SPN: PC: Puppy Rescue, Part 2
The next two weeks pass, in both a blur of speed and an inching, limping crawl. The boys make the stay fly, and Sam is oddly thankful that Kiara raises them in the Den, raises them in the commune setting that allows them to be okay, if not pleased, with the absence of their mother for lengths of time, lets them feel just as comfortable with other authority figures as with her.
Tank asks every morning like clockwork, over his breakfast, if his mom is any better, when she’s coming back, what they’re doing that day, and what’s for dinner, and is reassured by the repeated answers. He’s not as fond of the junkyard as his brother, is more content to help Sam around the house, organize the inventory lists, and stumble his way through books. A wry grin twists Sam every time he thinks ‘this is Dean’s godson, and he’d rather read than tear apart cars’.
That’s Fox’s obsession though. He doesn’t need to hear to pull parts, and after Dean made a series of short, one-handed signs for the tools he needs, the boy is happier to help fetch and carry than to stay in the house, pacing in his red fur, twitching as the sun moves across the skies. Fox is the one that won’t take the answer that his mom will be back soon; Dean made the mistake of saying that Kiara was sick, rather than gone, and Sam has dragged the kid away from her door every day since. He can’t take ‘No’ for an answer, going so far as to haltingly, softly and determinedly demanding to see his mother, now, verbally and without his brother.
Even Tank’s jaw had dropped.
The most heartbreaking was finding him curled up in her forelegs, little muzzle buried in the thick ruff ringing her neck, and green eyes mournful and baleful as he glared up at Sam. He followed after Sam without protest, just a deep sigh that didn’t fit the little frame, and Sam tried to not notice the glazed, blank look in the grey eyes of Kiara.
Two weeks later, and the wounds were still sluggishly closing, damage slowly but steadily knitting back together, repairing things both seen and unseen. Even then, it was terrifying when, three days since they brought her and the boys back, Sam had stopped in to check on her, and seen those eyes open and foggy. Hope had lit through him, and he had put his hand on her ribcage to lean down closer.
He realized distantly that he wasn’t feeling her move. Her heart was still inside the cage of bone, the lungs emptied and not filling again, and just as the panic started to flood through him, he felt her heart stutter, lurch painfully, tripping a few times before resuming its steady and slow rhythm. Felt the shudder that coursed through her before her lungs wheezed in a breath, letting it out in a soft, but clear, sigh, and he snapped his hand back like it had been burned. Scrubbed it along his jeans, trying to erase the phantom feel of a heart kick starting again.
There hadn’t been recognition in that grey gaze though, before the eyes had slid closed again. Just blank glassiness, and he wondered how long she had been like that, what sort of mental damage that she may have had. And wondered absently if she could even heal that.
That had been eleven days ago, and as he pulled open the blinds and let the soft silvery moonlight stream over her, he offered up the same prayer he’d been given up every night.
“Please, just let her be okay.”
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Kiara came awake in the slow, groggy way that usually implied being drugged, and she shook her head, groaning as the weight and heaviness just made it ache more. Every last inch of her ached; damn, her fur ached. She sank a little into herself, made sure that there weren’t any currently severe injuries to worry about, and braced herself as she slid away from her Wolf, back into two legs instead of four. As her human skin reformed around her, she curled tightly around herself, gasping in pain, the agony of closed and repaired wounds screaming as she shifted forms. Apparently, she’d done some massive healing very recently.
Fuck, but that had HURT. She waited, impatiently, as the flames dimmed, and she pushed herself upright, blinking in the soft, unhurried light that was turning the clouds outside pink, making the frost on windows and metal shimmer lightly.
That was the junkyard, and she knew, by scent before she ever came fully online, that she was at Dean and Sam’s, at home. Their scent was on every inch of the room, on her fur, on her skin, and faintly, she could smell blood and fear and her boys. She shivered, those last few moments of shattering glass and twisting metal and the hot stench of oil on an engine block as the world twisted flitting through her brain brokenly, and she scrabbled at the door, huffing out a breathy thanks as the door gave way, and tripped down the stairs on legs clumsy with fear. She had a vague memory of Dean’s voice promising that they were safe, but she couldn’t know if that was real, or if it was just something her brain was crafting.
She froze as her feet slid on the hardwood flooring, hands tight on the doorframe leading into the den. Heart still racing, she smiled in relief as she saw the Heirs, sleeping curled against each other on the pull-out. They were okay. She eased closer, settled carefully on the creaky mattress, and brushed a hand lovingly through Tank’s locks, smiling as he huffed a breath and snuffled closer to Fox, whom muttered wordlessly and twitched in sleep. No marks, no bruises, no injuries.
They were okay.
She pulled herself away; they’d been okay for the time it took her to recover, and they’d be okay in the time it took for her to shower, to get the stench back off her skin. Still… she’d use the downstairs bathroom, and be that much closer to her boys.
She lingers, letting the strong scent of Dial sweep over her, stinging in the cuts and lashes that still remain, that are knitting shut even as the water rushes over them, and tries to smother the groan as she works the soap through her hair, working out pine tar and gravel as she scrubs. Even when there’s no more skin to scour, she just lets the water beat on her, leaning against the shower wall exhaustedly. The hot water goes a long way to making her feel more human, less like tenderized steak, and she knows a huge freakin mug of coffee and a handful of Tylenol will go even further. Her belly growls low and impatiently at the thought, and she has a moment where all she can taste is the coppery rush of an herbivore’s blood flowing freely, and she shakes it off. Dean has bacon in the freezer… he always does.
Her jeans slide on over bare flesh, and she wrinkles her nose at the pine scent that still clings to the denim. Her shirt is unsalvageable, blood and gore staining the cotton, and she dumps it in the trash, hangs her bra on the doorknob for now. There’s no way she can manage that one right now, not as stiff as she is, and she realizes belatedly that she just scrapped the only decent thing she has here. There’s an overnight bag somewhere in Madre, but without knowing where she is…
She follows her nose, finds one of Dean’s button-ups stuffed in a corner, and after giving it a tentative sniff, shrugs it on, wincing as the move pulls unhappy muscles. Coffee, painkillers, food now. Her wolf gives a bloody growl, and she shifts, knowing she’ll have to hunt soon. But for now, the bacon she’s sure to find should work.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Sam comes awake as the spicy scent of pepper bacon and coffee tugs at him, and he has a muzzy moment where his mind offers up the image of Tank standing on a kitchen chair, cooking merrily as Fox hands him the strips of meat.
He’s pretty sure that’s not right, but either way, he’s pretty sure that the foggy numbers are saying it’s around seven in the morning. He could sleep longer, would if the boys weren’t here, but he sits up, shivers in the cold of the room, and tries to kick his brain online.
Damn, but getting old sucked more every year. And he wasn’t talking about the silvery strands he had found a few days ago in his hair. He’d given Dean enough gruff over the years for the steadily silvering patches at his temples that grew every year; he was trying to slink his own badges of age under the radar.
He ignores the lingering aches of old wounds that whisper of another snowfall tonight as he eases his way down the stairs, avoiding the step that creaks as badly as his knee used to, and peers in the den, checks on the boys out of habit. They’re not likely to move for another few hours, no matter how much noise is made, and he notices the scent of Dial on humid air.
The kids don’t shower, and from the frizzy puppy-fluff he could see, they hadn’t. Someone else was in the house. Just as the thought flickers through his brain, he hears the tell-tale sound of a coffee mug moving on wood, and goes Hunter-stealthy as he creeps closer to the kitchen.
Kiara is at the kitchen table, and he stops, mind absently confused as he watches her. She’s not really awake, head propped in her hand, and she’s staring blankly into her coffee as she sways where she’s sitting. He notices she’s dressed though, hair still plastered wetly to her head, not dry enough to spike up yet.
She’s not gushing blood though, or comatose; not gurgling wetly as she struggles to breath, but sitting there half-asleep, whole and healed. He doesn’t really remember moving, just knows one minute, he’s in the doorway, watching her struggle to stay awake, and the next, he’s hugging her hard, ignoring her oof as he squishes her. She tenses for a split second, reaction to being grabbed, confined, then her ribs are moving in a silent chuckle as she leans back against him and hugs his arms. “I’m okay Sam.” He nods, lets her go, abruptly and ashamed, and grabs his own coffee, ignoring the lump in his throat carefully as he measures out the sugar. “Thank you, for watching the boys.”
He busies himself with flipping the bacon sizzling in the old cast iron skillet, until he’s pretty sure that he’s composed again. He loves the kid, a combination of a little sister and a daughter. And seeing her hurt never settles well with him, though he now understands a little better how Dean always reacted. “You know we don’t mind having them. Keeps Dean busy and out of trouble. I swear, the other day he was wanting to see about melting down iron to do iron shells for the shotguns.”
She smothers a chuckle, leaning back against the wooden chair, and her eyes are knowing as he turns back to her, resting his weight on the counter as he crosses his ankles. “You know what I mean.” He can’t match her gaze for long, and shrugs a bit carelessly, sips on his coffee. He’s not willing to say anything else about it, and Kiara seems reluctant to after that, so silence settles a bit heavily around them as they listen to the pups snuffle and shift and mutter in the other room. Every noise they make, Kiara flicks an ear that way, frozen for a moment before relaxing again, and Sam finally can’t stay quiet.
“They’re fine.” She snorts wryly, glances up at him.
“The last time I really saw them, I had strong reason to think one of us was gonna wind up dead. Forgive me for being paranoid over my kids.” The words aren’t biting, but firm, commanding. Reminds him he’s dealing with an Alpha wolf more than a kid at the moment.
“So what exactly happened?” Dean’s voice is rough from the doorway, his eyes still squinting in the bright light of the kitchen, and they both jump. The man is ninja-stealthy when he wants to be, and even worse when he’s not trying. Sam busies himself with transferring the cooked bacon, adding it to the pile staying toasty in the oven.
Kiara rubs at her eyes before stretching backward over the chair, hugging Dean’s waist awkwardly as he drops a casual kiss to her forehead. He’s always more physically affectionate with her; is as a general rule. He’s always connected more with touch than words, and it’s not the first time Sam’s wondered if that’s why he and Fox get along so well. “Freaking Hunter.” She yawns hard, jaw popping loudly as she shakes her head, trying to wake up more. “Didn’t catch him in time to avoid it.”
Dean settles in the chair across the table from her, legs kicked out casually and crossed at the ankle as he watches her intently. “What happened?”
“I told you, a damned Hunter.” She pushes away from the table, eyes glittering in anger as she starts more coffee, and sneaks a piece of bacon from where it’s staying warm in the oven. “We were on our way up here. Got complacent, haven’t been switching the trails. Got lazy. Saw the glint off the muzzle in time to get the boys to change. I dunno if he was actually aiming at the tires, or if his aim just sucked that bad, but it worked pretty decently. Managed to roll Madre a few times, got the boys out of the car, and shifted as we ran like hell. Made sure to stagger plenty and leave a few good bloody patches for him to find. Should appease him until I kill him.”
Sam sucks in a breath, shifts his weight against the counter. “Kiara, you can’t just kill another Hunter.”
“Fuck you Sam. That thing tried to kill my boys. He’s done.” Her frame is tense, quivering with anger, and Sam glances over to Dean, trying to recruit support. Dean’s green gaze is focused on his coffee, studiously ignoring them. “What’s to stop him from finding the Pack, and annihilating them? No, I’ve been down and out a few days, and I’ve got to get back, stop this now. I’ve got his scent; the wind was favorable. And he’s going down. Even if I have to call in a Full Hunt.”
“Kiara, you cannot do this. It’s stupid, and suicidal.”
She slams the coffee mug on the counter, not even wincing as the hot coffee splashes up and out onto her hand. “Don’t. Don’t even. If it was Dean that had a fucking scope pointed at him, you’d be howling for blood. I’ll take the boys back, let Jasmine or Rose watch them while I put this bastard down. Make the message clear.”
Dean cracks his neck, whistles sharp and low, and they both turn, one gaze snapping in anger, the other hard and determined. It’s a split-second later that Tank and Fox peer around the corner of the kitchen wall, and Sam notices Dean smiling into his mug as the boys light up like Christmas morning. They pause for a moment before Kiara sits on the floor, and they charge at her, swamping her in hugs and languages, mixing signs and English and their own code, Fox patting her cheeks every time her gaze wanders from them for more than a second.
Sam knows she’s got a point, and he can’t help but remember when Gordon tried to put Sam down like a rabid dog… something that was bound to hurt and injure others. Dean was raging, livid by the time they were reunited, and he knows that if he hadn’t stopped Dean, the older brother would have done the same to the Hunter. The same damned thing that Kiara is proposing. But it goes against the grain of his being, killing in cold blood, even if it’s self-defense.
And knowing the consequences if other Hunters found out, the repercussions if the Pack was wiped out, scares the hell out of him.
“Criska!” Tank barks the word, jarring Sam from his musing, and he shoves himself away from the counter as Dean rounds the end of the table, kneeling beside Kiara, who’s slumped like a puppet with its strings cut. He can see her hands shaking from where they’re clutching at the floor, and she mutters quietly.
“Tank, why don’t you guys get dressed, huh? Give your mom a moment,” Dean suggests, and the pup only exchanges a glance with Fox for a moment before crossing his arms over his little chest, chin jutting out in defiance as his brother all but crawls under their mom, eyes dark and intense and vaguely threatening.
That one would be a pistol in a few short years, he had no doubt.
“Issac.” Tank jumps, looks to Kiara guiltily, and she shakes her head. She’s still quivering, but she doesn’t look like she’s going to pass out again, and Tank waits just a moment before tugging his brother along with a sharp nod. Once she hears their feet on the stairs, Kiara sighs, drooping a bit. “Damnit.”
“What was that?” Dean still has a tight grip on her arm, and his eyes are narrowed, green gaze hard. Sam suspects he knows, makes his way to the fridge to pull out the city ham that they keep tucked back in the back. The boys and Kiara snack on meat like Dean does M&M’s, and he’s gotten smart enough to keep their favorites stocked when they’re due to visit.
“Stood up too fast, I think.” Kiara’s got color back, even if her voice is still unsteady, and Dean snorts sharply.
“Bullshit.” She throws a half-hearted snarl in his direction, and Sam intervenes even as Dean opens his mouth to retort, handing the sweet meat to the wolf casually.
“How about the fact that she’s not eaten in two weeks, Dean?” The back of his mind always worries when Kiara heals; no human could still be alive after being all but starved and denied water for two weeks, but aside from looking a bit thinner than usual, Kiara is fine. He has to wonder again if it’s just her, or if all Loup Garou are like that.
Kiara pales again at the words, eyes big. “Oh god.” She closes grey eyes, shivering, and they both frown, a bit confused. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“No, it was just over two weeks ago that we got the call from Tank.”
“Jesus. Jasmine…” she starts to say more, but Dean overrides her, voice louder than hers.
“Has called several times, and we made it clear the boys were staying here until you were better. She wasn’t pleased with it, but from what I understand, she can’t argue?” His brother manages to make it a question, and the wolf nods, licking the sticky residue from the slice of ham she bolted from her fingers.
“Not unless the boys or I say otherwise.” She sighs, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them again, offering them both a smile. “Thank you. I guess I need to hunt a bit sooner than I thought.”
She makes it to the chair this time, steadier than before, and Sam has that familiar twitch in his gut. The same one that’s settled in every time she shows up stressed or sick, the urge to just hide her away from the rest of the world and protect her. Dean’s the same way, he knows, and he idly wonders if she has any idea how much she and the boys mean to them.
Just as Bobby was their dad in every way but blood, she’s their daughter, in every way but blood.
“You good?” When she nods, he pats her shoulder, smiling. “Alright then. I’m going to help the boys get dressed. Try and stay out of trouble for a bit?” Dean’s green gaze promises even if neither of them speak, and he shakes his head as he makes his way up the stairs. Those two are cut from the same exact cloth.
Tank is pissed, not surprisingly, his movements tight and sharp with the anger, and he just glares at Sam when he makes his way in the room, little nostrils flaring with all the righteous indignation of a child. “We’re not babies,” is the scathing snarl he gets.
Sam settles on the bed, hand brushing down Fox’s back as the kid creeps closer, eyes wide as he watches his brother. “I know you’re not. But your Momma’s not feeling so hot, and I figured I’d give her some space and help you guys out. That okay?”
“She’s not sick, she’s hurt, and Fox knows so, and then she fell, and…” Tank trails off, eyes too bright as he stares at their duffle, shirt clenched in small hands. The look is heartwrenching, and Sam can’t help but want to help. But Tank is a lot like Dean; if you push straight on, he’ll bolt like a colt, heading for the hills. You have to be slow, approach from the side, and pretend like it doesn’t really matter.
Fox has one sock on, well, one on correctly, and the top to his pajamas are on the floor, so Sam helps him work the sock around right, toe seam lined up the way he likes it, before helping with the snaps on his little jeans. The kid is independent to a fault, hates asking for help, but he just doesn’t have the finger strength to snap them, so he tolerates the help with a scowl.
The boys are in a weird mood, considering they’ve seen their mom for the first time in two weeks. He’s trying to tie the sneakers as Fox swings his feet impatiently when Tank sidles closer, clamps his hands on his brother’s knees. He’s still watching the floor intently when he sighs quietly, and says “I have to help. I have to keep them safe. But I don’t know how.”
The Hunter doesn’t know much about how the boys are being raised in the Pack, but he does know it’s probably too much responsibility for the pup. He doesn’t really resist when Sam tugs him closer, pretending to double check everything is right, and that tells Sam a lot. “Kiddo, it’s not your job to protect your Mom. Not here, okay? That’s our job, mine and Dean’s. Got it?” Tank nods, wraps his arms around Sam’s neck in a choking hug, and Sam just rubs the small back easily, standing up with him and settling the Heir on a hip. “Okay guys, I think Dean’s got some Pop-Tarts downstairs… you guys up for it?”
Kiara’s not keen on them having the sugary stuff for breakfast, but considering the stress of the morning so far, he’d say they’re entitled to it today. Tank nods from his perch, hair brushing Sam’s jaw from where he’s rested his head on the Hunter’s shoulder, and Fox just sneezes, already halfway out the door.
He knows by now Kiara is on four legs, hunting prey and determined to bring down the Hunter. Dean is pissed, angry at the idea of her taking on humans but understanding it in his own right; not that the boys will see that. Fox and Dean will probably spend the day in the garage, Tank will help Sam enter the new shipment of books in the references, and when Kiara gets back, they’ll share an uneventful but peaceful dinner, before baths and sleep and they’ll repeat it for a few days, a week if they’re lucky, before she’ll pack up the boys and head home again.
It’s not perfect, but in this family, things rarely are.
*****************************************************
*****************************************************
Tank asks every morning like clockwork, over his breakfast, if his mom is any better, when she’s coming back, what they’re doing that day, and what’s for dinner, and is reassured by the repeated answers. He’s not as fond of the junkyard as his brother, is more content to help Sam around the house, organize the inventory lists, and stumble his way through books. A wry grin twists Sam every time he thinks ‘this is Dean’s godson, and he’d rather read than tear apart cars’.
That’s Fox’s obsession though. He doesn’t need to hear to pull parts, and after Dean made a series of short, one-handed signs for the tools he needs, the boy is happier to help fetch and carry than to stay in the house, pacing in his red fur, twitching as the sun moves across the skies. Fox is the one that won’t take the answer that his mom will be back soon; Dean made the mistake of saying that Kiara was sick, rather than gone, and Sam has dragged the kid away from her door every day since. He can’t take ‘No’ for an answer, going so far as to haltingly, softly and determinedly demanding to see his mother, now, verbally and without his brother.
Even Tank’s jaw had dropped.
The most heartbreaking was finding him curled up in her forelegs, little muzzle buried in the thick ruff ringing her neck, and green eyes mournful and baleful as he glared up at Sam. He followed after Sam without protest, just a deep sigh that didn’t fit the little frame, and Sam tried to not notice the glazed, blank look in the grey eyes of Kiara.
Two weeks later, and the wounds were still sluggishly closing, damage slowly but steadily knitting back together, repairing things both seen and unseen. Even then, it was terrifying when, three days since they brought her and the boys back, Sam had stopped in to check on her, and seen those eyes open and foggy. Hope had lit through him, and he had put his hand on her ribcage to lean down closer.
He realized distantly that he wasn’t feeling her move. Her heart was still inside the cage of bone, the lungs emptied and not filling again, and just as the panic started to flood through him, he felt her heart stutter, lurch painfully, tripping a few times before resuming its steady and slow rhythm. Felt the shudder that coursed through her before her lungs wheezed in a breath, letting it out in a soft, but clear, sigh, and he snapped his hand back like it had been burned. Scrubbed it along his jeans, trying to erase the phantom feel of a heart kick starting again.
There hadn’t been recognition in that grey gaze though, before the eyes had slid closed again. Just blank glassiness, and he wondered how long she had been like that, what sort of mental damage that she may have had. And wondered absently if she could even heal that.
That had been eleven days ago, and as he pulled open the blinds and let the soft silvery moonlight stream over her, he offered up the same prayer he’d been given up every night.
“Please, just let her be okay.”
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Kiara came awake in the slow, groggy way that usually implied being drugged, and she shook her head, groaning as the weight and heaviness just made it ache more. Every last inch of her ached; damn, her fur ached. She sank a little into herself, made sure that there weren’t any currently severe injuries to worry about, and braced herself as she slid away from her Wolf, back into two legs instead of four. As her human skin reformed around her, she curled tightly around herself, gasping in pain, the agony of closed and repaired wounds screaming as she shifted forms. Apparently, she’d done some massive healing very recently.
Fuck, but that had HURT. She waited, impatiently, as the flames dimmed, and she pushed herself upright, blinking in the soft, unhurried light that was turning the clouds outside pink, making the frost on windows and metal shimmer lightly.
That was the junkyard, and she knew, by scent before she ever came fully online, that she was at Dean and Sam’s, at home. Their scent was on every inch of the room, on her fur, on her skin, and faintly, she could smell blood and fear and her boys. She shivered, those last few moments of shattering glass and twisting metal and the hot stench of oil on an engine block as the world twisted flitting through her brain brokenly, and she scrabbled at the door, huffing out a breathy thanks as the door gave way, and tripped down the stairs on legs clumsy with fear. She had a vague memory of Dean’s voice promising that they were safe, but she couldn’t know if that was real, or if it was just something her brain was crafting.
She froze as her feet slid on the hardwood flooring, hands tight on the doorframe leading into the den. Heart still racing, she smiled in relief as she saw the Heirs, sleeping curled against each other on the pull-out. They were okay. She eased closer, settled carefully on the creaky mattress, and brushed a hand lovingly through Tank’s locks, smiling as he huffed a breath and snuffled closer to Fox, whom muttered wordlessly and twitched in sleep. No marks, no bruises, no injuries.
They were okay.
She pulled herself away; they’d been okay for the time it took her to recover, and they’d be okay in the time it took for her to shower, to get the stench back off her skin. Still… she’d use the downstairs bathroom, and be that much closer to her boys.
She lingers, letting the strong scent of Dial sweep over her, stinging in the cuts and lashes that still remain, that are knitting shut even as the water rushes over them, and tries to smother the groan as she works the soap through her hair, working out pine tar and gravel as she scrubs. Even when there’s no more skin to scour, she just lets the water beat on her, leaning against the shower wall exhaustedly. The hot water goes a long way to making her feel more human, less like tenderized steak, and she knows a huge freakin mug of coffee and a handful of Tylenol will go even further. Her belly growls low and impatiently at the thought, and she has a moment where all she can taste is the coppery rush of an herbivore’s blood flowing freely, and she shakes it off. Dean has bacon in the freezer… he always does.
Her jeans slide on over bare flesh, and she wrinkles her nose at the pine scent that still clings to the denim. Her shirt is unsalvageable, blood and gore staining the cotton, and she dumps it in the trash, hangs her bra on the doorknob for now. There’s no way she can manage that one right now, not as stiff as she is, and she realizes belatedly that she just scrapped the only decent thing she has here. There’s an overnight bag somewhere in Madre, but without knowing where she is…
She follows her nose, finds one of Dean’s button-ups stuffed in a corner, and after giving it a tentative sniff, shrugs it on, wincing as the move pulls unhappy muscles. Coffee, painkillers, food now. Her wolf gives a bloody growl, and she shifts, knowing she’ll have to hunt soon. But for now, the bacon she’s sure to find should work.
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Sam comes awake as the spicy scent of pepper bacon and coffee tugs at him, and he has a muzzy moment where his mind offers up the image of Tank standing on a kitchen chair, cooking merrily as Fox hands him the strips of meat.
He’s pretty sure that’s not right, but either way, he’s pretty sure that the foggy numbers are saying it’s around seven in the morning. He could sleep longer, would if the boys weren’t here, but he sits up, shivers in the cold of the room, and tries to kick his brain online.
Damn, but getting old sucked more every year. And he wasn’t talking about the silvery strands he had found a few days ago in his hair. He’d given Dean enough gruff over the years for the steadily silvering patches at his temples that grew every year; he was trying to slink his own badges of age under the radar.
He ignores the lingering aches of old wounds that whisper of another snowfall tonight as he eases his way down the stairs, avoiding the step that creaks as badly as his knee used to, and peers in the den, checks on the boys out of habit. They’re not likely to move for another few hours, no matter how much noise is made, and he notices the scent of Dial on humid air.
The kids don’t shower, and from the frizzy puppy-fluff he could see, they hadn’t. Someone else was in the house. Just as the thought flickers through his brain, he hears the tell-tale sound of a coffee mug moving on wood, and goes Hunter-stealthy as he creeps closer to the kitchen.
Kiara is at the kitchen table, and he stops, mind absently confused as he watches her. She’s not really awake, head propped in her hand, and she’s staring blankly into her coffee as she sways where she’s sitting. He notices she’s dressed though, hair still plastered wetly to her head, not dry enough to spike up yet.
She’s not gushing blood though, or comatose; not gurgling wetly as she struggles to breath, but sitting there half-asleep, whole and healed. He doesn’t really remember moving, just knows one minute, he’s in the doorway, watching her struggle to stay awake, and the next, he’s hugging her hard, ignoring her oof as he squishes her. She tenses for a split second, reaction to being grabbed, confined, then her ribs are moving in a silent chuckle as she leans back against him and hugs his arms. “I’m okay Sam.” He nods, lets her go, abruptly and ashamed, and grabs his own coffee, ignoring the lump in his throat carefully as he measures out the sugar. “Thank you, for watching the boys.”
He busies himself with flipping the bacon sizzling in the old cast iron skillet, until he’s pretty sure that he’s composed again. He loves the kid, a combination of a little sister and a daughter. And seeing her hurt never settles well with him, though he now understands a little better how Dean always reacted. “You know we don’t mind having them. Keeps Dean busy and out of trouble. I swear, the other day he was wanting to see about melting down iron to do iron shells for the shotguns.”
She smothers a chuckle, leaning back against the wooden chair, and her eyes are knowing as he turns back to her, resting his weight on the counter as he crosses his ankles. “You know what I mean.” He can’t match her gaze for long, and shrugs a bit carelessly, sips on his coffee. He’s not willing to say anything else about it, and Kiara seems reluctant to after that, so silence settles a bit heavily around them as they listen to the pups snuffle and shift and mutter in the other room. Every noise they make, Kiara flicks an ear that way, frozen for a moment before relaxing again, and Sam finally can’t stay quiet.
“They’re fine.” She snorts wryly, glances up at him.
“The last time I really saw them, I had strong reason to think one of us was gonna wind up dead. Forgive me for being paranoid over my kids.” The words aren’t biting, but firm, commanding. Reminds him he’s dealing with an Alpha wolf more than a kid at the moment.
“So what exactly happened?” Dean’s voice is rough from the doorway, his eyes still squinting in the bright light of the kitchen, and they both jump. The man is ninja-stealthy when he wants to be, and even worse when he’s not trying. Sam busies himself with transferring the cooked bacon, adding it to the pile staying toasty in the oven.
Kiara rubs at her eyes before stretching backward over the chair, hugging Dean’s waist awkwardly as he drops a casual kiss to her forehead. He’s always more physically affectionate with her; is as a general rule. He’s always connected more with touch than words, and it’s not the first time Sam’s wondered if that’s why he and Fox get along so well. “Freaking Hunter.” She yawns hard, jaw popping loudly as she shakes her head, trying to wake up more. “Didn’t catch him in time to avoid it.”
Dean settles in the chair across the table from her, legs kicked out casually and crossed at the ankle as he watches her intently. “What happened?”
“I told you, a damned Hunter.” She pushes away from the table, eyes glittering in anger as she starts more coffee, and sneaks a piece of bacon from where it’s staying warm in the oven. “We were on our way up here. Got complacent, haven’t been switching the trails. Got lazy. Saw the glint off the muzzle in time to get the boys to change. I dunno if he was actually aiming at the tires, or if his aim just sucked that bad, but it worked pretty decently. Managed to roll Madre a few times, got the boys out of the car, and shifted as we ran like hell. Made sure to stagger plenty and leave a few good bloody patches for him to find. Should appease him until I kill him.”
Sam sucks in a breath, shifts his weight against the counter. “Kiara, you can’t just kill another Hunter.”
“Fuck you Sam. That thing tried to kill my boys. He’s done.” Her frame is tense, quivering with anger, and Sam glances over to Dean, trying to recruit support. Dean’s green gaze is focused on his coffee, studiously ignoring them. “What’s to stop him from finding the Pack, and annihilating them? No, I’ve been down and out a few days, and I’ve got to get back, stop this now. I’ve got his scent; the wind was favorable. And he’s going down. Even if I have to call in a Full Hunt.”
“Kiara, you cannot do this. It’s stupid, and suicidal.”
She slams the coffee mug on the counter, not even wincing as the hot coffee splashes up and out onto her hand. “Don’t. Don’t even. If it was Dean that had a fucking scope pointed at him, you’d be howling for blood. I’ll take the boys back, let Jasmine or Rose watch them while I put this bastard down. Make the message clear.”
Dean cracks his neck, whistles sharp and low, and they both turn, one gaze snapping in anger, the other hard and determined. It’s a split-second later that Tank and Fox peer around the corner of the kitchen wall, and Sam notices Dean smiling into his mug as the boys light up like Christmas morning. They pause for a moment before Kiara sits on the floor, and they charge at her, swamping her in hugs and languages, mixing signs and English and their own code, Fox patting her cheeks every time her gaze wanders from them for more than a second.
Sam knows she’s got a point, and he can’t help but remember when Gordon tried to put Sam down like a rabid dog… something that was bound to hurt and injure others. Dean was raging, livid by the time they were reunited, and he knows that if he hadn’t stopped Dean, the older brother would have done the same to the Hunter. The same damned thing that Kiara is proposing. But it goes against the grain of his being, killing in cold blood, even if it’s self-defense.
And knowing the consequences if other Hunters found out, the repercussions if the Pack was wiped out, scares the hell out of him.
“Criska!” Tank barks the word, jarring Sam from his musing, and he shoves himself away from the counter as Dean rounds the end of the table, kneeling beside Kiara, who’s slumped like a puppet with its strings cut. He can see her hands shaking from where they’re clutching at the floor, and she mutters quietly.
“Tank, why don’t you guys get dressed, huh? Give your mom a moment,” Dean suggests, and the pup only exchanges a glance with Fox for a moment before crossing his arms over his little chest, chin jutting out in defiance as his brother all but crawls under their mom, eyes dark and intense and vaguely threatening.
That one would be a pistol in a few short years, he had no doubt.
“Issac.” Tank jumps, looks to Kiara guiltily, and she shakes her head. She’s still quivering, but she doesn’t look like she’s going to pass out again, and Tank waits just a moment before tugging his brother along with a sharp nod. Once she hears their feet on the stairs, Kiara sighs, drooping a bit. “Damnit.”
“What was that?” Dean still has a tight grip on her arm, and his eyes are narrowed, green gaze hard. Sam suspects he knows, makes his way to the fridge to pull out the city ham that they keep tucked back in the back. The boys and Kiara snack on meat like Dean does M&M’s, and he’s gotten smart enough to keep their favorites stocked when they’re due to visit.
“Stood up too fast, I think.” Kiara’s got color back, even if her voice is still unsteady, and Dean snorts sharply.
“Bullshit.” She throws a half-hearted snarl in his direction, and Sam intervenes even as Dean opens his mouth to retort, handing the sweet meat to the wolf casually.
“How about the fact that she’s not eaten in two weeks, Dean?” The back of his mind always worries when Kiara heals; no human could still be alive after being all but starved and denied water for two weeks, but aside from looking a bit thinner than usual, Kiara is fine. He has to wonder again if it’s just her, or if all Loup Garou are like that.
Kiara pales again at the words, eyes big. “Oh god.” She closes grey eyes, shivering, and they both frown, a bit confused. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”
“No, it was just over two weeks ago that we got the call from Tank.”
“Jesus. Jasmine…” she starts to say more, but Dean overrides her, voice louder than hers.
“Has called several times, and we made it clear the boys were staying here until you were better. She wasn’t pleased with it, but from what I understand, she can’t argue?” His brother manages to make it a question, and the wolf nods, licking the sticky residue from the slice of ham she bolted from her fingers.
“Not unless the boys or I say otherwise.” She sighs, closing her eyes for a moment before opening them again, offering them both a smile. “Thank you. I guess I need to hunt a bit sooner than I thought.”
She makes it to the chair this time, steadier than before, and Sam has that familiar twitch in his gut. The same one that’s settled in every time she shows up stressed or sick, the urge to just hide her away from the rest of the world and protect her. Dean’s the same way, he knows, and he idly wonders if she has any idea how much she and the boys mean to them.
Just as Bobby was their dad in every way but blood, she’s their daughter, in every way but blood.
“You good?” When she nods, he pats her shoulder, smiling. “Alright then. I’m going to help the boys get dressed. Try and stay out of trouble for a bit?” Dean’s green gaze promises even if neither of them speak, and he shakes his head as he makes his way up the stairs. Those two are cut from the same exact cloth.
Tank is pissed, not surprisingly, his movements tight and sharp with the anger, and he just glares at Sam when he makes his way in the room, little nostrils flaring with all the righteous indignation of a child. “We’re not babies,” is the scathing snarl he gets.
Sam settles on the bed, hand brushing down Fox’s back as the kid creeps closer, eyes wide as he watches his brother. “I know you’re not. But your Momma’s not feeling so hot, and I figured I’d give her some space and help you guys out. That okay?”
“She’s not sick, she’s hurt, and Fox knows so, and then she fell, and…” Tank trails off, eyes too bright as he stares at their duffle, shirt clenched in small hands. The look is heartwrenching, and Sam can’t help but want to help. But Tank is a lot like Dean; if you push straight on, he’ll bolt like a colt, heading for the hills. You have to be slow, approach from the side, and pretend like it doesn’t really matter.
Fox has one sock on, well, one on correctly, and the top to his pajamas are on the floor, so Sam helps him work the sock around right, toe seam lined up the way he likes it, before helping with the snaps on his little jeans. The kid is independent to a fault, hates asking for help, but he just doesn’t have the finger strength to snap them, so he tolerates the help with a scowl.
The boys are in a weird mood, considering they’ve seen their mom for the first time in two weeks. He’s trying to tie the sneakers as Fox swings his feet impatiently when Tank sidles closer, clamps his hands on his brother’s knees. He’s still watching the floor intently when he sighs quietly, and says “I have to help. I have to keep them safe. But I don’t know how.”
The Hunter doesn’t know much about how the boys are being raised in the Pack, but he does know it’s probably too much responsibility for the pup. He doesn’t really resist when Sam tugs him closer, pretending to double check everything is right, and that tells Sam a lot. “Kiddo, it’s not your job to protect your Mom. Not here, okay? That’s our job, mine and Dean’s. Got it?” Tank nods, wraps his arms around Sam’s neck in a choking hug, and Sam just rubs the small back easily, standing up with him and settling the Heir on a hip. “Okay guys, I think Dean’s got some Pop-Tarts downstairs… you guys up for it?”
Kiara’s not keen on them having the sugary stuff for breakfast, but considering the stress of the morning so far, he’d say they’re entitled to it today. Tank nods from his perch, hair brushing Sam’s jaw from where he’s rested his head on the Hunter’s shoulder, and Fox just sneezes, already halfway out the door.
He knows by now Kiara is on four legs, hunting prey and determined to bring down the Hunter. Dean is pissed, angry at the idea of her taking on humans but understanding it in his own right; not that the boys will see that. Fox and Dean will probably spend the day in the garage, Tank will help Sam enter the new shipment of books in the references, and when Kiara gets back, they’ll share an uneventful but peaceful dinner, before baths and sleep and they’ll repeat it for a few days, a week if they’re lucky, before she’ll pack up the boys and head home again.
It’s not perfect, but in this family, things rarely are.
*****************************************************
*****************************************************