Read Supernatural Fresh Meat for Free Online Page A

two other tables were filled. Two leather-clad, tattooed men sat with a woman wearing a black leather vest and fringed chaps over her blue jeans. Their tanned and reddened faces were wrinkled and leathery from years of riding motorcycles in the hot sun. Their long hair was braided tight against their heads, and one of the men wore a black bandana with skulls. Dean wondered if they were out for a weekend motorcycle ride or if they were hunters.
    The other table held two men who talked in hushed tones. A blond man in green fatigues and a black T-shirt leaned closer to his wiry companion, whispering something. The wiry man’s face formed an expression of disgust. He cringed, showing brilliant white teeth against the dark cocoa of his skin, and held up a placating hand to get the other man to stop talking. The blond slapped his own leg hard, and busted out with an outlandish laugh that filled the whole bar. The poker players looked up, annoyed, then went back to their game.
    “That can’t be true!” the dark man protested.
    “Swear to God, Jason.” Fatigues held up his hand as if he were a Boy Scout. “Swear to God!”
    Jason leaned forward. “I swear you make up the craziest b.s., Gerald. I’ve been out to their trailer. There’s no way they’re keeping something like that there.”
    Gerald nodded. “And every day they bring it fresh milk.”
    “Now I know you’re bullshitting me.”
    Gerald laughed again, but Jason nodded in Dean’s direction. He had realized Dean was eavesdropping, and in a not so subtle way. Dean grinned, nodded, and held up his glass at them.
    Gerald scowled. “Who are you, Mr. Rogers, my friendly neighbor?”
    Dean’s smile vanished and he put the glass down. “Just being friendly. You have a loud laugh. Hard not to notice.”
    This earned him an indignant stare from Gerald.
    Dean spun back toward the bar.
    Bobby eyed him. “Making friends already?”
    “Apparently.”
    “Just try not to get in a fight before we figure out which of these people are hunters,” Sam urged him.
    Elbows planted on the bar, Bobby took a shot of whisky and glanced over his shoulder. “You boys recognize anyone?”
    Sam looked around casually, too. “Nope.”
    Gerald had returned to talking in a low voice, with Jason looking sicker by the minute. “You are disgusting,” Dean heard the wiry man say. “Now I know you’re full of crap. Ash would no more have done something stupid like that than cut off his hair. Besides, Ellen would have killed him for it.”
    Dean and Sam perked up, exchanging glances. Their friend Ellen had owned Harvelle’s Roadhouse in Nebraska, a bar frequented by hunters. Ash had been a brilliant former MIT student who could hack into any computer system and use math and probability to figure out any kind of problem. But the most awe-inspiring thing about Ash had been his astounding mullet, which hung well past his shoulders. Jason was right: whatever Ash had supposedly done, Ellen would have killed him for it if it were dangerous. She’d lost her husband to hunting and wasn’t prepared to lose anyone else. Unfortunately, she had lost more—she and her daughter Jo had perished not long ago in order to save Dean and Sam’s lives.
    A skinny, pale guy appeared from a back room. He pulled a bar rag out of the back pocket of his ripped denim overalls and started wiping down tables. As he got close to Gerald’s table, Jason got up. “Drink on your own.” He walked away, revealing a painful-looking limp.
    Gerald called after him, “You ain’t any fun, Jason.”
    Jason approached the bar and took a seat. After a minute, Bobby said in a quiet tone, “Heard you mention Ellen. You mean the bar owner?”
    Jason raised his eyebrows. “You know Harvelle’s Roadhouse?”
    “Indeed I do,” Bobby told him.
    Jason looked sad, lowering his eyes. “Then you know Jo and Ellen are…” His voice trailed off. The bartender placed a beer in front of him.
    After a moment of silence, Sam said,