Roaming the Land While You Sleep 3&4
So, I suppose I should publish the whole story everywhere, not start here and then focus on ff-net :P
Chapter 3
Dean wakes to a heavy weight pressing down on his ribcage.
Without opening his eyes he tries to turn over, shake off whatever heavy blanket or backpack or whatever has been dropped on top of him. The moment he tries to shift his own weight, there is a low, threatening growl. Kinda like the sounds Bobby's old Doberman Cohen used to make when you tried to take away his bowl. Sounds that said 'move my bowl one more inch and I'm gonna rip out your throat.' Cohen-like sounds inside their house in northern Alaska so can't be a good thing. Suddenly wide awake, Dean forces himself to stay still.
Immediately, the growl loses some of its warning tone and returns to something more like the sound that Cohen used to make when the bowl was set down in front of him again. Fuck. Dean's the bowl.
He knows that his dad keeps a machete stuffed behind the cushions of the sofa bed. If only he can reach it before the…the wolf? Rabid giant mutt? It's not a werewolf or a black dog, that's for sure. Super strong salt lines and no full moon. Anyway, if he can reach the machete before the thing decides to dig in then he can chop that motherfucker into tiny little pieces.
Thick, foul smelling saliva drops onto Dean's cheek and runs slowly down the side of his face into his ear. Lovely. He's so gonna waste that son of a bitch.
A loud mshlf that sounds like it's actually licking its lips in anticipation and Dean grabs the machete, tears up the couch cushions in the process and wields it at his attacker.
A loud howl echos around the living room, but the shower of blood and flesh and torn limbs doesn't happen. Dean tries again and watches in horror as the blade goes clear through the beast, leaving behind nothing but hissing steam. Fuck, so it is something supernatural that managed to get past their defenses. Fuck.
It's a hairless, skinny, butt fuck ugly thing. Looks a lot like a chuppacabra. Just bigger and with more teeth. And infinitely more threatening. It's got four rows of shark like teeth for crying out loud.
Growling, the thing lurches forward, going for his throat. Out of reflex, Dean throws a punch and that has even less impact than the machete. He manages to dodge the thing's teeth by a few inches, is already thinking about how he's gonna get to the iron knives in his backpack or the salt in the kitchen when he feels four lines of sharp teeth sink into his left forearm.
Dean's howl almost matches the creature's one from earlier when it bites down harder, forcing its teeth to slice through skin and muscle and bone, the supernatural saliva making the burning flesh feel like it's being frozen at the same time. Dean hears his ulna give with a loud sickening crack, long before he ever feels it.
"Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you."
He tosses out a random bible quote in the desperate hopes that it will have any sort of effect. It doesn't. Wrong mythology. Problem is Dean doesn't really know any Inuit holy texts, so he tries again.
It still doesn't hurt the fucker, but its red eyes light up with understanding. Even if he's not using the right incantations, it certainly understands what Dean is trying to do and wow, if he thought the thing was pissed before.
Hundreds of tiny teeth extract themselves from his forearm ("Motherfucker!") and sink in again, a few inches lower into his wrist. The beast gives his arm one, two, three shakes, like a dog that's trying to beat a toy to death and then tosses Dean's entire body from the couch and into the far wall. This time, Dean feels his shoulder sliding out of its socket before he hears the dull plop.
The wall and Dean's head meet with an impressive crack and Dean knows he has lost. Bright splotches start dancing up and down in front of his eyes, blood is gushing from his nose and from somewhere behind his ear and damn it if the creature doesn't look like it's just been served a five star meal.
The front door salt line is just a few feet away and Dean grabs a handful and tosses it in the beast's open jaws. The screech rings excruciatingly loud in Dean's head but the thing dissolves, giving him a few seconds to catch his breath.
He thinks he can hear the roar of the Impala just outside the front door but he knows he's just hallucinating that. This isn't a freakin' TV show where the superhero turns up at the last second to safe his good looking sidekick's ass. Dean somehow screwed up the defenses, didn't check the salt lines and it's only fair that he should be the one to get eaten by a vengeful furless dog monster for it.
He sees the thing re materialize in the kitchen and start its attack again and Dean knows that this time there's nothing he can do to stop it. He thinks of his mom and how he might just get to see her again and then he thinks about how he should stop feeling sorry for himself, because getting mauled has gotta be a thousand times less painful than dying pinned to the ceiling to the smell of your own burning flesh.
The creature licks its lips one last time and Dean figures that he's glad he sent Sammy out to play video games tonight because if he hadn't the thing might have gone for Sammy instead and then the bright blotches in his vision take over and then everything goes black.
Chapter 4
Sam decides to head home around 2215.
He has played every game at least twice and was ready to go back and cuddle up with his blankets and read a book an hour ago. But Dean said he had to be back by 2200, so there's no way in hell that he's gonna make it home before that.
There are no lights shining through the windows of their rented one story house. Well, good. If Dean's already asleep then Sam won't have to deal with his older brother's panic attack over his 15 minute delay.
A loud grumble carries down the road and crap, Sam would know that sound anywhere. The Impala. Dad's back. Sam told Dean that he was being an idiot and that Dad wouldn't mind him going out tonight, but he was also firmly expecting to be home long before their father got back from the library and now he's not so sure that Dad will be just fine with him taking off like that. It's not like Sam and Dad are exactly each other's favorite people these days.
Picking up his pace, Sam hurries along the gravelly road and makes it to the front door the same time, Dad jumps out of the Impala.
"Sammy? Are you all right?"
"Geez, Dad, I'm fine. I was just at the arcade down the road."
Sam wants to sound placating, but the stupid nickname catapults him into bitchy teenager mode, before he knows what hit him.
"Just at the…are you out of your mind?"
Effortlessly, Sam matches his father's yelling. Dean said he could go out. He was just playing video games, not getting drunk or high. Having to stay inside all summer is so unfair. Spending his summer in this freezing shithole is unfair. Hell yes, he's gonna curse all he wants. Well, Dean and Dad say way worse every day. Dad should get his priorities straight. Dad is being paranoid. Yes, Dean thinks so, too, he's just too scared to say it out loud. This family just sucks. Dad should just -
Dad's hand shoots forward and closes tightly over Sam's mouth. An indignant frown rushes onto Sam's face and he actually contemplates biting, but that's what Sammy would have done. Sam doesn't bite. Sam scowls and gives 'what the fuck' glares.
"You hear that?" Dad whispers.
Sam wants to tell him that there's nothing to hear and that it's just one more sign of Dad's crazy paranoia, but then he picks it up, too. Low, labored breathing from just behind the door and wheezing growls that are coming closer.
"Get the flamethrower." Dad commands crisply and Sam finds himself obeying without thought.
He hears Dad kick in the door, curse and fire several rounds into the dark living room. An affronted screech answers and Dad blindly grabs for the small flamethrower that Sam has dug out of the Impala's trunk.
Dad charges into the small house, curses some more and aims the biting flames at some flesh colored dog-like creature. The thing has blood dripping from its fangs. Fuck. Blood. Dean's the only one in the house. Sam left and made Dean the only one in the house. He tries to charge inside behind his dad but is effectively blocked by the man's broad shoulders.
Another wall of bright, yellow heat from the flamethrower catches the thing in mid jump. It lets out another scream. Even louder than the first one and this time there's fear mixed among the anger in the beast's eyes. Dad steps into the room, raising his weapon once again and the creature dissolves with one final screech. An ice cold breeze rushes out the door, where Dad kicked the salt line in every direction when he burst into the room and Sam shivers violently.
Then it is quiet.
Dad drops the flamethrower and Sam stumbles into the room right on his heels.
"Light."
Sam automatically reaches for the light switch to his right and then they see him.
Dean's in a bloody heap on the floor, not three feet from them. He's not moving.
Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
The word has been a recent addition to Sam's active vocabulary and most of the time he just uses it to drive home the point that he's not a little kid anymore, but faced with the sight of his unshakable older brother, lying broken on the floor, it's the only word that's even close to appropriate.
"Fuck!"
"Sam, medical kit."
John is still in full on Marine mode while he closes the short distance between the door and his son.
He's relieved to find a strong and steady pulse and lets himself breathe just a little bit easier. Dean is still unconscious though. Blood from his nose is forming a pretty impressive puddle on the floor. A cut right above his left ear is leaking blood down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. Right above there is a pretty impressive goose egg and John can see the corresponding dent in the wall above him. Dean's left arm is a mess. The wrist looks like one of Bobby's yard dogs has used it as a chewing toy, there are several bite marks on his forearm, John can make out white bone on the bottom of at least one of them and it looks like it's broken, the whole arm is at an awkward angle. Looks, like a dislocated shoulder. Again.
Sam has laid out the medi kit beside the sofa bed. He's working on pulling off the bloodied sheets and John notices the machete that is sticking out of the torn up cushions.
He scoops up Dean in both his hands. Kid might be almost as tall as him now, but John's got a good fifty pounds on him. Dean lets out a quiet whimper when John wraps his arms around his injured shoulder and damn it if it doesn't almost make John fall apart. It's the sound an injured, trapped animal should make, not his kid.
"Shh, Dean-o, I've got'cha."
"Da'?"
Dean's eyes open and lazily focus on his dad's face.
"Saved my ass…always told S'mmy y' were like batman…"
And then he smiles.
His arm is torn to pieces, the floor is slippery with his blood and he fucking smiles.
John wants to cry.
Here's to hoping my lj-cuts are any good at all...they haven't been so far. Let's hit the magic button and see.
Chapter 3
Dean wakes to a heavy weight pressing down on his ribcage.
Without opening his eyes he tries to turn over, shake off whatever heavy blanket or backpack or whatever has been dropped on top of him. The moment he tries to shift his own weight, there is a low, threatening growl. Kinda like the sounds Bobby's old Doberman Cohen used to make when you tried to take away his bowl. Sounds that said 'move my bowl one more inch and I'm gonna rip out your throat.' Cohen-like sounds inside their house in northern Alaska so can't be a good thing. Suddenly wide awake, Dean forces himself to stay still.
Immediately, the growl loses some of its warning tone and returns to something more like the sound that Cohen used to make when the bowl was set down in front of him again. Fuck. Dean's the bowl.
He knows that his dad keeps a machete stuffed behind the cushions of the sofa bed. If only he can reach it before the…the wolf? Rabid giant mutt? It's not a werewolf or a black dog, that's for sure. Super strong salt lines and no full moon. Anyway, if he can reach the machete before the thing decides to dig in then he can chop that motherfucker into tiny little pieces.
Thick, foul smelling saliva drops onto Dean's cheek and runs slowly down the side of his face into his ear. Lovely. He's so gonna waste that son of a bitch.
A loud mshlf that sounds like it's actually licking its lips in anticipation and Dean grabs the machete, tears up the couch cushions in the process and wields it at his attacker.
A loud howl echos around the living room, but the shower of blood and flesh and torn limbs doesn't happen. Dean tries again and watches in horror as the blade goes clear through the beast, leaving behind nothing but hissing steam. Fuck, so it is something supernatural that managed to get past their defenses. Fuck.
It's a hairless, skinny, butt fuck ugly thing. Looks a lot like a chuppacabra. Just bigger and with more teeth. And infinitely more threatening. It's got four rows of shark like teeth for crying out loud.
Growling, the thing lurches forward, going for his throat. Out of reflex, Dean throws a punch and that has even less impact than the machete. He manages to dodge the thing's teeth by a few inches, is already thinking about how he's gonna get to the iron knives in his backpack or the salt in the kitchen when he feels four lines of sharp teeth sink into his left forearm.
Dean's howl almost matches the creature's one from earlier when it bites down harder, forcing its teeth to slice through skin and muscle and bone, the supernatural saliva making the burning flesh feel like it's being frozen at the same time. Dean hears his ulna give with a loud sickening crack, long before he ever feels it.
"Rejoice, and be exceeding glad: for great is your reward in heaven: for so persecuted they the prophets which were before you."
He tosses out a random bible quote in the desperate hopes that it will have any sort of effect. It doesn't. Wrong mythology. Problem is Dean doesn't really know any Inuit holy texts, so he tries again.
It still doesn't hurt the fucker, but its red eyes light up with understanding. Even if he's not using the right incantations, it certainly understands what Dean is trying to do and wow, if he thought the thing was pissed before.
Hundreds of tiny teeth extract themselves from his forearm ("Motherfucker!") and sink in again, a few inches lower into his wrist. The beast gives his arm one, two, three shakes, like a dog that's trying to beat a toy to death and then tosses Dean's entire body from the couch and into the far wall. This time, Dean feels his shoulder sliding out of its socket before he hears the dull plop.
The wall and Dean's head meet with an impressive crack and Dean knows he has lost. Bright splotches start dancing up and down in front of his eyes, blood is gushing from his nose and from somewhere behind his ear and damn it if the creature doesn't look like it's just been served a five star meal.
The front door salt line is just a few feet away and Dean grabs a handful and tosses it in the beast's open jaws. The screech rings excruciatingly loud in Dean's head but the thing dissolves, giving him a few seconds to catch his breath.
He thinks he can hear the roar of the Impala just outside the front door but he knows he's just hallucinating that. This isn't a freakin' TV show where the superhero turns up at the last second to safe his good looking sidekick's ass. Dean somehow screwed up the defenses, didn't check the salt lines and it's only fair that he should be the one to get eaten by a vengeful furless dog monster for it.
He sees the thing re materialize in the kitchen and start its attack again and Dean knows that this time there's nothing he can do to stop it. He thinks of his mom and how he might just get to see her again and then he thinks about how he should stop feeling sorry for himself, because getting mauled has gotta be a thousand times less painful than dying pinned to the ceiling to the smell of your own burning flesh.
The creature licks its lips one last time and Dean figures that he's glad he sent Sammy out to play video games tonight because if he hadn't the thing might have gone for Sammy instead and then the bright blotches in his vision take over and then everything goes black.
Chapter 4
Sam decides to head home around 2215.
He has played every game at least twice and was ready to go back and cuddle up with his blankets and read a book an hour ago. But Dean said he had to be back by 2200, so there's no way in hell that he's gonna make it home before that.
There are no lights shining through the windows of their rented one story house. Well, good. If Dean's already asleep then Sam won't have to deal with his older brother's panic attack over his 15 minute delay.
A loud grumble carries down the road and crap, Sam would know that sound anywhere. The Impala. Dad's back. Sam told Dean that he was being an idiot and that Dad wouldn't mind him going out tonight, but he was also firmly expecting to be home long before their father got back from the library and now he's not so sure that Dad will be just fine with him taking off like that. It's not like Sam and Dad are exactly each other's favorite people these days.
Picking up his pace, Sam hurries along the gravelly road and makes it to the front door the same time, Dad jumps out of the Impala.
"Sammy? Are you all right?"
"Geez, Dad, I'm fine. I was just at the arcade down the road."
Sam wants to sound placating, but the stupid nickname catapults him into bitchy teenager mode, before he knows what hit him.
"Just at the…are you out of your mind?"
Effortlessly, Sam matches his father's yelling. Dean said he could go out. He was just playing video games, not getting drunk or high. Having to stay inside all summer is so unfair. Spending his summer in this freezing shithole is unfair. Hell yes, he's gonna curse all he wants. Well, Dean and Dad say way worse every day. Dad should get his priorities straight. Dad is being paranoid. Yes, Dean thinks so, too, he's just too scared to say it out loud. This family just sucks. Dad should just -
Dad's hand shoots forward and closes tightly over Sam's mouth. An indignant frown rushes onto Sam's face and he actually contemplates biting, but that's what Sammy would have done. Sam doesn't bite. Sam scowls and gives 'what the fuck' glares.
"You hear that?" Dad whispers.
Sam wants to tell him that there's nothing to hear and that it's just one more sign of Dad's crazy paranoia, but then he picks it up, too. Low, labored breathing from just behind the door and wheezing growls that are coming closer.
"Get the flamethrower." Dad commands crisply and Sam finds himself obeying without thought.
He hears Dad kick in the door, curse and fire several rounds into the dark living room. An affronted screech answers and Dad blindly grabs for the small flamethrower that Sam has dug out of the Impala's trunk.
Dad charges into the small house, curses some more and aims the biting flames at some flesh colored dog-like creature. The thing has blood dripping from its fangs. Fuck. Blood. Dean's the only one in the house. Sam left and made Dean the only one in the house. He tries to charge inside behind his dad but is effectively blocked by the man's broad shoulders.
Another wall of bright, yellow heat from the flamethrower catches the thing in mid jump. It lets out another scream. Even louder than the first one and this time there's fear mixed among the anger in the beast's eyes. Dad steps into the room, raising his weapon once again and the creature dissolves with one final screech. An ice cold breeze rushes out the door, where Dad kicked the salt line in every direction when he burst into the room and Sam shivers violently.
Then it is quiet.
Dad drops the flamethrower and Sam stumbles into the room right on his heels.
"Light."
Sam automatically reaches for the light switch to his right and then they see him.
Dean's in a bloody heap on the floor, not three feet from them. He's not moving.
Fuck.
Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
The word has been a recent addition to Sam's active vocabulary and most of the time he just uses it to drive home the point that he's not a little kid anymore, but faced with the sight of his unshakable older brother, lying broken on the floor, it's the only word that's even close to appropriate.
"Fuck!"
"Sam, medical kit."
John is still in full on Marine mode while he closes the short distance between the door and his son.
He's relieved to find a strong and steady pulse and lets himself breathe just a little bit easier. Dean is still unconscious though. Blood from his nose is forming a pretty impressive puddle on the floor. A cut right above his left ear is leaking blood down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. Right above there is a pretty impressive goose egg and John can see the corresponding dent in the wall above him. Dean's left arm is a mess. The wrist looks like one of Bobby's yard dogs has used it as a chewing toy, there are several bite marks on his forearm, John can make out white bone on the bottom of at least one of them and it looks like it's broken, the whole arm is at an awkward angle. Looks, like a dislocated shoulder. Again.
Sam has laid out the medi kit beside the sofa bed. He's working on pulling off the bloodied sheets and John notices the machete that is sticking out of the torn up cushions.
He scoops up Dean in both his hands. Kid might be almost as tall as him now, but John's got a good fifty pounds on him. Dean lets out a quiet whimper when John wraps his arms around his injured shoulder and damn it if it doesn't almost make John fall apart. It's the sound an injured, trapped animal should make, not his kid.
"Shh, Dean-o, I've got'cha."
"Da'?"
Dean's eyes open and lazily focus on his dad's face.
"Saved my ass…always told S'mmy y' were like batman…"
And then he smiles.
His arm is torn to pieces, the floor is slippery with his blood and he fucking smiles.
John wants to cry.
Here's to hoping my lj-cuts are any good at all...they haven't been so far. Let's hit the magic button and see.