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Jayne and Kaylee'd stuck together at first, until they hit this glorified jien huo of a city, in the middle of desert that looked like a thousand anonymous border moons. Kaylee was drawn to the brightly-lit casinos like a fly to shit, lured in by all the glitz and glamour. Well, Jayne reflects, she'd always had an unnatural fascination for anything that smelled of the Core. Jayne selects a more familiar sort of den off the Strip, a dive with all the grime, pool, and booze a man could need.
Jayne takes a swig of beer, leaning on his pool cue as some other guy takes an improbable shot. He wonders with a snort how Kaylee's "finding herself" in that casino thing. He's not sure what to make of this driving need to find themselves that's brought the crew to this old rock. Jayne's pretty damn sure there ain't nothing of himself left to find.
As he carefully aims his cue for a particularly tricky shot, someone jostles Jayne from behind, making his elbow jerk up at exactly the wrong moment. The balls scatter every which way, not a one of them in a direction Jayne intended, and he whips his cue around with a curse to face the hwoon dahn who just ruined the game.
Pretty boy, Jayne notes, but none too clean; none too sober, either. Pretty Boy gives Jayne a shit-eating grin, remarks, "You'd never've made that shot, anyway."
"Hard to tell now, ain't it," Jayne snarls.
Pretty Boy snorts. "What, you gonna go cry about it?"
Jayne pauses, considers, and then belts Pretty Boy in the jaw.
It's a nice little scuffle. Pretty Boy recovers from the punch too fast, so Jayne knows he was fixin' for a fight anyway, and they lay into each other with gleeful abandon. It feels good, throwing punches and getting slammed into things, a purely physical pleasure with no undue mental activity required. Not quite as nice as certain other activities Jayne might mention, but the release is sweet all the same. Jayne's sick to death of thinking these days.
He tries to make a proper brawl of it, being sure to throw Pretty Boy into a cluster of other patrons, but the chickenshit barkeep intervenes and throws them out before they can make a real mess of the place. Jayne finds himself flat on his back on the hot pavement, ears ringing a bit from the impact, Pretty Boy sprawled in an undignified heap beside him.
Pulling himself back upright, Jayne mentally catalogues his injuries. Skull: bruised a bit, but no serious damage. No loose teeth. Nose a bit banged up, but not broken or even bleeding. Hell of a twisted shoulder, that'll give him a twinge in the morning. Possibly a cracked rib, but it doesn't hurt too bad to breathe, so it should heal up quick enough. Sore knuckles.
Yeah, it was a good fight.
"Ruttin' bastards, I didn't even get to finish my beer," he complains companionably, dusting himself off.
Pretty Boy starts to sit up, groaning. "At least we don't have to pay for it."
"True enough." Jayne looks him over carefully. Not so pretty anymore, now that Jayne's sorted out his face a bit. It's definitely an improvement. And he took his beating like a man. This one's all right, Jayne decides. "Nice to meetcha," he says affably, holding out a hand to help the guy up. Not-So-Pretty-Anymore Boy eyes him warily, then accepts the offered assistance. "Jayne Cobb. And don't you ruttin' start with the girl's name thing."
"Yeah," the guy says, mouth twisting at the corner into a wry smile. He touches his swelling cheek and winces. "Wouldn't want anyone to think you're a pussy or anything, would you. Dean Winchester."
They take a few moments to stretch and curse, working out the kinks left by the scuffle.
"So what do you do?" Dean asks, flexing his fingers experimentally.
"Track things," Jayne says. "Or people. Sometimes there's shooting involved, other times there ain't. Don't make much difference long as I get my cut, dong-ma?"
"Dong-what?"
Jayne just shrugs. People 'round here are dumb as a ton of bricks, don't even know basic Mandarin.
Dean looks him over, kinda shifty-like. "So, you'd call yourself a sorta...hunter, maybe?"
"Hunter," Jayne repeats, pleased. He'd never have called himself that before, but he likes the sound of it. Very rugged, very manly. Respectable, too, much more so than hired gun. "Yeah, you could say that."
"Figures," Dean says, visibly relaxing. They start heading down the street, drawn by the cheap fluorescent lure of another bar. "You got a whiff of this jackass, too, huh? Can't say I'm surprised, we could've held a fucking convention for this one. Not exactly what you might call inconspicuous."
Jayne wonders what the hell he's talking about. He settles for a noncommittal "Vegas, huh?"
Dean laughs. "Yeah, fucking Vegas. Sorry, though, man, looks like we nailed him first."
"Uh," Jayne says. "Yeah. Shit. Them's the breaks."
"You missed a real show, lemme tell you. That bastard had a hell of a thing for the slots. And all I got out of it was a Ziploc bag full of nickels."
"Ah," Jayne says sagely. He's not sure what a nickel is, but from the way Dean says it, it probably ain't worth much. Come to think on it, he's not too sure what anything's worth around here, but Mal handed him a fistful of green paper when they landed, and it seems to be doing the trick so far.
The new bar is just as disreputable as the one they were thrown out of, much to Jayne's approval. They order a couple of beers and park themselves in a dingy corner booth.
"So," Jayne says. "Uh, who was the guy, anyway? The one you, you know, hunted."
"What you'd probably expect," Dean says. His gaze sharpens. "What did you expect, Mr. Cobb?"
Shit. "Well, you know," he tries, flailing about for some sorta smart-sounding response. "Casinos like this place has, with the...slots...and all... Hell, I've pulled a con or two at a casino myself. You know the sort."
Dean's eyes continue narrowing. "I don't know, do I? You tell me. Hunter."
Shit. "Hey, uh, I think maybe there's been some kinda misunderstanding..."
"Fuck," Dean bites out. In a flash, he's a lot closer to Jayne than Jayne's strictly comfortable with, and there's a glimpse of something in his palm.
Then Jayne feels something very, very sharp pressing against his right side.
"Not one fucking word, man," Dean growls. "You think I'm a goddamn idiot?"
Okay. Jayne holds himself very still. He's not sure what exactly Dean's got shoved up against his kidney, knife or stiletto or what-the-fuck-ever, but it's in his best interest not to say or do anything that leads to his becoming more intimately acquainted with it. He looks straight into Dean's eyes, assessing. The boy's angry, yeah, no rutting kidding, but Jayne gets the feeling he's more angry with himself. For blabbing too much about -- well, the hunting thing, whatever the hell that's about. Angry, and just a little bit scared, or he wouldn't have gone for his weapon so fast. And he very clearly does not have his next move planned out yet. What this kid really wants is for someone else to come in and fix this problem for him -- or to prove himself to someone by sorting it out on his own.
"Hey," Jayne says softly, gritting his teeth. "Why don't we all calm down, huh? Ain't nobody threatening you and yours, boy."
"Oh, I disagree," Dean snaps. "Trickster. Thought we dispatched your ass already."
"Don't know what in seven hells you're on about," Jayne replies. "Hunters, tricksters -- don't mean nothin' to me. Just trying to enjoy my drink."
He's got a knife strapped to his left leg. Slowly, carefully, he starts inching his hand downward.
"Yeah, right," Dean says, all bluster, but Jayne can see the hesitation in his eyes. Like maybe he's not so goddamned sure of himself. Just another dumb fucking soldier without his captain. Jayne could almost sympathize, if it weren't for the sharp pointy thing. "Tell me," Dean goes on, "what the hell do you want with us, anyway?"
"Don't want a damn thing. Just passing through."
"You bastards just can't leave well enough alone, can you?" And Dean's not talking to him, anymore, not really. "None of you. You sick fuck. What, you're just bored?"
Just bored. Yeah, that's right. Jayne thinks about drifting, the empty shell of a ship, three fresh graves on an unfamiliar moon, and doesn't reply. He hates thinking. His fists itch for a fight.
Looks like he's gonna get one.
"Dean!" someone bellows from across the bar. Dean flinches. There's an older guy bearing down on them, looks like he's in some kinda rush or something. "What the hell do you think you're doin', son?" he demands once he's reached them, much quieter this time.
Dean's eyes flash with anger -- and maybe just a hint of relief. He jerks his head at Jayne. "The fucking Trickster's back."
The old guy barely spares a glance in Jayne's direction, instead staring at point beyond them. "No fucking kidding."
That's when Jayne gets hit in the side of the head with something very small and very hard.
"Ow! What the--"
It's followed by a veritable rain of small, hard objects. Nickels, Jayne thinks hazily.
"Oh, shit," Dean says, jumping out of the booth. He bares his weapon, which Jayne can now see is a jagged hunk of very sharp wood. It isn't doing much to deflect the storm of coins. Somewhere in the bar, someone -- something -- is laughing, high and strange. "Here we go." He glances back at Jayne, chagrined. "Um...oops?"
The other man -- Dean's captain, clearly -- slaps Jayne on the shoulder. "You. Any good in a fight?"
Jayne just grins and grabs a chair, cracking off one leg. This is gonna be fun.