, but Dean couldn't help the nagging worry of where he would start looking once he crossed the border. Sam had the same training that he did, and their father had taught them to fly under the radar well. Dean also wasn't sure just what sort of a head start Sam had gotten on him. When one travelled like they usually did, 1 hour could equal 100 miles easily.

He was half convinced that he should try and track the demon Rimmon and hope that Sam was still chasing that son of a bitch, but Sam's abrupt parting note left him with doubt that following that path would lead him to his brother and finding Sam had become Dean's number on priority.

On the tatty passenger seat, his phone danced around the holes in the mock leather as it sung the opening riff to 'Smoke on the Water'. Picking it up, he looked briefly at the caller ID and then he snapped the phone open.

"Hey Doc, What did you get from Wendy?"

"I assume you mean besides the gun pointed at my chest…not a great deal I'm afraid. Your brother hasn't exactly left her with a sterling impression of me, but she wasn't lying when she told me he hadn't contacted her."

"Not yet" Dean said, keeping the swearing he wanted so much to do as a mental gesture rather than a physical one "But if I know Sam, he will."

"You may as well let fly with your curse words Dean, I can hear you thinking them anyway."

"Sorry Doc" said Dean, despite the fact that he didn't feel overly repentant.

"Don't apologise" she replied with a laugh in her voice "It was nothing I didn't say myself. I left Wendy your number and asked her to call if Sam contacts her."

"Do you think she will?" questioned Dean, feeling suddenly weary.

"To be honest" replied Hannah a slight hesitation in her voice "I have no idea. When I left her she was very confused. If Sam does contact her I think it will probably depend on the information that he gives her. But she's a smart girl Dean, I think if she senses anything a little off, then she'll call."

Sam sighed deeply, regretting it instantly as he tasted the stale bitter tang of nicotine that was throughout the car.

"So we are back to square one." he said, trying to keep the sour face he was pulling from affecting his tone "How soon can you be in Utah?"

"I'm already on the road, if I push hard, some time late tonight maybe early morning tomorrow."

"Alright" said Dean, pulling up his mental map of the Interstate highway and the towns along it. "I'm heading for Tremonton, I'll wait for you there."

"I'll find you." promised the Doc, and with that she was gone.

Dean looked at the phone momentarily, then closed it and put it back on the seat. No sooner had it left his hand that it started to ring again. With his heart in his throat he looked at the caller ID almost willing it to be Sam.

He couldn't help the disappointment that flooded him when he saw Bobby's name flash on the screen.

'God damn it' he muttered as he opened up the phone almost dreading this conversation.

"Bobby" he said without preamble "What's up?"

"Can you talk?" said the older man conspiratorially

"Yep" replied Dean, formulating the best way to tell Bobby about Sam's sudden departure.

"Dean, I have Ellen with me. We have a plan for Sam, but you need to get him to Santa Rosa, Florida in the next day or so. I have a friend there that I think can help"

Dean winced as Bobby spoke realising that given there last conversation, Bobby wasn't going to take his most recent news terribly well.

"Love to oblige Bobby" said Dean "But no can do."

"What?" replied the older man incredulously "Why?"

"Sam isn't with me." Dean stated, feeling that the fast direct method was probably the best approach. Pussy footing around an issue wasn't his style "He took off in the middle of the night some time, took your truck and vamoosed."

"Do you think he read you?" asked Bobby, ever the pragmatist.

"No" replied Dean "He left a note. He wouldn't do that if he knew that I had contacted you, he would have just taken of."

"What did the note say?" questioned Bobby

Dean sighed, almost embarrassed to say it out loud "It said he has found a way to save me from my deal."

"Do you think he has?" Bobby's tone was shifting rapidly from pragmatic to concern.

"If he has" replied Dean carefully "Why did he decide to tackle it alone, why not take me along?"

"I wouldn't put it past him, you boys have done some pretty crazy stuff since I've known you."

"No" stated Dean emphatically "It doesn't feel right; we made a pact that we would do this together. Sam wouldn't break that lightly."

"He would if he thought it would put you in danger." retorted Bobby. "Dean, do you still have the colt?"

Dean swallowed hard, his mouth suddenly dry "No" he said quietly "It was in the lock box in the truck."

Dean heard Bobby swear on the other side of the phone and had to confess that he had mirrored that reaction himself. "Damn it, that's the key to the hell gate! Whoever has that has the ability to open the gates of hell, do you understand what that means."

"I understand Bobby" hissed Dean, his own anger rising "I was there that night too."

"Dean, I'm going to have to tell the others" said Bobby his voice filled with regret "They need to know about this."

"Don't do that Bobby." Dean said firmly, realising that if the word got out to the hunter community that Sam had gone missing with the colt, he would become just as hunted as the demons that they were trying to destroy.

"Well you haven't given me much of a choice here kiddo."

"Just give me a week" said Dean firmly, his tone broking no argument "He's my brother and I will find him."

"A week?" said Bobby more as a statement than a question "Alright, I'll give you that."

"Give me your word" hissed Dean, knowing that within Bobby there was a battle raging between loyalty and pragmatism.

"You have my word on it." said Bobby "You have a week."

Dean didn't bother saying goodbye, he just snapped the phone shut. Those sorts of pleasantries one reserved for their friends and Dean was no longer sure if he could count Bobby among that group anymore. He wanted too, but the practical reality was that Bobby would do exactly what he thought needed doing, even if it meant taking out a friend.

He tossed the phone back on the passenger seat, running his hand agitatedly through his hair. He hated travelling in silence, hell it was almost worse than travelling with perpetual country music….almost.

If he were to be completely honest, the truth was, Dean hated travelling by himself. Dean felt his strongest and most confident when he was part of a team. He was a natural born leader, but that means less than nothing when you've got no one to follow you.

Hanging his arm out of the cars open window, Dean drummed out and impatient rhythm on the roof, trying to break up the silence and the monotony of freeway driving.

His stomach growled angrily at him, reminding him that he hadn't had any breakfast yet and as he glanced down at the clock on the dash, he realised that he had less than a quarter of a tank of gas left. In these land liners that usually translated into a couple of hundred miles, but Dean couldn't be sure, so he decided to err on the side of caution.

As he hit the Regina county limits he started to look for signs to a gas station. Even though he had driven through Boise and not stopped, he was pretty certain that there would be a gas station out here, taking advantage of all those interstate travellers who were reminded that they should really have gotten gas back in the large town because there was nothing but farmland and forest on either side of them now.

Sure enough, as he got close to Mountain Home, a small clearing in the bushland next to the road heralded a small gas station and Dean headed for the driveway. He had been to hundreds of these tiny gas stations and the two pump operation didn't fool him at all. Stations like this were often very lucrative. Folks tended to get a little jumpy when they went for a stretch without seeing any signs of civilisation. The irony was that a mile or two down the road in Mountain Home, a traveller probably had their pick of gas stations.

Dean pulled up at the bowsers and nodded to the old man in the shop as he got out of the car. The old proprietor must have taken that as a sign that Dean would serve himself as he made no motion to move away from his counter, even though 'driveway service' was promised on the badly faded sign out the front.

Dean watched the numbers on the old analogue pump click over as her stood there filling the car with gas. There was something almost hypnotic about those old pumps that made you somehow forget that you were pumping masses of expensive fuel into your gas guzzler. It was a nuance that digital pumps just couldn't compete with.

Dean dropped the nozzle back into the pump and fixed the gas cap back in place and then trotted inside the shop to pay. The shop itself was like a bad cliché, cluttered with stock of every kind ranging from stink bait to twenty year old potato chips.

He grabbed a relatively safe looking packet of Doritos from the shelf, deliberately avoiding anything that had been there long enough to gather dust, then he moved through the narrow isle of strange and unusual grocery's to get to the small fridge at the back of the cramped store.

As he reached for a coke, Dean heard the squealing of tyres and the shrill whine of brakes desperately needing a new set of pads. He looked up into the mirror that had been strategically placed so that the owner could see all the corners of the store, and saw the beat up pickup pull in next to his crappy Cutlass.

A young man, probably only a teenager dressed in a baggy baseball jacket, dark glasses and a cap pulled down low over his eyes jumped out of the passengers door, followed by a slightly shorter man, wearing a hooded sweat shirt and a long duster over the top. The mid morning sun shone down, making the morning fairly warm, certainly in Dean's estimation too warm for baseball jackets and dusters.

'Give me a break' thought Dean as he watched the birth of the armed robbery that was just about to take place. Apparently he wasn't the only one who had noticed what a little goldmine these small gas stations could be.

Keeping one eye on the advancing pair in the anti-theft mirror, Dean started towards the front of the shop where the old proprietor was engrossed in his 'Tackle and Bait' magazine.

The kid in the baseball jacket walked towards the counter, stopping occasionally to look at something on the cluttered shelves. The boy in the duster had headed towards the back of the shop, he had probably been told to do crowd control if there was anyone else in here and just to ensure there were no surprises he was doing a sweep of the shop.

Dean watched both of them as he moved casually towards the counter, he was timing his approach so that he and 'Mr Baseball Jacket' would hit the front at the same time. Perhaps the mere fact that there was a witness to this little felony would put these little bastards off before anything started. Dean didn't honestly think it would, but it never hurt to be optimistic.

In the mirror he could see the youth in the duster coming down the isle behind him. Dean didn't like to have this kid at his back, but if it was his choice he wouldn't even be getting caught up in this felony in progress. 'Oh well' he thought sardonically, 'You work with what you have.'

Dean stepped towards the counter just as the kid in the baseball jacket pulled a .22 from his pocket.

"Sick em up" said the kid, tension making his voice jump octaves as he spoke.

Dean tried to stop himself from rolling his eyes. Here we were, well into the new millennium and would be thieves still had not come up with anything better than 'Stick em up.'

The old man dropped his magazine clearly surprised to be on the wrong side of a gun. Obviously this was a completely new experience for him, so Dean would probably have to take the lead on this one.

As the kid waving the .22 yelled demands at the old man to empty the till and open the safe, Dean glance up into the mirror to check out the kid at his back. From somewhere beneath the duster the kid had produced a shot gun the end of the barrel was only a foot or so away from Dean's back.

Assessing the threats of both, 'Duster boy' was the most imminent. If he was going to be able to get that shotgun off him without getting anyone killed he needed to bring the kid in closer.

"Hey" said Dean sharply, his hands still in the air in supplication, but his voice angry and hard. "Quit waving that gun around before you hurt someone."

The kid with the .22 kept the gun pointed at the old man, but his attention was drawn directly to Dean. The kid at his back was now also paying very close attention to him. He had taken two steps forward and Dean could now almost feel the barrel of the gun in his spine.

"Keep your trap shut" hissed the hero in the duster as he pushed the gun viciously into Dean's back.

Dean inhaled holding his breath for a moment as he prepared himself for action, then he launch into motion like a striking snake. These two 'amateurs' had his anger up now and he was going to make them pay sorely for making his already bad day worse.

He pivoted quickly, using one hand to push the barrel of the shot gun away from where it could do any harm to him of the old man. Shock registered for a moment on 'Duster' boy's face, but Dean didn't let it sit there for long, as he shoved the barrel of the gun up hard and fast so that it hit the kid squarely in the nose.

The distinctive sound of cartilage shattering could be heard as the kid, let go of the shot gun and reach up to his mangled face, which was now a fountain of gushing fire engine red blood.

As Dean fought for the shotgun he knew that his back would be exposed to 'Mr .22', so to protect himself, he dropped his shoulder low and collected 'Duster' boy squarely in the stomach, launching him over his shoulder in the hopes that the chance of hitting his friend may keep 'Mr .22' from pulling on the trigger.

The battered young thug hit the ground with an explosive exhalation of breath, and Dean had used the confusion of his flailing tumble to cock the shotgun and turn it on 'Mr .22'. Dean watched with a hint of amusement as 'Mr .22's' eyes went from his downed partner in crime, to looking straight down both barrels of one heavy duty shotgun, wielded by a very pissed off hunter. Dean almost snarled just to see if the kid would flinch, but he didn't. 'Mr .22' was still armed and could still do damage to either Dean of the old man.

To his credit, 'Mr .22' composed himself quickly, turning the hand gun back on Dean. It barely shook at all in his hands, but Dean just saw that as a personal challenge. Dean took and easy step forward placing the sole of his boot across 'Duster' boy's throat. The poor boy gurgled miserably and his hands came up to Dean's boot to try and relieve some of the pressure.

"What are you packing there Princess, a .22 Baretta?" hissed Dean his eyes narrowing as he sited the thug down the barrel of the shotgun.

"Browning actually." said the kid with all the bravado that he could muster.

'Ahhhh, a smartarss' thought Dean with delight. He was really going to enjoy this.

"Let's get real" he said, stealing one of his favourite lines from Dr Phil "You shoot me with that pea shooter, you could hit me, hell you might even kill me, but the likelihood is that you'll just piss me off, and I'm already having A VERY BAD DAY."

Dean punctuated his last words by apply pressure on 'Duster' boy's throat making him whimper like a dog with each word. The sudden and pungent smell of urine, made him realise that the boy on the floor had just pissed himself in fear. That was ok, that played right into Dean's strategy. He had to appear to be the biggest, badest 'son of a bitch' in the shop if his gambit was going to work.

"Now, let's look at the counter argument to that. I shoot you with this hand canon and you end up with a hole the size of a basket ball in your chest. Who do you think has the better odd in this little Mexican stand off?"

So, Dean was stretching the truth a little about the sort of damage that this shot gun would do. He thought that the description was appropriately graphic even if the technicalities were a little off.

"What do you think 'Duster' boy? Who's your money on?" growled Dean steadily increasing the pressure on the boy's throat.

"Dwop the gunn Pete" gurgled 'Duster' boy, his words barely escaping his throat as he spoke.

"That's good advice there Pete" Dean said coldly, a vicious smile curling up his lips cruelly "Why don't you put the gun on the counter and we can all get on with having our respective bad days."

Pete's eyes shifted nervously between Dean and his friend on the floor. Dean knew he had won the mind battle with this kid by the way he shifted his wait agitatedly for foot to foot. Dean was just waiting now for Pete to figure it out.

An angry horn sounded from the pickup outside, and Pete glanced nervously over his shoulder, the gun wobbled slightly in his hand, like he had decided and the reconsidered within a millisecond, then he slammed it down on the counter, turned tail and ran for his life.

Dean clucked his tongue in mock disappointment "Where is the honour among thieves Pete" he called after the boy as he watched him disappear "what happened to never leaving a man behind?"

Dean reached down grabbing 'Duster' boy by his sweat shirt and dragging him to his feet. With one strong push, he propelled him towards the door, just as the pickup disappeared down the highway.

"Don't come back" yelled Dean, feeling the heady sensation of satisfaction fill his body "Or next time I'll break more than your nose."

Years of weapons training made Dean crack the shotgun and lay it safely over his arm. As he turned to the old man behind the counter he realised that the old man had neither moved nor spoken during the whole confrontation. He was statue still, his jaw still hanging limp on his face.

"You alright?" Dean questioned growing slightly concerned with the pallor of the old man's skin.

The man didn't speak, but he nodded his mouth closing as he did so.

"Good" replied Dean surreptitiously putting the .22 in his waistband and fishing out his wallet. "How much for the gas?"

"Take it" said the old man his eyes wide and his face still showing his shock "It's on the house."

Dean smiled broadly at the old man as he slipped his wallet back into his pocket "Thanks old timer, that's really kind of you…hope you have a good day."

Dean picked up the Coke and the Doritos where they had fallen on the floor and headed for the door, glancing back at the old man who still stood like a marble statue at the counter.

"Hey" he heard just as he was about to step out. "Do you think I should call the cops?"

Dean stuck his head back in the shop, he wasn't really keen about involving the local law enforcement, particularly as he was in a stolen car, but the old man wasn't looking too good and he was worried that the old timer might have a stroke or a heart attack as soon as he left.

"If it will make you feel better" Dean replied going with an answer as non committal as he could "But they won't ever be back, trust me."

With that he walked out to the Cutlass, lay his newly purloined shotgun on the passenger's seat, then hurried around to slip in behind the wheel. A new shotgun, a .22 and a free tank of gas, maybe his day was starting to look up.