Riding the Fence - Part 9
Part Nine:
(Monday)
Dean took a glass down from the cupboard and turned the faucet to cold, letting it run until it was like ice and then filling his glass to the brim. He lifted it to his mouth, relishing the cool cascade that flowed across his tongue and down his throat, instantaneously cooling his core.
Dean had been out in the shop all morning working on a particularly difficult Dodge. Bobby had asked that he run a diagnostic to determine what was and wasn’t mechanically salvageable on the car as he had a possible buyer lined up. Problem was that Bobby didn’t own a diagnostic machine, so Dean had resorted to going through the vehicle piece by piece, verifying that most everything was in working order. No small task made all the more difficult by the sudden rise in summer temperature, but at least Dean could say that he was keeping himself occupied.
If he kept moving, then he wouldn’t have time to think about his family and the fact that 24 hours later, he still hadn’t received a call back from either of them.
Bobby had caught him the night before sitting in the Chevelle attempting to hotwire the car with plans of heading west to Colorado in search of the missing members of his family. Bobby had approached the car and leaned his arms against the open window, dangling the distributor cap from his fingers in front of Dean’s face.
“I thought we talked about this,” Bobby had stated plainly, not able to come down hard on the kid.
“We did,” Dean’d answered solemnly. “Didn’t figure on getting caught.”
“I mighta been born at night, son, but I wasn’t born last night.” Bobby had pulled the door open with one hand and pointed toward the house with the other. “March,” he’d ordered.
Dean had done so with little argument and they’d had another heart-to-heart, sit down conversation.
“For someone who claims that he doesn’t wanna grow lady parts, you sure seem to like to talk,” Dean complained.
“Yeah, well…”Bobby searched for a witty comeback and failed miserably, “just-just go to bed and quit acting like a baby.”
“Tuck me in?” Dean asked with a smirk, leaving the room quickly before Bobby could swat at him.
“And stay in bed, dammit!” Bobby barked after him.
“Yes, Mom!” Dean hollered back, over the stair rail.
Although the conversation had ended humorously, the bulk of it had been a serious discussion about what happens to idjits who take off in the middle of the night. After which they’d agreed that keeping Dean very busy was probably the best, most viable option for keeping his mind on anything other than his father and brother. So busy he had been.
From the moment he’d woken up, he’d been on the move. A sit down plate of eggs and bacon became and an egg sandwich wrapped in a paper towel and a thermos of coffee; black, just how he liked it. He hadn’t even been allowed in the kitchen. Bobby had met him at the bottom of the stairs with a list and shoved breakfast-to-go into his hands. He’d then taken him by the shoulders, directed him towards the door and given him a hearty shove and a warning: “Under no circumstances are you to beat on any of my vehicles today.”
The list was long and the jobs arduous. Where Bobby had managed to scrounge up such a list was anyone’s guess, but the amount of work on the one sheet alone was enough to keep Dean elbow-deep in grease for a week. Not that he minded. It felt good to get dirty, to once again feel useful. He’d been skating by these last few days, doing as little as possible and not really putting his all into what little he had done because he was anticipating his father’s return. That had been a mistake on Dean’s part; to expect his father back when he’d promised. John Winchester never came back when he promised. Dean would remember that next time, not that there was gonna be a next time.
Dean finished off the glass of water and refilled the glass, setting it aside. He reached into the fridge and found a plate of left over ham roast that Gert had brought over a few days before and using a fork, tore himself off a good sized chunk. Forkful of ham in one hand, glass of water in the other, Dean wandered out to the front steps and sat down in the cool shade of the porch.
He turned his back to the post and leaned against it while he ate at the large portion of ham, all the while hearing his brother’s voice griping about his food choices. ‘You know, Dean, all that meat is gonna clog your arteries and stop up your bowels. Do you know how much undigested meat sits in the average man’s intestines?’
“Shaddup,” he chided quietly, unsure whether he was actually talking to himself or the idea of his brother.
Inside the house the phone rang. Dean’s first instinct was to ignore it. Those were Bobby’s phones, several of which were ‘job’ related and Dean knew that he would put both Bobby and the hunter involved at risk if he should pick up the line and answer incorrectly. But another part of him begged for Dean to get involved, get his fingers back in the work, since his leg wasn’t. If Bobby was there, he’d be all over the call, like white on rice and Dean was sure that if it was research related, he would invite Dean to participate.
But Bobby was gone; left on an errand that he said should last him most of the afternoon. Before leaving, they had had a come to Jesus meeting and had broached a compromise. Bobby would trust the younger hunter and Dean would stay his ass put and not break that trust. They’d even shook on it, something Bobby had insisted on.
So Dean was there and Bobby was gone and the phone was still ringing. The muscle beneath Dean’s eye began to twitch as seconds seemed to stretch out into minutes.
7 rings - 8 - 9 - For the love of God! - 10 - 11 - Why in the Hell hasn’t Bobby invested in an answering machine? - 12 - 13 - “Fuck! Okay! Dammit! If I get my ass handed to me for this, you’re gonna rue the day!”
Dean climbed quickly to his feet and jogged, skipping loosely on his injured, but boot free leg to get into and across the house before whatever idiot was waiting on the other end decided to hang up.
16 - 17 - Dean scrounged for the phone, pulling up in confusion, hesitating to answer when he discovered that it wasn’t one of Bobby’s ‘work’ phones, but his actual home line instead. Who would be calling the home line? For a moment, the entire world around him stopped and his senses overloaded with the feel of his heart pounding in his chest, the compressing heat and the trickle of sweat down the back of his neck, and the mantra echoing in his head; It’s Dad. It’s Dad. - 18 - 19 - Dean came out of his head with a start. He tapped the button to answer and pressed the phone cautiously to his ear.
“H-hello?”
“Dean. Just the young man I was looking for.”
“Gert?”
“What took you so long?”
“Gert?”
“I need a favor, my sweet boy.”
“Gert?”
“Dean, honey, are you alright?”
“What? Yeah. I think so, yeah. Did you call here?”
“Yes, I did. Are you sure you’re alright? You didn’t hit your head again, did you? I told you to be careful of that. Too many hits and you’ll wind up with permanent damage.”
“No. I’m fine. I just…thought…you know what? Never mind what I thought. What’s the favor?”
“I thought maybe you might like to drive me into town.”
“Oh…” Crap, he thought. It would have to be something that required he leave the property. “Bobby’s kinda got me under house arrest.”
“What did you do?” she asked, using the full force of her motherly voice.
Dean cringed a little and then admitted in a small voice, “Tried to steal his car last night.”
“To what? Drive out and look for your family? Honey-”
“I know,” he interrupted, “I heard all about it last night. I’m not gonna try it again. It’s just…this waitin’ around crap is killin’ me.”
“You are not the waiting around type of guy,” she stated, knowingly.
“Right.”
“Well then. Do an old gal a favor and come Drive Miss Daisy into town to get her hair done.”
“What about Bobby? He’ll string me up-”
“I’ll take care of him. I’ll even flip for a cut of your own. Lord knows you need one.”
Subconsciously, Dean reached up to run his fingers through the longer than normal locks. He was beginning to resemble Sammy he needed a cut so badly.
“I don’t know, Gert.”
“Lots of pretty girls at the salon,” she tempted, “They’ll probably even break out into a fight over who gets to run their fingers through your hair.”
“I’ll be there in ten minutes.”
“There’s a good boy.”
“Hey Gert?”
“Yes.”
“Does this make me a pushover?”
“Yes, darlin’. I’ll see you in ten.”
-X-
This was heaven. Dean had never experienced anything quite like this feeling, but he was 100% positive that this was heaven. The girl’s name was Rachel or Amber or Hell, it could have been Mother Theresa for all he knew. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that she had the most perfect hands he had ever had the privilege of coming across. Think, blunt nails that scratched circular patterns into his scalp. Strong, warm hands that smoothed and massaged the most soothing scent of conditioner through his hair, down the back length of his neck, paying special attention to the soft dip behind his ears. Oh, how he loved that spot. His head rolled forward, eyes closed as he completely blissed out at the sensation. His body was so boneless at that point, that it was an effort to remain sitting up. Dean made a mental reminder to get on his knees and kiss Gert’s feet for getting him to agree to this. He would never go back to letting his dad cut his hair again. Ever.
Dean was so busy enjoying the magic fingers of Debbie, or whatever her name was, as she rinsed the conditioner from his hair, that he had paid no mind what-so-ever to the conversation going on around him. The soft rumble that vibrated between himself and his stylist as she spoke was perhaps even more soothing than perhaps the conditioner had been.
“I don’t care what you say. That would scare the holy bejeezus out of me. There’s no way I’d go back there.”
Bejeezus, he thought, smiling to himself. That’s a funny word.
“S’not like I have much choice, Amy.”
Amy! That’s right. Her name was Amy.
“I need this internship to graduate.”
Why does this girl’s voice sound so familiar?
“Besides, I don’t believe in ghosts. It was probably just some deranged serial killer.”
Whoa! What?
“What did you say?” Dean sat up, pulling out of Amy’s hands and searched for the familiar voice that he’d just heard.
There, leaning on bent elbows across the front counter and talking to his stylist, was the pretty girl from the sporting goods store; Mira, he remembered. She stared at him with a look that could be a combination of attitude and amusement. Mira tilted her head to the side, amused by the sight of him, wet hair plastered to his forehead, water dripping down his face and neck. He hadn’t even received the trim yet, but that no longer mattered, because Dean had a case!
“What did you say?” he repeated slowly and a little more forcefully.
Mira’s eyes widened at his tone, her mouth dropping open a fraction and then snapping shut, her eyes hardening.
“I was just joking about the serial killer.”
“No, the other part,” he stated simply. Dean looked to Amy and asked, “Are we done here?”
Caught off guard, all she could do was nod even though they were far from being done. Dean unsnapped the cape, balling it up & tossed it at the surprised stylist.
“Gert, I’ll be back!”
From beneath her hairdryer, Gert smiled and waved him away.
As he rounded the counter and reached a hand out for her, Mira couldn’t help but shrink back, but Dean had already caught hold of her upper arm and pulled her to him a bit rougher than he had intended. She bumped into his chest, her hands, pressed between them, burned warm prints through his shirt and into his skin and made Dean’s eyes grow visibly darker.
“We gotta talk.”
With no room for debate, Mira was led out the door and around the corner to a narrow gap between buildings.
“Let go,” she snapped, pulling out of his hold, turning to walk away from him, but Dean was faster.
He pressed one hand flat against the brick wall of the salon, blocking Mira’s path and trapping her in that tight space, where they were once again nose to nose. Dean looked down on her with an intense, barely controlled look of excitement and then thought better of it. He took a deep breath, dialing down the intensity and regaining control over the situation. He batted his long, dark lashes and smiled sweetly at her.
“Mira,” he said very slowly, coaxing her with his smile and a light touch of his fingertips down the length of her bare arm, “Tell me about the ghost.”
She shook his hand away from her arm and frowned, not quite sure how to judge the strange look he was giving her, “You’re serious.”
“As a heart attack, sweetheart.”
-X-
“Bobby?!”
Having dropped Gert and her car off at home, Dean high-tailed it back to Bobby’s house. He ran up the front steps of the house as fast as his bum leg would carry him. Movement was much easier now that he’d rid himself of the heavy walking boot, but there was still a twinge of pain with every footfall.
He burst through the front door, bellowing like a bull and tearing through the house, slamming to stop in the doorway of the kitchen where Bobby was fixing himself a sandwich.
“Nice of you to come home. You done gettin’ purdy? Think maybe we can get that list done now?”
Bobby turned and seeing the panicked kid, looked him up and down, checking for injuries and finding none.
“What’s wrong?”
“I gotta borrow your car,” Dean spewed out, then turned and made a bee-line for the stairs.
Bobby dropped the knife back into the jar of peanut butter and followed him out of the room.
“For what?” he hollered up the stairs.
Dean stopped and leaned over the banister and grinned, “Caught a case,” he grinned and then fled into his room.
“Wait! What kinda case?” The older hunter stomped up the stairs after him and found the young man in his bedroom with a large duffle bag spread out and open on top of the bed and Dean on his belly, digging around underneath.
“What are you doing?”
Dean’s hand appeared from beneath the bed, and slapped a box of preloaded salt shells down in the middle of the floor. Next he brought out a 12 gauge pump action that looked like it hadn’t seen the gun oil in years.
Bobby reached down and retrieved the weapon, turning it over in his hands, “Hey, this is mine. I thought I lost this.”
“You didn’t lose it,” Dean answered; his words mumbled by the mattress, “Sam and I stole it.”
He scooted out from beneath the bed, rose to his feet in one fluid motion and crossed the room to the chest of drawers where he dug into the top drawer.
“Aha!” he exclaimed coming away with a rolled up, dirty-white dishtowel. Dean took it to the bed and unrolled it to reveal all the makings of a cleaning kit. He snatched the gun away from Bobby and grabbed a shell from the box, loading it into the weapon. Dean went and threw open the storm window, leaning way out. He pulled the fore-end and then pushed it back into place to chamber the cartridge, raised the weapon and fired off into the distance.
Bobby growled, pulling his hands down from his ears where he‘d covered them at the last second. “Are you gonna tell me what’s going on? Or I’m I just supposed to guess?”
“You know that girl, Mira? The one that works at Clive’s? She’s got a case.” Dean reloaded the gun, leaning back out the window to fire again, heating the barrel up so best to clean it. That done, he sat down on the bed and readied his supplies, threading a patch onto a shotgun tip and attaching it to the long flexible rod in this kit. He slid the rod down into the barrel and at the muzzle gripped the other end, pulling the patch all the way through.
“And what?” Bobby asked, “You think you can just run off and save the day? By yourself? There’s better ways to go about gettin’ in the girl’s pants, Dean, than by putting yourself at risk when you‘re on the DL.”
“It’s not about the girl, Bobby.” Dean defended, setting the rod aside to look up at his friend.
“Then what is it?”
Dean tilted his head back and forth, taking a moment to actually think about it. Why was it so important for him to take this job? Was he just trying to impress Mira? “I don’t know. Maybe I just wanna get my feet wet again, ya know? I’m itchin’ to get back to it.”
“Itchin’ to get yourself hurt again s’more like it.”
“You said it yourself, man. Hunters get hurt all the time, but I’ve still got work to do.”
Bobby watched in disbelief as Dean went right back to his work and continued to clean, grabbing up the brush and running it through the barrel once to loosen up the crud inside. Taking up the rod again and with a bit of solvent added to a fresh patch, Dean threaded it through the gun, thoroughly cleaning it.
“So genius, you gotta a plan in all this or are you just flying by the seat of your pants?”
“Course I gotta plan, Bobby. I always have a plan.”
He smiled that cocky smile that made Bobby both cringe in fear and want to smack him upside the head. That smile was never a good sign, but what was he gonna do, tell him no?
“Okay,” Bobby sighed.
Dean stopped all movement and looked up a bit surprised, “Okay? That’s it?”
“Were you expecting something different?”
“I don’t know?” Dean shrugged, rubbing absentmindedly at the back of his neck. “An argument, I guess. Dad would’ve been up my ass about this.”
“Son, do I look like your father?”
The look he received from Dean was one of confusion and discomfort, with his eyebrows nearly colliding together high on his forehead and his eyes looking anywhere but at Bobby. But when Dean swallowed hard, Bobby could see the truth, plain as day; guilt.
Bobby turned and sat down on the bed, leaning forward, elbows rested on his knees and for a while they just sat in companionable silence, not looking at one another.
“I’m not trying to be a replacement for your dad, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.”
Dean did look up at that and before he could agree or disagree, Bobby continued, “I care about you a great deal. You and your brother. But I’d never try to persuade you away from you dad. And I’m not out to try and be better than him. John’s your father and sure I do things a might bit different from him, but that doesn’t make me right over him, just makes us different.”
“No, I get that. I don’t think you’re trying to take over for Dad. I don’t know what I’m thinkin’ for sure.” Dean stopped and looked back in the hands in his lap, still fumbling with the barrel brush, his fingers coated in the solvent and grime. “I don’t know,” he repeated, “maybe, it’s just…easier here.”
“Easier?”
What Dean meant to say was: ‘You’ve got this life, with people outside of hunting who actually care about you, and you’ve managed to balance it all out somehow. Sometimes, I just wish I could have that too, ya know?’
But what came out was: “You’re not as much of a hard ass as my old man.”
“Easier?” Bobby re-iterated with a look of mock-outrage.
“Oh, no. I don’t mean…easier.”
“But you said easier.”
“I just mean…that…I-”
“Ah, shut up. Ya know I’m just flippin’ ya shit.” Bobby bounced up off of the bed, smacking Dean playfully in the back of the head as he went. “So, what’s the plan, Stan?”
-X-
The sun was sinking quickly past the horizon when Dean and Mira pulled up outside of the rather harmless looking building. On the trip across the city, Mira had explained that she only worked at the sporting goods store in the summer; that her real job was attending graduate school and the internship she had at the small local museum. Dean frowned and gave Mira a suspicious look.
“Are you kidding me?”
“I told you, it’s just a story.”
“You told me it was haunted and that a guy died here last week.”
“He did! It was Bob, our night janitor.”
“How? Did he slip and fall on the waxed floors? Mira this place is brand new. There’s no way it’s got any kind of a history. You’re gonna have to give me a little something more to go on.”
“He didn’t fall. He was stabbed. With a really big…“ Mira made a stabbing motion with both her hands to demonstrate the scale of the weapon used, “something. They didn’t find a knife or anything but it had to be huge, cuz the hole it left in his back…” she paused, growing pale before Dean’s eyes.
“I found him, Dean,” she whispered, eyes wide and glancing nervously toward the building. “The doors were locked. All of them. But it was my day to open and when I unlocked the doors and walked in, Bob was lying there, just past the entrance, like he had been trying to run away from who…or whatever was out to get him.”
Dean turned behind the wheel, pulling his leg up and throwing an arm over the back of the seat to face the young woman.
“It’s like I told you,” she continued, “things have been happening all summer; weird things.”
“You said. Voices, smoke, things being misplaced.”
“Or broke,” she added. “It’s a museum. We do a pretty good job securing historical items and yet all summer long we’ve been finding things knocked over or just outright smashed. It’s like…like someone’s let a bull loose in a china shop.”
“But has anyone ever seen anything?”
“Sure,” she replied, “the guy who died. Why are you so interested in this, anyway?”
“Let’s just say, it’s kind of my major.” He flashed a grin before climbing out from behind the steering wheel. Dean circled around to the trunk and pulled out a duffle, slinging it over his shoulder.
“So, how do we do this?” Mira asked, appearing at his side.
“We?” Dean straightened up in surprise. “There’s no we here, honey. I’m going in and you’re staying put.”
The truck lid closed with a bang and Dean turned and walked away, leaving the young woman gaping in disbelief.
Dean knelt down in front of the double glass doors, pulling a pick kit from his front shirt pocket and set to work on the lock, looking up in surprise when a set of keys was lowered down into view.
“Might be easier, my way.”
“Easier, yes,” Dean took the keys from her hands and smirked, “but not as much fun.”
He unlocked the door and made to enter the building, but pulled up short, holding a hand out to block Mira from following.
“I’m going in with you,” she stated matter-of-factly.
“Like Hell you are.”
Dean turned to present an intimidating challenge, but Mira did not back down. She stepped up into his personal space, challenging him right back.
“Those are my keys that got you in.”
“Maybe, but you are only gonna slow me down.”
“Says the man with a limp. I’m going in.”
“You know,” he argued, his lip curling and his words biting, “you’re beginning to get on my nerves.”
“Back at ya.”
They stood, nose to nose, glaring at each other, until Dean couldn’t take it anymore and broke, “Fine,” Dean growled, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her - a little more forcefully than he actually intended - through the doorway. “But,” he said pulling her to a stop just inside of the doors, “if this place really is haunted, then it’s all for one and one for all, you got me? So you best be prepared to do your part.”
He lowered his duffle to the floor and then knelt down to quickly unzip it and removed the shotgun.
“Jesus,” she said under her breath. “If I’d known I was dealing with a criminal, I would have-“
“Hey, you’re the one that wanted to be a part of this. I’d have been much happier with you waiting in the car. Besides, this…” Dean pushed the gun into her hands, “doesn’t make me a criminal. Us breaking in…that makes us criminals. Us; not just me. Welcome to the club.”
“And just what the Hell am I supposed to do with this?”
“You point and shoot. I’d have thought you’d have learned at least that much working in a sporting goods store all summer.”
“I know how to shoot a gun, asshole. But I can’t shoot one off in here. There’s hundreds of thousands of dollars of history in this room alone.”
“First of all, that’s rock salt. You ain’t gonna hurt anything much, except the ghost. Second, if there is a ghost, which I’m still highly doubtful, you are gonna shoot or you’re gonna end up like Shish-ka-Bob.”
“You’re sick,” she spat in disgust.
“I’ve been called worse by girls prettier than you. Let’s go.”
Dean turned on his heel and entered the main room. He was getting a feel for the room, but his attention kept coming back to the girl standing suddenly very still beside him. Dean glanced her direction and found her very pale.
“You alright?”
“That’s where he was,” she pointed, her eyes locked on a spot on the floor in front of them. “So much blood on him,” she whispered.
“That’ll happen with a stabbing.”
“Well, I’m sorry, Dean. I’m not as used to blood and death as you are.”
“It takes a bit…wait. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I know what you are, Dean. I know you’re a hunter.”
He wasn’t able to control the look of shock that washed over his face, his voice cracking when he tried to speak.
“W-what?”
“Why do you think I mentioned this place in front of you at the salon? I knew you’d hear and want to investigate.”
“Who the Hell are you?”
“Sh-shhh shh shh shh.”
“Don’t shush me. I’m asking you a question”
“Dean, shut up.” She clamped a hand over his mouth, pushing him bodily into a nearby wall and hissed, “I heard something.”
-X-
Something hadn’t settled well with Bobby when Dean had given him the lowdown on the job. If he’d known about it, Dean would’ve call it Spidey sense, but Bobby just called it hunter’s intuition; something was really off about this hunt and Bobby hadn’t wasted any time in finding out. No sooner was Dean out the drive in the Chevelle, than Bobby was out the door and headed for town as well and he knew right where to go.
The sporting goods store was typically quiet for a Monday evening and Clive was easy to spot with his auburn hair and high-spirited speech. Bobby crossed the store quickly to the back counter where Clive was assisting the one and only customer in the store.
The business owner looked up and greeted his friend with a grin and an acknowledging nod but otherwise continued to focus on the customer, forcing Bobby to pull his patience to the front and wait his turn, even though his limbs were tingling with nervousness. His uneasiness did not go unnoticed though. He and Clive had been friends far too long. Reading each other’s body language had become second nature and so Clive was quick to finish the sale and cheerfully escort the customer to the front door.
Seconds later, the door was locked and the sign changed to ‘Closed’. Clive spun around only to find Bobby waiting directly behind him, his entire body, alive with nervous energy.
“So? What’s got you doin’ the Pee Pee Dance in my store, Bobby?”
“Your girl.”
“My girl? Mira? What’s she done?”
“She’s got my boy on a case?”
“What?”
“You heard me. I’ve been scratchin’ my brain tryin’ to figure this out. Like how does a case just land in Dean’s lap all trussed up on a silver platter? And why is it that Mira’s the one to bring it to him? Cuz if there was a problem, you surely woulda brought it to my attention, not my nephew’s. So I gotta ask, Clive. Is there somethin’ you wanna tell me, buddy? Like how does Mira even know who Dean really is?
-X-
“Run, run, run, run!”
It had taken just moments for the museum to go from quiet and almost serene to chaos.
Mira had shoved Dean up against the wall, one hand firmly over his mouth, the other hand brandishing the weapon at the empty room. The swarm of thoughts that ran through his head at that moment had nothing to do with the case and everything to do with the sudden hotness of the situation he now found himself in.
The “You’re kinda hot, ya know?” he blurted out was muffled by the slender hand that fully covered his mouth.
But he changed gears pretty quickly when the air vibrated with sound; a low, gritty grunt that filled the room and raised all the hairs on the back of Dean‘s neck. His eyes widened dramatically and he reached up to peel Mira’s hand away. The hunter/protector in him kicked in and in one swift motion, he’d disarmed the girl and swept her behind him, pulling the pump handle and chambering this first cartridge.
“What the Hell was that?” Mira squeaked, curling her fingers into the back of Dean’s shirt, shielding herself with his young, broad frame.
“Whatever it is, it’s not good. Okay, okay. Focus Winchester.”
Too dark to see, Dean let his eyes fall closed and reached out with his senses to get a grasp on what it was that he was dealing with. He felt the warmth of Mira behind him, her hands clutching the sides of his back; trembling. He got a sense of how large the room was; the wall of glass cases on one end, the period-dressed mannequins looming directly in front of them and off to the far end was the something else they were looking for.
Dean opened his eyes. He couldn‘t make out what it looked like, but it didn‘t matter; he could hear it. Long, hollow breaths, rasping wet out an endless throat. Whatever it was, it wasn’t even remotely human-like and that made Dean nervous. Humans, even in ghost-form, were predictable. So were humanoid monsters. They moved a certain way, thought a certain way. Animals on the other hand were not predictable. They had two modes: kill or be killed. There was no rational thought process to go along with that; to slow their actions and reactions.
Under normal circumstances, the fact that he was facing an animal of some kind wouldn’t have bothered Dean. He’d faced enough to have gained a well-practiced reaction time. But this time he wasn’t alone. He had another person depending on him; a person that for once in his life wasn’t his little brother.
“What is that?” Mira’s breath was hot and moist against his back, seeping through his shirt and sending chills down his arms. Her grip tightened as the sound grew louder; a loud puff of breath through wide nostrils accompanied by a dull impact of weight against the tiled floor. Whatever is was at the end of the long room was growing agitated by their presence; its grunt resounding around the room.
Quickly, Dean fired up the small Maglite he carried and raised it to shine some light on the situation. Scanning the area, they could see a stack of boxes and items too big or oddly shaped for boxes, in various stages of unpacking and display and behind it a series of glass display cases.
But nestled in one corner lay what appeared to be a diorama straight out of Little House on the Prairie. Tall grasses framed in the scene of a Sioux woman kneeling along a river with a clay jar in her hand. By her side, an infant was wrapped tight against a cradle board and behind them; a wolf sat watching the scene.
Dean couldn’t help but jump as the sight of the animal, but narrowing his eyes, he was able to tell that the animal was stuffed and preserved. He scanned further seeing a six foot long head dress of white feathers trailing nearly to the floor.
“That’s a big boy,” Dean whispered as the light from his flashlight fell on a large Bison positioned next to a prominently displayed Buffalo Hunter’s rifle. “I saw a domestic herd once in Kansas, but it was a long ways off in a field.”
“Dean?” Backing her way down the length of the wall Mira pulled Dean with, her hands shaking against his lower back. “Dean, we don’t have a complete buffalo.”
“What?”
There was a second of silence before Dean twisted at the waist to level a look of realization at her, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide with panic. Mira shook her head at his questioning look, too frightened to even speak.
They were brought back around, by a loud, aggravated snort. Dean turned the flashlight on it, staring long and hard and taking a defensive step back when the spectral creature blinked out and then back in.
“Ghost buffalo. Huh…that’s new.”
Mira hooked Dean’s left elbow and with both hands wrapped around his upper arm, began tugging him back towards the door, her voice cracking in fear when she spoke.
“Dean, come on. We gotta get out of here.”
“Stopstopstop, don’t move.” He brought that arm around behind him, tucking her safely into his back, while keeping his sights on the animal apparition in front on them. “I’m gonna get you outta here,” he whispered, earnestly, “but you gotta hold still or we’re gonna have a whole mess of trouble stampeding over us.”
He felt Mira nod in agreement, her chin tucked into his shoulder so that she could just see over him. She gasped and buried her face in his shirt when the animal thrashed; the horns that adorned the top of its substantial head, connecting with and shattering the display case beside it. The Indian headdress fluttered to the ground in a spray of glass.
“That’s…umm,” Dean stuttered in shock, “that’s awfully cor-corporeal. I think it’s time to go.”
The beast pawed the tile once and then lifted its head and bellowed, the deafening sound forcing Dean and Mira to cover their ears.
Dean took another step towards the entrance, pushing Mira along with him and drawing the shotgun up into his shoulder; all the while the bull tracked their movements, preparing itself for the charge.
“Mira? Run!”
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