"Well let's see, Dean," Sam says, throwing his hands up in exasperation. "It's a day before the full moon tomorrow, so no, I'm thinking your pet werewolf can't come."
Eliot keeps sharpening his knife, not bothering to do more than scowl silently. It's not that Sam's wrong; it's that Sam's an asshole. It's a very distinctive personality trait.
"It's a salt and burn, Sam," Dean says. "Easiest case of the year, you know that. Out in the middle of a goddamned desert, the entire settlement's gone until things stop going boo at them. Doesn't get any more perfect -- if we can get him to help, awesome, if not, I've got my tranquilizer gun right here --"
Eliot is fully planning to let them duke it out for as long as they feel like -- it's not his first time at this rodeo, and honestly, one time was enough -- but he can't help a quiet snort at that.
Dean gives him a betrayed look.
"No, no." Eliot waves the knife at him. "Don't mean to interrupt. You were at the part where I'm going around the desert looking for something to snack on, and you shoot me -- that's before I get myself after the tallest game for miles, right?"
"It's after you lead us to the remains," Dean says. "We talked about this. If we can --"
"--Do the impossible, and make a fully transformed werewolf focus on something besides killing everybody in the immediate area," Sam finishes. "Did I say fully transformed? I meant fully transformed, full-grown, freakishly disturbing at hand to hand even as a human --"
"Werewolves don't do hand to hand, Sam," Dean says, throwing his hands up. Eliot wonders if he's actually aware he's stealing Sam's moves.
"I'm pretty good at tackles too, actually," he offers, picking up knife number six. "Werewolves are big on that. Except with claws."
"And teeth," Sam says. "Don't forget the teeth."
"Not the teeth you oughta worry about," Eliot says. "You'd probably be dead before you got to the teeth."
Sam looks at him. Dean turns around to look at him, too.
"Not that I don't appreciate you being sane about this," Sam says, finally, "but seriously, man, I take it back. You're just all around disturbing."
Eliot gives him a very mild smile. Dean is back to looking like a kid who isn't being allowed to play with his toys, which is, after all, pretty much entirely true.
"You could help," he says, appealing to Eliot's sense of something or another. "Do you have any idea how much firepower a werewolf packs?"
"Got a pretty good idea," Eliot nods. "Say I could bring down two, three hunters? I'm not so sure about the civilians, really. Guess it depends if they all run in the same direction."
Dean looks like he's about two seconds from stomping his feet. "There are no civilians there!"
"And we're only going to take cases in the middle of the desert from now on, are we?" Sam says, snidely. "Even for three days every month, I don't really see that panning out."
"You've got to start somewhere," Dean says.
"That's true," Eliot says. He puts down the last knife. "All right, I'll do it."
They both turn to stare at him again.
"Eliot," Sam says, "remember the part about being sane about this?"
"But you'll have to get somebody else to come out with us," Eliot tells Dean, ignoring this completely. "He can't come."
Dean blinks. Sam blinks too, then raises his eyebrows and folds his arms across his chest.
"Too much hair," Eliot explains, when it becomes clear they're too thrown to argue with him. He leans over to grab his crossbow. "He'll give me indigestion."
"The really creepy thing," Sam says, after a moment of Eliot fine-tuning the string and Dean scowling wordlessly at the other wall, "is that I can't actually tell if that means he was joking about doing it."
Eliot smiles at him again. Does the kid good to keep on his toes.