Wayward ➳ Edward Cullen

7. Legends

Dean spent the rest of the afternoon and evening catching us up on what he and Dad had been doing out in the wilds of the Pacific Northwest. It involved a lot of hiking. They'd also done some exhumation of bodies. The last thing he finished telling us was how they'd had to run from a couple of Rangers who'd been investigating the latest murder and thought Dean and Dad had been asking too many questions.

"Dad sent me back in the Impala," Dean said around a mouthful of hamburger he'd picked up before starting in on the Rangers. "She's too hot to keep in the area."

"So it wasn't my fault," I groused, pointing a fry at him.

Dean took another bite before adding, "Totally was."

"Bobby?" Sam asked.

Dean nodded. "Had a message waiting for him that took up the whole time for the voice mail. Then he called back and filled up another one."

I winced. "That's just overkill."

Dean shrugged before popping a fry into his mouth. "He ain't happy," he informed me matter-of-factly.

"Bobby?"

But Dean shook his head. "Dad."

Great. "So what is it?" I asked.

Staring at his soda cup, Dean kept chewing.

"Dean?"

After a minute, he swallowed before lifting his sights to meet mine. "I'm not supposed to say."

Sam and I both stared at him, shocked. "What?" I asked as Sam questioned, "Why?"

Dean grabbed a napkin and rubbed at his mouth. "Because Bobby's got Dad convinced you two meant to go after it yourselves." He tossed the napkin down and added, "And that'd be a seriously bad idea."

"So, what?" Sam said, brows pinched together. "It's some demon?"

"Look, it isn't the thing that killed mom, alright? Beyond that, I'm not pissing Dad off by giving you two any ideas." Dean grabbed the fast-food bag and stood up. "End of discussion," he said as he threw it into the trash.

After eating Dean ended out passing out on the couch and didn't stir until late the next morning. Sam and I tiptoed around him, quietly munching on cereal and retreating to our rooms until we heard him stirring downstairs.

Dean had his own bowl of frosted flakes out when I found him awake and sitting on the couch. As he munched through a spoonful, I noticed a machete was lying on the coffee table. And not just any machete. This one looked old, with strange symbols scratched into the blade, and along the edge—

"Is that dried blood?" Nose crinkled, I reached for the handle.

Dean got to it first, yanking the machete away. "Don't touch my stuff," he warned, setting his cereal down.

"Dude, clean that blade. You're gonna ruin it."

With an exasperated look, Dean shoved the machete back into a leather holster at his belt. "Mind your own weapons." He took up the remote and started flipping channels. "You cleaned that twenty-two since firing it?"

I rolled my eyes. "Yes."

Lips pursed and brows twitching upwards, Dean's sights fell back to the tv. "Well. Good." His eyes narrowed before they darted back to me. "What happened, anyway?"

"Dad didn't say?" I asked, flopping down into the nearby recliner.

Dean shrugged. "Said you shot something in your room. That you didn't get a good look at it."