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Son of a Blutbad

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“Son of a bitch,” Dean growled under his breath as the snarls and footsteps quickly grew farther away. His hands were in the air, gun in one hand, and Sam was the same beside him.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

Sam and Dean begrudgingly did as the cop said.

“Put your weapons down.”

Sam clenched and unclenched his jaw as he laid his gun and Dean his silver knife on the grass at a snail’s pace.

The man who’d unknowingly stopped them from taking down the Blutbad had striking blue eyes and carried that cop air around him. He looked at them hard for a moment, and then recognition flashed across his face. “You’re the Winchesters.”

“If you let us go, we won’t hurt you,” Dean remarked cockily.

“Why were you chasing after that guy?” the cop questioned.

Sam shook his head. “If only you knew,” Dean said.

The leather jacketed man’s brow furrowed. “Why don’t you tell me.”

“Are you willing to let us get off easy on an insanity plea?” Sam asked sarcastically.

The cop cocked his head. “You…are you a Grimm?”

“I thought we’d just established we were the Winchesters,” Dean said smartly.

“You are, aren’t you?”

“Grimm wrote fairy-tales,” Sam said. “What are you talking about?”

Mr. Crazy lowered his gun ever so slightly.

“We’re hunters,” Dean said, surprising Sam. “And that was a Blutbad. And you just blew our shot.”

The cop’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. ”If you’re not a Grimm, how do you know?”

“The Grimm brothers died,” Sam stated bluntly, exchanging a maybe-he’s-crazy look with Dean. “They wrote stories about talking wolves and poisoned apples.”

“The Grimm line hunts monsters,” the cop explained. “And the guy you were after just so happens to be one of the good ones.”

“What’s your name?” Dean asked, gesturing to him with his chin and letting his hands down about an inch.

“Nick Burkhardt.”

“Well, Nicky,” Dean addressed the cop, "how about you put your gun away and we have a chat about why some fairy-tale hunter would let a Blutbad escape?”