Archive of Our Own

Raylan strolls up to the bar, ordering a Tennessee rye and watching the man beside him watch the man in the corner, the both of them using the dirty brass runner along one of the shelves behind the bar like a mirror. He almost thinks he could recognize the man beside him, almost, like he’s seen the photos on his desk before, a long while ago. Sure as hell reminds him of a man he’s met only a small handful of times, a man long suspected to be dead. This one’s taller, maybe harder.

Same look in his eyes though. Dead man walking. Y’can almost smell the grave dirt.

Which makes it interesting that they’re after the same fugitive. Who isn’t, of course, a nice man, not by a long shot. Murder, torture, witness intimidation, assault of a police officer with a deadly weapon… And the mutilations… Raylan would like to shoot the man himself. Hell, he’s hoping the shot’s open to him, he’s pretty sure even his stodgy, picky, pencil necked boss wouldn’t bat an eye at this shooting.

Raylan figures the man beside him’s got his reasons. Figures it’s likely justified. He just ain’t sure how he feels about letting a man that hasn’t got a badge pull the trigger. Leastways when there’s one wearin’ a badge right here. Raylan can do a lot of things, can overlook a lot of things. Maybe not this.

The kid’s eyes roll sideways, watching Raylan watch him in the brass. It almost makes his eyes look gold, and that just doesn’t settle well for Raylan.

“You’re in over your head,” the kid says by way of greeting, and knocks back the shot of whiskey sitting in front of him. His voice is rough, like he’d growl if he could. And yeah, there it is, that resemblance again. It’s funny, Raylan always figured this’d happen to the brother with the pretty lips.

“How ‘bout you tell me about it.” Raylan doesn’t ask, but he stops just shy of demanding. No use pushing buttons.

The Winchester boy turns to him, lip curling a little. Raylan wonders if once upon a time it was a polite smile, if the kid’s just so cold now he’s forgotten how to pretend. “How about you just stay out of my way?”

Raylan turns now, leaning on one elbow and looking a mite bit more genial. He hopes. “Been havin’ a bad time about people not me tryin’ to kill my man over there. And I’m more than a little sure I’ve seen your wanted poster, boy. Maybe I take you, instead o’him. Unless I had a compelling enough reason.”

The kid’s face freezes for a moment, weighing his options, and Raylan doesn’t miss the fact that those include where Raylan’s hand rests beside his gun. That it likely includes whether or not Raylan will shoot him when (not if, not with a goddamn Winchester) he tries to run. He glances up at the brass runner, watching his prey for a moment before his eyes flick back to Raylan. The kid’s eyes narrow a little, weighing something else. Maybe how much he can lie. Maybe how much he can tell the truth. Raylan never could tell with John either.

“How about three hundred years, give or take half a decade, of everything you want to arrest him for and worse.” It’s Raylan’s turn to narrow his eyes, and whatever the Winchester boy sees in his expression must be enough to go on. “You guys haven’t figured out about the missing kids yet. I was wondering… He must have started hiding the bones.”

A cold feeling crawls down Raylan’s back. The DA in Oklahoma City had mentioned a possible pattern, but there’d never been enough evidence to establish a strong enough connection. The bartender gives Raylan his whiskey and he tosses his back, and the decision must be written on his face, because Winchester smiles at him. It’s disturbing how much of that smile is in his eyes.

“That’s what I thought,” he says. The kid throws a few bucks onto the bar and slides off his stool, and doesn’t glance back as he follows the bastard out of the bar. Like father like son, Raylan guesses. He turns back to the bartender and pushes the shot glass toward him.

“And they call me a biter. Christ. Better make it a double.”