They Talk of My Drinking, Never My Thirst
Title: They Talk of My Drinking, Never My Thirst
Author: kimonkey7
Written for: plutogirl10
Rating: R - for strong language and adult content
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
SPOILERS/Timeline: Takes place season 1, between Phantom Traveler and Bloody Mary.
A/N: Beta'd by a really tremendously patient friend. I don't know how she puts up with it, but I'm so very grateful she does. Thanks also to another friend, for her kick-in-the-pants once-over early in the game.
Summary: There is no hope unmingled with fear, and no fear unmingled with hope. - Baruch Spinoza
He spits out the oyster of coppery-tasting phlegm that's settled in the back of his throat. "You're dead, you freak."
"Ooh," she coos. "That's pretty big talk for a man in your position."
The blood loss has him woozy and dry-mouthed; left arm a tripwire of agony, shoulder to wrist. He exhales through his nose, inhales through a smirk. "Yeah? And what's my position?"
She squats down next to him, and the lilt in her whisper makes his stomach buck.
"Vulnerable."
*******************************************************************
"The trails of blood found yesterday by David French bring a three day search to a grisly end. French, a National Park employee, followed what he thought were signs of an injured animal fifty yards into the lava cave you see behind me. What he found were the mutilated remains of twenty-year-old Paul Szeman and twenty-one-year-old Michael Seymore, spelunkers missing since July Fourth weekend. Cave exploring, known as 'pot-holing', has become increasingly popular in the Barstow area--" The shot of the pretty reporter jumped to a sitcom, dog food commercial, and settled on wrestling.
Dean shook his head, flicked the pickle chips off his burger, and replaced the bun. "Somethin' called 'pot-holing' oughtta be dirtier than, you know, actual dirt." He glanced up at Sam and toggled his brows. Got a sour look in return.
Sam shifted the laptop to the side of the table, swapping it for his burger. "You still think this isn't up our alley?" he asked with a toss of his head toward the TV over the bar.
"Up our alley," Dean sniggered as he laid strings of ketchup back and forth over his fries. "Nope. I'm stickin' with the wild animal theory."
"Could be another Wendigo."
Dean crammed a flock of fries into his mouth, chewed twice and worked them to his cheek. "Not out here. Not in the desert."
"You said you'd never seen one in Colorado, either," Sam jabbed, still scrolling through the online archive of The Desert Dispatch.
"Coroner already ruled coyote attack."
Sam's face dipped closer to the LCD screen. "When's the last time a coyote carried off two eight-year-olds and left nothing behind but a Sponge-Bob backpack, and a blood-spattered shoe?"
Dean paused and pulled the cheeseburger from the bear trap of his jaws.
Sam raised his eyebrows, gave him a crooked nod. Turned the laptop so Dean could get a look. "This article's from three years ago."
Dean set down his burger and yoinked a half-dozen napkins from the dispenser on the table. Covered them with grease and ruddy smears of ketchup.
"January, 2002," Sam said, pointing at the screen. "Third grade class from a local elementary school takes a field trip to the Desert Discovery Center. End of the day, when the teacher gets the class regrouped to leave? Two kids are missing."
"'Chelsea Greenfeather and Monica Trevino, both eight, did not return with the rest of Carrie Molsen's class after a half-mile roundtrip hike to view a rock ledge,'" Dean read aloud. "'"Everybody was paired up. It's the buddy system," the tearful first-year teacher, twenty-six, explained. "Chelsea and Monica were buddies in real life, too. They really loved pretty rocks."'"
Sam shook his head. "A group of campers found the backpack and a tennis shoe that Spring. Parents identified the personal effects. Blood drops were DNA tested and came up positive for the Trevino girl."
Dean pushed the laptop back toward Sam. "Jesus. They rule coyote attack in that case, too?"
"Eventually." Sam clicked on a link, scrolled, read silently for a moment.
The way Sam sighed 'eventually' let Dean know it was months later, maybe years. If there's no body, there's still hope. People don't just give up looking for a loved one; not until they know for sure.
Sam rained a shower of salt over the fries on his plate. "The stuff was three miles from the rock ledge the class visited. Near the mouth of a cave."
"But no trace of bodies, no bones?"
Sam shook his head again, forced his burger into two with a dull knife. "Nope."
"I dunno, Sammy. Sounds like two different M.O.s to me. That much time passed? There's a lotta scavengers in the desert. Vultures, coyotes, bobcats… I saw a mountain lion kill a baby big-horn sheep in about three seconds, once. Thing never had time to baa."
Sam pulled back, dubious. "You never saw that."
"Did too."
"When?"
"Me and Dad did a job in Death Valley about eight months back," Dean said on the defense. "I was on re-con. Saw the whole thing happen." He punctuated the statement with a tip his beer mug.
Sam stilled for a second. Set down his burger. "What kind of job?"
"Haunted mine, straight outta Scooby-Doo. 'Cept it turned out to be a real ghost, not the park ranger, so…" Dean wiped beer foam from his upper lip. "My opinion? Coulda still been an animal attack."
"You know an animal that can drag two victims over three miles of open desert, no blood trace, without being seen? Without those little girls being heard?"
Dean knuckled a slice of onion past his lip, swallowed and blew out a breath. "You really think this is connected somehow. The cave guys and those two little girls?"
"Yeah, I do. I mean," Sam jostled in the booth across from Dean, wrapped his hands around his own sweating mug of yellow beer, "I can't explain it, but..."
"You just feel it."
"Yeah."
"Fine."
"Really?"
"Yeah, fine. We'll check it out. Do a little diggin'," he shrugged. He lifted his burger off his plate, mustard dripping over his thumb. "Like Dad always says, you can't ignore your gut."
"You guys doin' okay here?"
Dean looked up, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a lecherous smile. He jiggled his burger and gave the waitress a wink. "Best I've had in a long time."
"Then you need to get out more," she said, and knocked the table with her hip as she left.
His chin crossed his shoulder as he followed her retreat. "I wouldn't mind pot-holin' that, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, Dean. I always know what you mean."
*******************************************************************
He wants to know where the hell his brother is and when he's getting here. Hyena-chick's a little more excitement than he was planning on. He isn't sure what her game is, but she can watch him all night; isn't going to stop him from struggling. He's done doing nothing.
He pushes forward from the arc of the cave wall, leans his chest over his thighs and tries the rope around his wrists. She'd got them good and close together; looped them separate - twice. He can't get a quarter inch of give from right to left. Gets a nice strong scream of protest from his left arm, though.
"I prefer you don't struggle," she says, fingering the dead-looking bullet hole under her clavicle. "All that adrenalin and cortisol makes you taste funny." She scrunches her nose from the other side of the cave.
Dean cops a laugh. "The fact my eventual escape from batshit-crazy cave puts a dent in your plans? Not really winnin' the debate, lady." He jerks each leg; proves the ropes at his ankles to be as skillfully tied as the ones behind his back. "Sonuvabitch."
She rises from her crouch and crosses to him. Pops her knee into his shoulder until he's sitting up proper once more.
"Dinner time? So soon?" Dean asks, fighting the rise of panic in his voice. He blinks hard as his vision swims; if the headache hadn't been a good indication of a concussion, the dizziness makes him sure.
She jams the toe of her sneaker into the side of his thigh. "Knees up," she orders.
"Fuck you."
"Knees up!" she repeats with a healthier kick.
"This part of the tenderization process?" he asks, sliding his boots across the stone floor toward his ass.
She swings a leg over and sits on his knees. Leans her forearms on her thighs and gets down to Dean's eye-level. "You're funny."
"I am, aren't I?"
"Sam a comedian like you?"
"Nah, he's the brains of the outfit. Kinda geeky and lanky." He thinks about dropping his knees - knocking her off balance for a second - but something in her eyes keeps his legs bent. "Probably stringy. Not really your type."
"Dead's my type, Dean." She smiles, and pokes his nose with her index finger. "They just have to be dead."
He turns his head to escape her touch, can't pull back - he's already flattened against the rough-hewn wall of the lava tunnel. He bites back a groan when his arm flares and flames. "So what's stoppin' you from finishin' me off?"
"Well," she says rising, stretching her body and the word. She lets the syllable echo through the cave, then die. She's still straddling him, crotch nearly pressed against his face. "A girl's got hunger, and then a girl's got hunger."
*******************************************************************
"That was a bust," Dean said, snapping the key into the ignition.
"Actually, it wasn't," said Sam. He slipped the notepad from his satchel as soon as the passenger door was closed. "I mean, you may not have gotten the pretty receptionist's phone number, but I've got three other missing persons in the past eighteen months and…" he shuffled past a few sheets of scratch, "four different reports of grave desecration. This year alone."
"Grave desecration, huh?" The Impala rumbled to life, and Dean pulled from the curb in front of The Desert Dispatch office. "So, what…you're not thinkin' Wendigo anymore?"
"I dunno," Sam said with a shrug. "Zombie, maybe?"
"Zombie Wendigo?"
"Dude, be serious."
"I am being serious."
"Zombie Wendigo is serious?"
"You got a better theory? 'Cause I'd love to hear it."
Sam swiveled in the passenger seat, set his left leg to crook on the bench between him and Dean. "What's with you?"
"What?"
"What's going on?"
Dean's face gathered like a purse string. "Nothin'. What's with you?"
"With me?" Sam asked indignantly.
"Yeah, you. You don't sleep, you won't talk about it, and - frankly, dude? - you're lookin' like shit these days. Back in Pennsylvania, you were bitchin' and moanin' about how you forgot what this job does to you--"
Sam shifted to face forward again, made at examining his notes.
"And now you're jumpin' at every whiff of blood in the local paper. Your commitment to this has been runnin' in ten different directions since I picked you up in Palo Alto."
Sam's jaw tightened. "My commitment to what?"
"To finding Dad." Dean blew out a breath when he got no response. Shook his head in a tight back-and-forth. "You said you called him fifty times? I musta called him at least a hundred. Got the same as you: not in service. And now that we know he's out there? Alive?"
"Why didn't he call us, Dean? Why?"
"I dunno, okay? But I wanna find him. The why doesn't matter."
"You're unbelievable," Sam exhaled bitterly.
"Because I can forgive the guy if the job drags him off the radar for a little while?"
"Because you always forgive him, Dean. For everything."
Dean rocked in the seat, readjusted his hands on the steering wheel. "I'm not gonna have this fight with you right now, Sam."
"Because you'll lose."
Dean's jaw tilted and clenched. "No, because I've had it up to here--" he banged his knuckles against the Impala's roof "--with your emo bullshit. You wanna find Dad? Let's find Dad."
"I thought the agreement was we'd look for Dad and take out as much evil shit along the way as we could?"
"We don't even know if any of the phenomena here are connected, Sam."
"No, Dean, we don't. I'm throwing possibilities around. Trying to figure this out before someone else gets killed. What are you doing? Besides trying to get in everybody's pants?"
Dean cocked his head and gave a tight smile. "Not everybody's, Sam."
"Whatever. Can you just…can you help me out, here? Do a little thinking with your brain, not your pants?"
"It's not my pants, it's what's in my pants, but--"
"Dude, come on!" Sam's head dropped back until he faced the roof. "God. Can't you just--"
Dean patted the air between them with his palm. "Okay. Calm down, Francis. Take the stick outta your ass. We're on the case, okay?"
"Are you gonna be serious?"
"Yes, okay? Jesus. Just…" Dean trailed off, head shaking.
"Thank you," Sam said.
Dean was still and silent for a second, then dropped a heavy sigh and shook his head again. "First chance we get, we are so gettin' you laid."
*******************************************************************
It's like he's got swimmer's ear, but he hasn't been in the water since Lake Manitoc. He cracks his jaw, and the blood shifts. Spills over the rim of the cup of his ear and slips a tributary down the side of his neck.
Her hands are under his t-shirt, nails coiling and snaking across the landscape of his belly. A little flare goes off when her pinky slips between denim and the sensitive skin of his hip. He jerks away, shooing pebbles across the floor of the cave.
She shifts with him, knees clamping down on his hips like he's a rodeo bull. Dean bites back a grunt when one of her exploring hands brushes against the torn flesh of his bicep.
She draws a moue, clucks, and shakes her head. Slides a finger, slick with his blood, into her mouth and sucks. She pulls it out with a pop that does serious damage to Dean's resistance.
"You're a real sick bitch, you know that?"
She smiles, slow and wide. "I'm a hunter, Dean. Just like you and your nosy brother."
"Sorry, sweetheart. You ain't nothin' like me or Sam."
"Well, you and me…we're both killers, hmm?" she breathes against his cheek, "So there's that. And--" She shifts in his lap, grinding like a dog in heat. "--there's that, too," she giggles.
"Get off me, bitch."
"Oh, Dean," she says, "getting off is exactly what I have in mind."
His lip pulls back in a disgusted snarl. "I didn't realize the undead had a mating season."
She cocks her head and pouts. "Like I said, a body's got needs."
He jerks his shoulder, tries to rebuff her touch. Growls over the pull and pain in his arm. "What happened with those spelunkers? You get a little too hungry before the main event?"
"Those two cave geeks…boy, oh, boy…" She hmphs through her nose, undoing the buttons of her blouse. Winks at Dean, eyes black as beetles. "I thought, you know, two virile young guys? Pretty girl like me? They just couldn't rise to the occasion, though," she tells him, slipping her arms out of the shirt, hair swaying with the shake of her head. "I need to propagate. You understand about instinct, don't you, Dean?"
The flicker of the kerosene lantern dances across her breasts, lengthening the shadow of her cleavage, and Dean presses his shoulder into the wall. Awakens the pain there to remind himself what she really is: a hyena in whore's clothing. Or lack of clothing.
His teeth clack and clatter like an empty ghost train. "Yeah, well, don't count on me for a performance, sister."
"I dunno. You seemed pretty into it back at the bar," she says, then runs her tongue up the side of his neck. Nibbles on his earlobe.
"That was before I knew you were a cannibalistic she-bitch," he says, grunting at the weight she's pressing against his chest. "I draw the line at bestiality."
She pulls back as if stung. "We ghilan aren't animals, Dean. We're demons. Big difference."
"Riiight. Yeah. Huge difference. You eat human flesh, you fuckin' ghouleh. I think that sorta nixes your ticket on the high horse."
"I eat dead flesh, Dean. It'd just rot, otherwise."
He shifts away again. Doesn't like the heat of her hands on his skin. "What about those two little girls? Back in oh-two."
"Hmm?"
"I'm guessin' you weren't tryin' to mate with Monica Trevino and Chelsea Greenfeather."
Her hands come out from behind her back, bra-removal neglected for a moment. She sits back on his thighs, and a puff of breath jumps her bangs from her eyes.
"I'm a gourmand, Dean. I like variety, gastronomic smorgasbord. Just-dead's pretty tasty, but you get a craving for something special every once in a while, you know? Like a really good steak. You like a really good steak, Dean?"
"Stake through your heart'd be pretty awesome right now."
Her eyes go left. A small smile scrolls across her lips. "They were like veal. God, it was amazing. Young and soft and pink and tender as--"
Dean rears under her. "Shut your sick fuckin' mouth."
She snaps her attention to him, grabs his jaw in the vice of her fingers. She leans in close, and 'What big teeth you have, Grandma' skitters through Dean's brain.
"Maybe you'd like to shut it for me."
Her breath pushes past his lips - hot like lava - and he expels it from his mouth with his own exhale.
"Yeah," she decides, fingers trailing the line of his jaw, "you look like the type enjoys a fine cut of meat from time to time."
*******************************************************************
"So, what's the verdict, Dr. Science?" Dean asked from his laze on the bed. He clicked off the TV and tossed the remote onto the nightstand.
"Well, between what research I could find about indigenous animals, and what sense I could pull outta Dad's journal, I think we might be looking at a ghoul."
"A ghoul?" Dean barked. "You gotta be kiddin' me."
"No, I'm not kidding. Listen." Sam flipped a few of the cryptically scribbled pages in John Winchester's hunting bible, ran a finger along the scrawl, then stopped. Drew in a deep breath. "'From the Arabic ghūl, meaning demon. Found in deserts, graveyards, and other uninhabited places. Preys on lone travelers and young children. Lures, slaughters, and devours them."
"Sounds a little anti-social."
"'Also has the ability to shapeshift, often taking the form of a hyena.'"
"Which is like a coyote, kind of," Dean said, shifting to a sit on the side of the bed.
"It does kind of draw some lines between the two girls, the cave guys, and the grave desecrations."
"Kinda does," Dean said, rubbing his jaw.
"I mean, Dad's headed us off on hunts with less than this."
Dean tilted his head, bones in his neck doing a gristmill imitation. "Yeah, well…Dad knows what he's doin'."
Sam quirked his lips and closed the journal. Dropped it back onto the table. "You said he was letting you run solo gigs. Besides, we've already handled three pretty big jobs on our own so far."
"I dunno, man."
Sam turned in the chair, chucked down his pen next to the journal. "I thought we were decided on this."
"We are."
"Then what's the problem?"
"There's no problem," Dean huffed, rising from the bed and heading toward the bathroom.
"You left him a message."
Dean froze, his back to Sam.
"I did, too, Dean. And he still hasn't called." We dropped in on every friend or enemy of his we know of - from Pennsylvania to California - and got nothing. So we'll head back east and try it again. But I gotta feel like it means something, Dean. Coming back into this life-- I need something good to come out of it. I need it to have some purpose, because if we don't find him…"
The muscles in Dean's back tensed, Sam's hesitation a palpable and weighty thing.
"I'm gonna go crazy if I don't keep my mind off him, off what happened to Jess and to Mom, and what all that means…"
"We're gonna find him," Dean said without turning.
Sam let out a long sigh. "I thought I was done with this. It's why I left. It was his quest, not mine."
Dean stepped forward, turned, leaned against the door frame to the bathroom. "People leave," he said. "Things change." He didn't mean to hang the words with so much accusation. He pushed off the jamb and waved an arm between them. "I'm gonna hit the shower and then maybe we can head out to the desert. Check out the caves. Tomorrow morning, we'll get up early, grab some breakfast and then, you know, you head to the library and do your geek thing."
Sam rolled his eyes, and Dean felt half the tension in his back melt away.
"And what is it you'll be doing while I'm busting my ass on research?"
Dean tilted up his chin and gave his brother half a smirk. "I'll hit the locals, work my charms there. Maybe we can find some connection between the victims and the grave desecrations. Somethin' that strings 'em together. Okay?"
Sam ran both hands through his hair. "Yeah. Okay."
Dean nodded. Stepped into the bathroom, then turned. "We are gonna find him, Sam."
Sam nodded in return. "Yeah. I hope so."
*******************************************************************
He holds down the growl, deep in his throat. It rumbles painfully against the strained, tight muscles there. Rolls up and explodes with a grateful gasp when her fingers stop their probing. She stands up. Stares down at him, his blood trickling from her clenched fist. Falling against the stone floor with a staccato tickplink.
"I gotta say, you've been a real disappointment, Dean."
"Right back atcha," he huffs. He chances a peek at his left arm, squeezes shut his eyes when he thinks he sees a flash of bone in the pulpy mess below his shoulder.
"I'm a pretty good improviser, though." She raises her dripping fist between them. "You won't come for me? I'll get Sammy to come for you. And then maybe I'll get him to come for me." Her teeth flash like white knives in the light.
"Not a big James Bond fan, huh? I never understood why evil shits like you don't watch more Bond." He shifts; straightens himself against the wall of the cave. "See, in all the Bond flicks? When the idiot villain - that'd be you - captures the ass-kicking hero - that'd be me - they never kill 'im right away."
"Really," she drawls with mild amusement.
"They're always a little too cocky. Have to share their evil brilliance. Gives the cavalry all the time they need to circle up." Dean gives her his best sanctimonious smile. "Sam's too smart to fall for a fake blood trail, darlin'. You're gonna have to settle for some internet porn and a midnight snack."
A slick flow of laughter roils past her lips like ink. She tilts back her head and tosses her hair behind her shoulders with a shake. At first, he thinks it's a trick of the light; her neck thickens, lower jaw slides forward. He blinks hard once, opens his eyes, and there's no mistaking it. When she drops her chin and smiles at him, her teeth are sharp. Black eyes rimmed with gold.
"Sam! Sam, help me!" she shouts, voice a perfect imitation of Dean's.
She hitches through a high-pitch giggle, and the hairs at his nape get horizontal.
"Is Sam that smart, Dean?"
*******************************************************************
He took another tumble, thumped a knee on the rocky ground. "Sonuva--!"
"You all right?" Sam called from up ahead.
Dean wiped the welling beads of blood from his scraped palms onto his thighs. "Super. I just love geological obstacle courses by moonlight."
Sam's chuckle echoed off the walls of the stone wash. "Hey, man. It was your idea to come out here tonight."
"Yeah, well," Dean grumbled, regaining his feet, "I didn't hear you disagree with me."
"We could always come back in the morning, but then you'll complain about the heat, too, instead of just the rocks and the sand and the hiking."
Dean took three tentative steps forward, shinned an outcropping of rock, and let a firestorm of filthy curses cover the distance between him and his brother.
"Dude, would you stop being so loud?" Sam answered back.
"We're in the middle of the fuckin' desert," he whined, yanking up the leg of his jeans past his knee. He ran his fingers over the skin, feeling for wetness. "And tell me again why we can't use our fuckin' flashlights?"
Sam's exhale cut through the whir of night insects. "Because we're trespassing on a currently restricted park area, Dean. They're gonna have the Game Warden out here searching for something you and I both know isn't a coyote or a mountain lion, so, better we find it first. We don't need to draw any attention to ourselves while we're out in the open."
"Who's gonna see a fuckin' flashlight out here? You don't think we're gonna draw attention to ourselves when you have to take me to the emergency room with two shattered legs?" he grumbled, rubbing his shin.
Sam snorted. "Like you'd go to an emergency room."
"'S not the point."
Dean heard a skitter of stone behind him. Had his gun drawn and pointed at five o'clock - safety off - before the last pebble stopped rolling. The high rock walls on either side ate what anemic light the new moon was shining, and Dean's eyes darted left and right of the sound's point of origin. It was a technique their dad taught them; tricking your brain to pick out images in the dark by looking around them instead of at them.
"Hey, Dean," Sam called. "You remember that ghost in the barbershop? Kansas City, I think."
The black shape of a lizard snugged itself further between the rocks - two gold-point eyes flashing from the crag - and Dean let out a breath. "Wichita," he said, returning the Colt to the waistband at his back.
"Man, Dad got messed up on that job."
"Hell, yeah, he did," said Dean, picking his way behind Sam. "I musta spent three hours stitchin' up his arms and back that night."
"What's with that?"
"What's with what?"
Sam stopped. Turned and took a step back toward Dean.
"Dad's refusal to step foot in a hospital. I mean, the man can make up a cover story like a master spy but, instead, he turns our motel rooms into teaching hospitals. You know, I learned how to suture before I learned how to ride a bike."
"Probably because we never had bikes."
Sam barked out a laugh. "True." He turned and started back through the wash.
"Besides," Dean said, following, "He doesn't refuse. He goes when he has to."
"When?" Sam asked with pointed doubt. "Dude, I can't think of a single time Dad was in an ER when it wasn't to bring you or me there. Like, with a hundred-and-four degree temperature."
Dean kicked past a scrub of brush. "That haunted mine gig I told you about?"
"Yeah?"
"Dad took a serious header on the tail end of that one. Cracked his head on an old ore cart." Dean's fingers waggled absently near his right temple. "Knocked him out cold for about an hour and a half. I actually heard his cheekbone snap."
Rocks gritted under Sam's feet when he turned. "Seriously?"
"Opened up a gash an inch wide on his cheek, bled like a motherfucker. Scared the crap outta me." He cocked his head. "He wasn't too thrilled when he woke up in the emergency room, but fuck if I don't know my limits when it comes to shit like that."
"Jesus."
"Yeah."
They both stood silent for a moment.
"You're as bad as him, you know," Sam said finally with a little shake of his head. He started off again. "Neither one of you can stand being taken care of."
"Depends on the hotness factor of the nurse, Sammy," Dean said, patting his brother's chest as he passed to take the lead. "That, or the naughtiness factor. I do love me a naughty nurse."
The sound stopped them both cold, and Dean took one step back, arm reaching out to make contact with Sam. It definitely wasn't a wolf or a coyote. Sounded more like a baleful moose; a long low rooting that whooped up near the end.
"The hell?" Dean muttered, hand fisting in the sleeve of Sam's t-shirt.
The call came again, transforming this time into the sick chatter of psychotic monkeys.
"Seriously, what the hell is that? It's fuckin' creepy."
"Um…I think a hyena?"
Dean made a pinched face. "Those aren't really…indigenous to Barstow, are they."
"Probably not."
"Shit."
The yipping laugh came again, fell over them like maniacal rain. Their faces shot up, eyes piercing the darkness at the top of the wash's rock walls. Dean tugged Sam's arm, pulled himself and his brother flush against the warm desert stone. Moonlight glinted off his redrawn Colt.
"How close?" he half-whispered next to Sam.
"I dunno. Close," Sam said, and the echoed cock of his own pistol bounced between them.
The whining ricochet of gunfire exploded in three quick bursts, pinged and pocked around Dean's shout of "Sam!"
The dark shape leapt from above, took him down hard. Smashed him against the stone wall and clamped its jaw onto his left arm. Ripped him from his grip on Sam. It dragged Dean to the ground by a captive elbow, and pain severed the all-important brain command of shootshootaimfireshoot!
His temple bounced off a rock causing a starburst eruption across his desert vision. Another pull and drag on his arm and "Shoot it, Sam!" clawed from Dean's throat, pushing past the weight of the thing on his chest.
Dean's own gun was useless, lost. He didn't know when he dropped it, but the fingers of his right hand weren't wrapped around the handle. They were twisting and pulling at the hyena's forward mane, trying to get the thing to release its savage grip on his left arm. He heard Sam call his name as the beast bit and lifted; teeth ripping through flesh, nicking bone. Dragged his head against another rock.
The hyena yipped and lurched with the impact of Sam's bullets, snarled and bore down tighter on Dean's arm.
He was almost sure it was him screaming when everything went black.
*******************************************************************
Sam's got one hand slapped against the juncture of neck and shoulder, the other rummaging wildly through the trunk. The bite wound's superficial; two or three canine punctures and some scrapes. The cut high in his hairline - the place where he met rocky ground and got his lights knocked out - is bleeding more, but he can't mess with either. Dean's missing.
His searching hand finds the chalk bag and the Book of Rites. No sense bringing anything else; he knows now for sure they're dealing with a ghoul. That's why it doesn't matter he hit the hyena twice - neck and back - with clean shots. Didn't kill it, and it won't kill the body the demon's hijacked. He's not positive the exorcism they used in Pennsylvania is going to do the job, but it's the best weapon he's got. He jams the chalk bag into the front pocket of his jeans, the book in his back pocket. Thinks for a second, then doffs his wallet from the other pocket and replaces it with a flask of holy water. He slams the trunk lid. Slaps his hands on the black lacquer, arms locked, and tries to catch his breath.
Every pound of his heart says, 'Not Dean, too,' because Sam's not sure he can take another debit in the loved-ones ledger. He told his brother he needs all of this to mean something - for good to come of it. He should have told him he needs him, too. For all the holes Stanford and good friends and Jess had filled in his life, he'd ached for his brother; a missing limb that flared phantom during the best and worst of times in California. He starts back for the wash and the lava caves, beam of his flashlight bouncing over just-visited rocks.
Fuck being noticed.
*******************************************************************
It's a fumbling, rough consciousness that comes to him. Pain and darkness, the crude smell of blood and musk and rotting flesh. Bile climbs his gorge and he rolls to the side, vomits through the agony blazing across his body and brain. It takes a second - and a failed attempt to push himself away from his own sick - to realize he's trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey.
He moans, grunts, tries to scoot into a position that takes some pressure off his left side. Something moves beside him, and he snaps open his eyes. It's a real what-the-fuck moment when his vision settles and clears: squatting next to him is Marny - Mary? Marcy? - the waitress who hip-checked their table and practically eye-fucked him at the bar.
"Rise and shine, valentine," she says, then laughs; the same chimpy chatter they heard before the attack.
"You gotta be kiddin' me," he groans. He squeezes his eyes against all the pieces falling into place, and then the whole puzzle's obliterated in a hot-white flash of panic. "Sammy?"
"That your brother?" His eyes flick to her, and she shrugs. "You two smell alike. Anyway…he's long gone. Screamed like a lamb when I took you down." She leans in close, breath like hot cotton bouncing off his cheek. "I got in my licks, though," she says, and a pink triangle of tongue darts across her lower lip.
"You bitch," he huffs.
"Wasn't around when I went back for him. I'm guessing he'll come looking for you, hmm? Pack mentality and all," she winks. "No worries. I'll find him or he'll find us. Either way, gonna be a hell of a party, huh?"
She grins down at him, teeth flashing Cheshire Cat in the dark.
He spits out the oyster of coppery-tasting phlegm that's settled in the back of his throat. "You're dead, you freak."
"Ooh," she coos. "That's pretty big talk for a man in your position."
He exhales through his nose, inhales through a smirk. "Yeah? And what's my position?"
She squats down next to him.
"Vulnerable."
*******************************************************************
His foot slips and he goes down to one knee, free hand shooting out to break the fall. He knows what the slickness is, even before the Maglite shows him ruby puddles of his brother's blood. Electric spit floods his tongue and he swallows hard. Wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
"Jesus."
Three feet left, the Mag's beam grabs the edge of some splatter, the crush-swirl of heel-dragged pumice. Five feet beyond that, smeared across the face of a rock, are two bloody finger trails; taillights on a black rainy night. Sam's back on his feet. Picks up the pace.
He's skidding over rock, pebbles grinding underfoot. A drop of red here, scruff of stone there; it's a trail, and he's the hound. He's making his way around a cropping of boulders when he freezes.
"Sam?"
The hairs on the back of his neck flutter.
"Sammy?"
He cocks his head, makes himself breath. The cry is echo-y and distant. Distressed. Sam pinpoints the mouth of a cave twenty yards ahead, but something keeps his feet planted: swap the desert for the woods, and it's Lost Creek all over again. He closes his eyes and waits.
"Help me. Please, Sam!"
It's Dean, but it's not. It's a damn good imitation, but his gut tells him no. He skimmed an excerpt on a website when he was researching…about how some cultures believe hyenas can learn to mimic human voices. Lure victims with the call of loved ones.
Thoughts are dominoes in his head; knocking into one another, rushing toward an end. If it's Dean, Sam needs to get to him now. If it's the ghoul, Sam needs to get to Dean sooner.
If he's dead--
He doesn't have a choice except in how he travels, and their dad taught them to travel smart.
"Nothing lures you without a plan. You make sure you've got one of your own."
******************************************************************
He chastises himself when he comes to. He knows better, he really does. It's not the coolness of the cave that has his jaw playing castanets. Between the concussion and the blood loss and the aching tightness of his muscles, he knows he's going into shock. The last thing he should be doing is sleeping.
He figures he's alone after he rolls to his side. It's not a quiet process, and that bitch would have been on him like a fat kid on Cheetos. He keeps his eyes clamped shut until the ocean roar of pain recedes, then hoists his lids half-mast and lets his dilated pupils adjust.
He's been moved. Doesn't remember it - and that gives him pause - but he knows he used to be on the opposite side of the room from the desiccated corpse he's currently spooning. He'd watched her pick strips from it, chew and smack her lips.
He's scared. Really fucking scared for the first time in a long time. He's having trouble breathing and the pain's too much. He really just - Oh, God… - needs his brother - Sammy, please… - to save him.
*******************************************************************
Sam's moving slowly, and it's torture. Agony. For every foot he inches forward, the Dean-voice moves farther into the cave. It's trying to draw him in, and he needs it to think it's getting what it wants. He's not sure what to expect - hyena or ghoul, a mix of both - but he's got a contingency plan for each.
*******************************************************************
"Dean?"
Oh, God, oh, yes, oh, Sammy, thankyouthnakyou…
"Can you sit up?"
Dean might cry. Sam's hands twist into the front of his shirt, and Dean nearly loses it. "Sammmm."
The 'm' slams a gate on the groan in his throat as his brother maneuvers him into a sit.
"Easy, easy," he coos as he rests him against the cave wall. "You okay?"
Dean manages a nod in reply. Choo-choos a few breaths. Sam's fingers tap his cheek.
"I need you to open your eyes, Dean."
"Mmm."
"So you can watch."
Huh? "What?"
"You like to watch, don'tcha?"
He loses it, then. There's no energy for his shoulders to hitch, his breath to catch. The tears are silent wet heat across his clammy skin.
"'Cause I want you to watch, Dean. I'm gonna make you watch me bring Sam in here, and then I'm gonna make you watch me kill him."
It's her voice, not Sam's. He can hear the smile on her lips.
"And then, I'm gonna eat him, Dean." She leans in until her mouth is next to his ear. "And then, I'm gonna eat you."
He'll come. Sam'll come, goddamnit.
His thick tongue drags over his desert lips. "Don't forget…your nice chianti and…fava beans," he parcels.
She huffs a conciliatory laugh. "All because you had to be such a limpdick." She crouches at his side. "You know, this could have been a lot more pleasurable. Now I'm gonna make sure it's anything but."
"Screw you."
"You wouldn't. That's the problem." She wraps her fingers around the ravaged flesh of his left arm - "Make a little noise for me, Dean," - and squeezes.
*******************************************************************
Sam's head snaps up.
Nonononono…
Because that's Dean. That's his brother screaming like that. Oh, God… That's Dean.
It takes everything Sam has not to race inside.
Nonono. Stay cool. He's alive. He dusts his hands on his jeans, heads for the tumble of rocks to the side of the cave entrance. He's still alive.
*******************************************************************
Dean's eyes roll up. A black shroud rises as his scream tapers off, flash of white teeth above the lose gape of his jaw. He's only out for a second, then his last reserve of adrenalin stokes the fire in his left arm. An electric blanket melts through him, head-to-toe. "'S not…gonna work. He's not…gonna--"
"He's already here."
*******************************************************************
"Sammy!"
It's closer. He turns his head away from the cave entrance. Puts on his best acting chops: frantic desperation. "Dean?" he calls.
"Sam!"
Closer. He sets his shoulder against the rock pile.
"Sam, help me!"
He puts all his weight into it. Shoves. The stones tumble, and Sam looses an Oscar-worthy holler. He has just enough time to get the cap off the flask when she rushes out.
Speed and instinct dormant a month ago sets him in motion. He lashes crisscrossing arcs of holy water in her path. It sizzles and pops on her skin and she screams.
It's like the best CGI he's ever seen - no need for cutaways and close-ups. In a blink, the ghoul becomes a hyena. It falls back on its haunches, springs forward to strike. Never notices the chalk runes on the ground.
The Hermetic sigils are part black magic familiar-trap, part Gary Gygax Monster Manual. Dean'll kick his ass for being so slap-dash desperate, but it works. It fucking works.
The hyena strikes an invisible force field mid-air. Trampolines back and lands on its hip with a yelp. Scrambles like a cyclone to its four shaking legs.
Sam drops the flask. Hops down from his boulder perch and gets his feet planted, lets his breath even out. He pulls the Book of Rites from his pocket and finds his page. Approaches carefully. Minds the sigils.
It's pacing the plane of the pentagon, mane up and lip in a snarl. Laser-hate eyes locked on Sam. Long strings of saliva drip from its maw, and the thing works a rumble to rival the Impala. It screams when he starts the Latin.
*******************************************************************
"Dean. Hey, man. Can you hear me?"
Oh…
"Open your eyes, man. Dean."
Oh, please…
"Dean?"
"Sam?" It's barely audible and immediately crushed by the weight of joy in Sam's voice.
"Hey, man."
A reciprocal transference of relief - palpable, bright, shining - passes between Dean's chest and the hand Sam's placed there.
"That really you?"
"Yeah, man. It's really me."
Dean opens his eyes when he feels his pant leg being tugged, watches his brother maneuver the knife from the sheath in his boot. Sam flashes him a grin, pats his leg. Slips the blade under the rope at Dean's ankles and yanks up.
"You're bleedin'," Dean says.
Sam shakes his head, moves up to kneel at his hip. "I'm fine." He wraps an arm across Dean's chest and eases him forward.
He groans into Sam's shoulder, doesn't even try to keep it in. Makes better management of the hisses and moans that accompany the needlework when the rope at his wrists is cut.
Sam supports him. Allows Dean to lean until at least his right arm is useful again.
"Thought you left me behind, Sammy."
It's an awkward and gentle embrace. Lasts just for a second.
"Nope."
Dean's right hand twists in the back of Sam's shirt.
"I got you, man. No worries."
Dean sighs, then goes limp. Sam cradles him, scared, but sure somehow. Safe.
"I've always got you."
Author: kimonkey7
Written for: plutogirl10
Rating: R - for strong language and adult content
Disclaimer: Not mine. Damn it.
SPOILERS/Timeline: Takes place season 1, between Phantom Traveler and Bloody Mary.
A/N: Beta'd by a really tremendously patient friend. I don't know how she puts up with it, but I'm so very grateful she does. Thanks also to another friend, for her kick-in-the-pants once-over early in the game.
Summary: There is no hope unmingled with fear, and no fear unmingled with hope. - Baruch Spinoza
He spits out the oyster of coppery-tasting phlegm that's settled in the back of his throat. "You're dead, you freak."
"Ooh," she coos. "That's pretty big talk for a man in your position."
The blood loss has him woozy and dry-mouthed; left arm a tripwire of agony, shoulder to wrist. He exhales through his nose, inhales through a smirk. "Yeah? And what's my position?"
She squats down next to him, and the lilt in her whisper makes his stomach buck.
"Vulnerable."
*******************************************************************
"The trails of blood found yesterday by David French bring a three day search to a grisly end. French, a National Park employee, followed what he thought were signs of an injured animal fifty yards into the lava cave you see behind me. What he found were the mutilated remains of twenty-year-old Paul Szeman and twenty-one-year-old Michael Seymore, spelunkers missing since July Fourth weekend. Cave exploring, known as 'pot-holing', has become increasingly popular in the Barstow area--" The shot of the pretty reporter jumped to a sitcom, dog food commercial, and settled on wrestling.
Dean shook his head, flicked the pickle chips off his burger, and replaced the bun. "Somethin' called 'pot-holing' oughtta be dirtier than, you know, actual dirt." He glanced up at Sam and toggled his brows. Got a sour look in return.
Sam shifted the laptop to the side of the table, swapping it for his burger. "You still think this isn't up our alley?" he asked with a toss of his head toward the TV over the bar.
"Up our alley," Dean sniggered as he laid strings of ketchup back and forth over his fries. "Nope. I'm stickin' with the wild animal theory."
"Could be another Wendigo."
Dean crammed a flock of fries into his mouth, chewed twice and worked them to his cheek. "Not out here. Not in the desert."
"You said you'd never seen one in Colorado, either," Sam jabbed, still scrolling through the online archive of The Desert Dispatch.
"Coroner already ruled coyote attack."
Sam's face dipped closer to the LCD screen. "When's the last time a coyote carried off two eight-year-olds and left nothing behind but a Sponge-Bob backpack, and a blood-spattered shoe?"
Dean paused and pulled the cheeseburger from the bear trap of his jaws.
Sam raised his eyebrows, gave him a crooked nod. Turned the laptop so Dean could get a look. "This article's from three years ago."
Dean set down his burger and yoinked a half-dozen napkins from the dispenser on the table. Covered them with grease and ruddy smears of ketchup.
"January, 2002," Sam said, pointing at the screen. "Third grade class from a local elementary school takes a field trip to the Desert Discovery Center. End of the day, when the teacher gets the class regrouped to leave? Two kids are missing."
"'Chelsea Greenfeather and Monica Trevino, both eight, did not return with the rest of Carrie Molsen's class after a half-mile roundtrip hike to view a rock ledge,'" Dean read aloud. "'"Everybody was paired up. It's the buddy system," the tearful first-year teacher, twenty-six, explained. "Chelsea and Monica were buddies in real life, too. They really loved pretty rocks."'"
Sam shook his head. "A group of campers found the backpack and a tennis shoe that Spring. Parents identified the personal effects. Blood drops were DNA tested and came up positive for the Trevino girl."
Dean pushed the laptop back toward Sam. "Jesus. They rule coyote attack in that case, too?"
"Eventually." Sam clicked on a link, scrolled, read silently for a moment.
The way Sam sighed 'eventually' let Dean know it was months later, maybe years. If there's no body, there's still hope. People don't just give up looking for a loved one; not until they know for sure.
Sam rained a shower of salt over the fries on his plate. "The stuff was three miles from the rock ledge the class visited. Near the mouth of a cave."
"But no trace of bodies, no bones?"
Sam shook his head again, forced his burger into two with a dull knife. "Nope."
"I dunno, Sammy. Sounds like two different M.O.s to me. That much time passed? There's a lotta scavengers in the desert. Vultures, coyotes, bobcats… I saw a mountain lion kill a baby big-horn sheep in about three seconds, once. Thing never had time to baa."
Sam pulled back, dubious. "You never saw that."
"Did too."
"When?"
"Me and Dad did a job in Death Valley about eight months back," Dean said on the defense. "I was on re-con. Saw the whole thing happen." He punctuated the statement with a tip his beer mug.
Sam stilled for a second. Set down his burger. "What kind of job?"
"Haunted mine, straight outta Scooby-Doo. 'Cept it turned out to be a real ghost, not the park ranger, so…" Dean wiped beer foam from his upper lip. "My opinion? Coulda still been an animal attack."
"You know an animal that can drag two victims over three miles of open desert, no blood trace, without being seen? Without those little girls being heard?"
Dean knuckled a slice of onion past his lip, swallowed and blew out a breath. "You really think this is connected somehow. The cave guys and those two little girls?"
"Yeah, I do. I mean," Sam jostled in the booth across from Dean, wrapped his hands around his own sweating mug of yellow beer, "I can't explain it, but..."
"You just feel it."
"Yeah."
"Fine."
"Really?"
"Yeah, fine. We'll check it out. Do a little diggin'," he shrugged. He lifted his burger off his plate, mustard dripping over his thumb. "Like Dad always says, you can't ignore your gut."
"You guys doin' okay here?"
Dean looked up, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a lecherous smile. He jiggled his burger and gave the waitress a wink. "Best I've had in a long time."
"Then you need to get out more," she said, and knocked the table with her hip as she left.
His chin crossed his shoulder as he followed her retreat. "I wouldn't mind pot-holin' that, if you know what I mean."
"Yes, Dean. I always know what you mean."
*******************************************************************
He wants to know where the hell his brother is and when he's getting here. Hyena-chick's a little more excitement than he was planning on. He isn't sure what her game is, but she can watch him all night; isn't going to stop him from struggling. He's done doing nothing.
He pushes forward from the arc of the cave wall, leans his chest over his thighs and tries the rope around his wrists. She'd got them good and close together; looped them separate - twice. He can't get a quarter inch of give from right to left. Gets a nice strong scream of protest from his left arm, though.
"I prefer you don't struggle," she says, fingering the dead-looking bullet hole under her clavicle. "All that adrenalin and cortisol makes you taste funny." She scrunches her nose from the other side of the cave.
Dean cops a laugh. "The fact my eventual escape from batshit-crazy cave puts a dent in your plans? Not really winnin' the debate, lady." He jerks each leg; proves the ropes at his ankles to be as skillfully tied as the ones behind his back. "Sonuvabitch."
She rises from her crouch and crosses to him. Pops her knee into his shoulder until he's sitting up proper once more.
"Dinner time? So soon?" Dean asks, fighting the rise of panic in his voice. He blinks hard as his vision swims; if the headache hadn't been a good indication of a concussion, the dizziness makes him sure.
She jams the toe of her sneaker into the side of his thigh. "Knees up," she orders.
"Fuck you."
"Knees up!" she repeats with a healthier kick.
"This part of the tenderization process?" he asks, sliding his boots across the stone floor toward his ass.
She swings a leg over and sits on his knees. Leans her forearms on her thighs and gets down to Dean's eye-level. "You're funny."
"I am, aren't I?"
"Sam a comedian like you?"
"Nah, he's the brains of the outfit. Kinda geeky and lanky." He thinks about dropping his knees - knocking her off balance for a second - but something in her eyes keeps his legs bent. "Probably stringy. Not really your type."
"Dead's my type, Dean." She smiles, and pokes his nose with her index finger. "They just have to be dead."
He turns his head to escape her touch, can't pull back - he's already flattened against the rough-hewn wall of the lava tunnel. He bites back a groan when his arm flares and flames. "So what's stoppin' you from finishin' me off?"
"Well," she says rising, stretching her body and the word. She lets the syllable echo through the cave, then die. She's still straddling him, crotch nearly pressed against his face. "A girl's got hunger, and then a girl's got hunger."
*******************************************************************
"That was a bust," Dean said, snapping the key into the ignition.
"Actually, it wasn't," said Sam. He slipped the notepad from his satchel as soon as the passenger door was closed. "I mean, you may not have gotten the pretty receptionist's phone number, but I've got three other missing persons in the past eighteen months and…" he shuffled past a few sheets of scratch, "four different reports of grave desecration. This year alone."
"Grave desecration, huh?" The Impala rumbled to life, and Dean pulled from the curb in front of The Desert Dispatch office. "So, what…you're not thinkin' Wendigo anymore?"
"I dunno," Sam said with a shrug. "Zombie, maybe?"
"Zombie Wendigo?"
"Dude, be serious."
"I am being serious."
"Zombie Wendigo is serious?"
"You got a better theory? 'Cause I'd love to hear it."
Sam swiveled in the passenger seat, set his left leg to crook on the bench between him and Dean. "What's with you?"
"What?"
"What's going on?"
Dean's face gathered like a purse string. "Nothin'. What's with you?"
"With me?" Sam asked indignantly.
"Yeah, you. You don't sleep, you won't talk about it, and - frankly, dude? - you're lookin' like shit these days. Back in Pennsylvania, you were bitchin' and moanin' about how you forgot what this job does to you--"
Sam shifted to face forward again, made at examining his notes.
"And now you're jumpin' at every whiff of blood in the local paper. Your commitment to this has been runnin' in ten different directions since I picked you up in Palo Alto."
Sam's jaw tightened. "My commitment to what?"
"To finding Dad." Dean blew out a breath when he got no response. Shook his head in a tight back-and-forth. "You said you called him fifty times? I musta called him at least a hundred. Got the same as you: not in service. And now that we know he's out there? Alive?"
"Why didn't he call us, Dean? Why?"
"I dunno, okay? But I wanna find him. The why doesn't matter."
"You're unbelievable," Sam exhaled bitterly.
"Because I can forgive the guy if the job drags him off the radar for a little while?"
"Because you always forgive him, Dean. For everything."
Dean rocked in the seat, readjusted his hands on the steering wheel. "I'm not gonna have this fight with you right now, Sam."
"Because you'll lose."
Dean's jaw tilted and clenched. "No, because I've had it up to here--" he banged his knuckles against the Impala's roof "--with your emo bullshit. You wanna find Dad? Let's find Dad."
"I thought the agreement was we'd look for Dad and take out as much evil shit along the way as we could?"
"We don't even know if any of the phenomena here are connected, Sam."
"No, Dean, we don't. I'm throwing possibilities around. Trying to figure this out before someone else gets killed. What are you doing? Besides trying to get in everybody's pants?"
Dean cocked his head and gave a tight smile. "Not everybody's, Sam."
"Whatever. Can you just…can you help me out, here? Do a little thinking with your brain, not your pants?"
"It's not my pants, it's what's in my pants, but--"
"Dude, come on!" Sam's head dropped back until he faced the roof. "God. Can't you just--"
Dean patted the air between them with his palm. "Okay. Calm down, Francis. Take the stick outta your ass. We're on the case, okay?"
"Are you gonna be serious?"
"Yes, okay? Jesus. Just…" Dean trailed off, head shaking.
"Thank you," Sam said.
Dean was still and silent for a second, then dropped a heavy sigh and shook his head again. "First chance we get, we are so gettin' you laid."
*******************************************************************
It's like he's got swimmer's ear, but he hasn't been in the water since Lake Manitoc. He cracks his jaw, and the blood shifts. Spills over the rim of the cup of his ear and slips a tributary down the side of his neck.
Her hands are under his t-shirt, nails coiling and snaking across the landscape of his belly. A little flare goes off when her pinky slips between denim and the sensitive skin of his hip. He jerks away, shooing pebbles across the floor of the cave.
She shifts with him, knees clamping down on his hips like he's a rodeo bull. Dean bites back a grunt when one of her exploring hands brushes against the torn flesh of his bicep.
She draws a moue, clucks, and shakes her head. Slides a finger, slick with his blood, into her mouth and sucks. She pulls it out with a pop that does serious damage to Dean's resistance.
"You're a real sick bitch, you know that?"
She smiles, slow and wide. "I'm a hunter, Dean. Just like you and your nosy brother."
"Sorry, sweetheart. You ain't nothin' like me or Sam."
"Well, you and me…we're both killers, hmm?" she breathes against his cheek, "So there's that. And--" She shifts in his lap, grinding like a dog in heat. "--there's that, too," she giggles.
"Get off me, bitch."
"Oh, Dean," she says, "getting off is exactly what I have in mind."
His lip pulls back in a disgusted snarl. "I didn't realize the undead had a mating season."
She cocks her head and pouts. "Like I said, a body's got needs."
He jerks his shoulder, tries to rebuff her touch. Growls over the pull and pain in his arm. "What happened with those spelunkers? You get a little too hungry before the main event?"
"Those two cave geeks…boy, oh, boy…" She hmphs through her nose, undoing the buttons of her blouse. Winks at Dean, eyes black as beetles. "I thought, you know, two virile young guys? Pretty girl like me? They just couldn't rise to the occasion, though," she tells him, slipping her arms out of the shirt, hair swaying with the shake of her head. "I need to propagate. You understand about instinct, don't you, Dean?"
The flicker of the kerosene lantern dances across her breasts, lengthening the shadow of her cleavage, and Dean presses his shoulder into the wall. Awakens the pain there to remind himself what she really is: a hyena in whore's clothing. Or lack of clothing.
His teeth clack and clatter like an empty ghost train. "Yeah, well, don't count on me for a performance, sister."
"I dunno. You seemed pretty into it back at the bar," she says, then runs her tongue up the side of his neck. Nibbles on his earlobe.
"That was before I knew you were a cannibalistic she-bitch," he says, grunting at the weight she's pressing against his chest. "I draw the line at bestiality."
She pulls back as if stung. "We ghilan aren't animals, Dean. We're demons. Big difference."
"Riiight. Yeah. Huge difference. You eat human flesh, you fuckin' ghouleh. I think that sorta nixes your ticket on the high horse."
"I eat dead flesh, Dean. It'd just rot, otherwise."
He shifts away again. Doesn't like the heat of her hands on his skin. "What about those two little girls? Back in oh-two."
"Hmm?"
"I'm guessin' you weren't tryin' to mate with Monica Trevino and Chelsea Greenfeather."
Her hands come out from behind her back, bra-removal neglected for a moment. She sits back on his thighs, and a puff of breath jumps her bangs from her eyes.
"I'm a gourmand, Dean. I like variety, gastronomic smorgasbord. Just-dead's pretty tasty, but you get a craving for something special every once in a while, you know? Like a really good steak. You like a really good steak, Dean?"
"Stake through your heart'd be pretty awesome right now."
Her eyes go left. A small smile scrolls across her lips. "They were like veal. God, it was amazing. Young and soft and pink and tender as--"
Dean rears under her. "Shut your sick fuckin' mouth."
She snaps her attention to him, grabs his jaw in the vice of her fingers. She leans in close, and 'What big teeth you have, Grandma' skitters through Dean's brain.
"Maybe you'd like to shut it for me."
Her breath pushes past his lips - hot like lava - and he expels it from his mouth with his own exhale.
"Yeah," she decides, fingers trailing the line of his jaw, "you look like the type enjoys a fine cut of meat from time to time."
*******************************************************************
"So, what's the verdict, Dr. Science?" Dean asked from his laze on the bed. He clicked off the TV and tossed the remote onto the nightstand.
"Well, between what research I could find about indigenous animals, and what sense I could pull outta Dad's journal, I think we might be looking at a ghoul."
"A ghoul?" Dean barked. "You gotta be kiddin' me."
"No, I'm not kidding. Listen." Sam flipped a few of the cryptically scribbled pages in John Winchester's hunting bible, ran a finger along the scrawl, then stopped. Drew in a deep breath. "'From the Arabic ghūl, meaning demon. Found in deserts, graveyards, and other uninhabited places. Preys on lone travelers and young children. Lures, slaughters, and devours them."
"Sounds a little anti-social."
"'Also has the ability to shapeshift, often taking the form of a hyena.'"
"Which is like a coyote, kind of," Dean said, shifting to a sit on the side of the bed.
"It does kind of draw some lines between the two girls, the cave guys, and the grave desecrations."
"Kinda does," Dean said, rubbing his jaw.
"I mean, Dad's headed us off on hunts with less than this."
Dean tilted his head, bones in his neck doing a gristmill imitation. "Yeah, well…Dad knows what he's doin'."
Sam quirked his lips and closed the journal. Dropped it back onto the table. "You said he was letting you run solo gigs. Besides, we've already handled three pretty big jobs on our own so far."
"I dunno, man."
Sam turned in the chair, chucked down his pen next to the journal. "I thought we were decided on this."
"We are."
"Then what's the problem?"
"There's no problem," Dean huffed, rising from the bed and heading toward the bathroom.
"You left him a message."
Dean froze, his back to Sam.
"I did, too, Dean. And he still hasn't called." We dropped in on every friend or enemy of his we know of - from Pennsylvania to California - and got nothing. So we'll head back east and try it again. But I gotta feel like it means something, Dean. Coming back into this life-- I need something good to come out of it. I need it to have some purpose, because if we don't find him…"
The muscles in Dean's back tensed, Sam's hesitation a palpable and weighty thing.
"I'm gonna go crazy if I don't keep my mind off him, off what happened to Jess and to Mom, and what all that means…"
"We're gonna find him," Dean said without turning.
Sam let out a long sigh. "I thought I was done with this. It's why I left. It was his quest, not mine."
Dean stepped forward, turned, leaned against the door frame to the bathroom. "People leave," he said. "Things change." He didn't mean to hang the words with so much accusation. He pushed off the jamb and waved an arm between them. "I'm gonna hit the shower and then maybe we can head out to the desert. Check out the caves. Tomorrow morning, we'll get up early, grab some breakfast and then, you know, you head to the library and do your geek thing."
Sam rolled his eyes, and Dean felt half the tension in his back melt away.
"And what is it you'll be doing while I'm busting my ass on research?"
Dean tilted up his chin and gave his brother half a smirk. "I'll hit the locals, work my charms there. Maybe we can find some connection between the victims and the grave desecrations. Somethin' that strings 'em together. Okay?"
Sam ran both hands through his hair. "Yeah. Okay."
Dean nodded. Stepped into the bathroom, then turned. "We are gonna find him, Sam."
Sam nodded in return. "Yeah. I hope so."
*******************************************************************
He holds down the growl, deep in his throat. It rumbles painfully against the strained, tight muscles there. Rolls up and explodes with a grateful gasp when her fingers stop their probing. She stands up. Stares down at him, his blood trickling from her clenched fist. Falling against the stone floor with a staccato tickplink.
"I gotta say, you've been a real disappointment, Dean."
"Right back atcha," he huffs. He chances a peek at his left arm, squeezes shut his eyes when he thinks he sees a flash of bone in the pulpy mess below his shoulder.
"I'm a pretty good improviser, though." She raises her dripping fist between them. "You won't come for me? I'll get Sammy to come for you. And then maybe I'll get him to come for me." Her teeth flash like white knives in the light.
"Not a big James Bond fan, huh? I never understood why evil shits like you don't watch more Bond." He shifts; straightens himself against the wall of the cave. "See, in all the Bond flicks? When the idiot villain - that'd be you - captures the ass-kicking hero - that'd be me - they never kill 'im right away."
"Really," she drawls with mild amusement.
"They're always a little too cocky. Have to share their evil brilliance. Gives the cavalry all the time they need to circle up." Dean gives her his best sanctimonious smile. "Sam's too smart to fall for a fake blood trail, darlin'. You're gonna have to settle for some internet porn and a midnight snack."
A slick flow of laughter roils past her lips like ink. She tilts back her head and tosses her hair behind her shoulders with a shake. At first, he thinks it's a trick of the light; her neck thickens, lower jaw slides forward. He blinks hard once, opens his eyes, and there's no mistaking it. When she drops her chin and smiles at him, her teeth are sharp. Black eyes rimmed with gold.
"Sam! Sam, help me!" she shouts, voice a perfect imitation of Dean's.
She hitches through a high-pitch giggle, and the hairs at his nape get horizontal.
"Is Sam that smart, Dean?"
*******************************************************************
He took another tumble, thumped a knee on the rocky ground. "Sonuva--!"
"You all right?" Sam called from up ahead.
Dean wiped the welling beads of blood from his scraped palms onto his thighs. "Super. I just love geological obstacle courses by moonlight."
Sam's chuckle echoed off the walls of the stone wash. "Hey, man. It was your idea to come out here tonight."
"Yeah, well," Dean grumbled, regaining his feet, "I didn't hear you disagree with me."
"We could always come back in the morning, but then you'll complain about the heat, too, instead of just the rocks and the sand and the hiking."
Dean took three tentative steps forward, shinned an outcropping of rock, and let a firestorm of filthy curses cover the distance between him and his brother.
"Dude, would you stop being so loud?" Sam answered back.
"We're in the middle of the fuckin' desert," he whined, yanking up the leg of his jeans past his knee. He ran his fingers over the skin, feeling for wetness. "And tell me again why we can't use our fuckin' flashlights?"
Sam's exhale cut through the whir of night insects. "Because we're trespassing on a currently restricted park area, Dean. They're gonna have the Game Warden out here searching for something you and I both know isn't a coyote or a mountain lion, so, better we find it first. We don't need to draw any attention to ourselves while we're out in the open."
"Who's gonna see a fuckin' flashlight out here? You don't think we're gonna draw attention to ourselves when you have to take me to the emergency room with two shattered legs?" he grumbled, rubbing his shin.
Sam snorted. "Like you'd go to an emergency room."
"'S not the point."
Dean heard a skitter of stone behind him. Had his gun drawn and pointed at five o'clock - safety off - before the last pebble stopped rolling. The high rock walls on either side ate what anemic light the new moon was shining, and Dean's eyes darted left and right of the sound's point of origin. It was a technique their dad taught them; tricking your brain to pick out images in the dark by looking around them instead of at them.
"Hey, Dean," Sam called. "You remember that ghost in the barbershop? Kansas City, I think."
The black shape of a lizard snugged itself further between the rocks - two gold-point eyes flashing from the crag - and Dean let out a breath. "Wichita," he said, returning the Colt to the waistband at his back.
"Man, Dad got messed up on that job."
"Hell, yeah, he did," said Dean, picking his way behind Sam. "I musta spent three hours stitchin' up his arms and back that night."
"What's with that?"
"What's with what?"
Sam stopped. Turned and took a step back toward Dean.
"Dad's refusal to step foot in a hospital. I mean, the man can make up a cover story like a master spy but, instead, he turns our motel rooms into teaching hospitals. You know, I learned how to suture before I learned how to ride a bike."
"Probably because we never had bikes."
Sam barked out a laugh. "True." He turned and started back through the wash.
"Besides," Dean said, following, "He doesn't refuse. He goes when he has to."
"When?" Sam asked with pointed doubt. "Dude, I can't think of a single time Dad was in an ER when it wasn't to bring you or me there. Like, with a hundred-and-four degree temperature."
Dean kicked past a scrub of brush. "That haunted mine gig I told you about?"
"Yeah?"
"Dad took a serious header on the tail end of that one. Cracked his head on an old ore cart." Dean's fingers waggled absently near his right temple. "Knocked him out cold for about an hour and a half. I actually heard his cheekbone snap."
Rocks gritted under Sam's feet when he turned. "Seriously?"
"Opened up a gash an inch wide on his cheek, bled like a motherfucker. Scared the crap outta me." He cocked his head. "He wasn't too thrilled when he woke up in the emergency room, but fuck if I don't know my limits when it comes to shit like that."
"Jesus."
"Yeah."
They both stood silent for a moment.
"You're as bad as him, you know," Sam said finally with a little shake of his head. He started off again. "Neither one of you can stand being taken care of."
"Depends on the hotness factor of the nurse, Sammy," Dean said, patting his brother's chest as he passed to take the lead. "That, or the naughtiness factor. I do love me a naughty nurse."
The sound stopped them both cold, and Dean took one step back, arm reaching out to make contact with Sam. It definitely wasn't a wolf or a coyote. Sounded more like a baleful moose; a long low rooting that whooped up near the end.
"The hell?" Dean muttered, hand fisting in the sleeve of Sam's t-shirt.
The call came again, transforming this time into the sick chatter of psychotic monkeys.
"Seriously, what the hell is that? It's fuckin' creepy."
"Um…I think a hyena?"
Dean made a pinched face. "Those aren't really…indigenous to Barstow, are they."
"Probably not."
"Shit."
The yipping laugh came again, fell over them like maniacal rain. Their faces shot up, eyes piercing the darkness at the top of the wash's rock walls. Dean tugged Sam's arm, pulled himself and his brother flush against the warm desert stone. Moonlight glinted off his redrawn Colt.
"How close?" he half-whispered next to Sam.
"I dunno. Close," Sam said, and the echoed cock of his own pistol bounced between them.
The whining ricochet of gunfire exploded in three quick bursts, pinged and pocked around Dean's shout of "Sam!"
The dark shape leapt from above, took him down hard. Smashed him against the stone wall and clamped its jaw onto his left arm. Ripped him from his grip on Sam. It dragged Dean to the ground by a captive elbow, and pain severed the all-important brain command of shootshootaimfireshoot!
His temple bounced off a rock causing a starburst eruption across his desert vision. Another pull and drag on his arm and "Shoot it, Sam!" clawed from Dean's throat, pushing past the weight of the thing on his chest.
Dean's own gun was useless, lost. He didn't know when he dropped it, but the fingers of his right hand weren't wrapped around the handle. They were twisting and pulling at the hyena's forward mane, trying to get the thing to release its savage grip on his left arm. He heard Sam call his name as the beast bit and lifted; teeth ripping through flesh, nicking bone. Dragged his head against another rock.
The hyena yipped and lurched with the impact of Sam's bullets, snarled and bore down tighter on Dean's arm.
He was almost sure it was him screaming when everything went black.
*******************************************************************
Sam's got one hand slapped against the juncture of neck and shoulder, the other rummaging wildly through the trunk. The bite wound's superficial; two or three canine punctures and some scrapes. The cut high in his hairline - the place where he met rocky ground and got his lights knocked out - is bleeding more, but he can't mess with either. Dean's missing.
His searching hand finds the chalk bag and the Book of Rites. No sense bringing anything else; he knows now for sure they're dealing with a ghoul. That's why it doesn't matter he hit the hyena twice - neck and back - with clean shots. Didn't kill it, and it won't kill the body the demon's hijacked. He's not positive the exorcism they used in Pennsylvania is going to do the job, but it's the best weapon he's got. He jams the chalk bag into the front pocket of his jeans, the book in his back pocket. Thinks for a second, then doffs his wallet from the other pocket and replaces it with a flask of holy water. He slams the trunk lid. Slaps his hands on the black lacquer, arms locked, and tries to catch his breath.
Every pound of his heart says, 'Not Dean, too,' because Sam's not sure he can take another debit in the loved-ones ledger. He told his brother he needs all of this to mean something - for good to come of it. He should have told him he needs him, too. For all the holes Stanford and good friends and Jess had filled in his life, he'd ached for his brother; a missing limb that flared phantom during the best and worst of times in California. He starts back for the wash and the lava caves, beam of his flashlight bouncing over just-visited rocks.
Fuck being noticed.
*******************************************************************
It's a fumbling, rough consciousness that comes to him. Pain and darkness, the crude smell of blood and musk and rotting flesh. Bile climbs his gorge and he rolls to the side, vomits through the agony blazing across his body and brain. It takes a second - and a failed attempt to push himself away from his own sick - to realize he's trussed like a Thanksgiving turkey.
He moans, grunts, tries to scoot into a position that takes some pressure off his left side. Something moves beside him, and he snaps open his eyes. It's a real what-the-fuck moment when his vision settles and clears: squatting next to him is Marny - Mary? Marcy? - the waitress who hip-checked their table and practically eye-fucked him at the bar.
"Rise and shine, valentine," she says, then laughs; the same chimpy chatter they heard before the attack.
"You gotta be kiddin' me," he groans. He squeezes his eyes against all the pieces falling into place, and then the whole puzzle's obliterated in a hot-white flash of panic. "Sammy?"
"That your brother?" His eyes flick to her, and she shrugs. "You two smell alike. Anyway…he's long gone. Screamed like a lamb when I took you down." She leans in close, breath like hot cotton bouncing off his cheek. "I got in my licks, though," she says, and a pink triangle of tongue darts across her lower lip.
"You bitch," he huffs.
"Wasn't around when I went back for him. I'm guessing he'll come looking for you, hmm? Pack mentality and all," she winks. "No worries. I'll find him or he'll find us. Either way, gonna be a hell of a party, huh?"
She grins down at him, teeth flashing Cheshire Cat in the dark.
He spits out the oyster of coppery-tasting phlegm that's settled in the back of his throat. "You're dead, you freak."
"Ooh," she coos. "That's pretty big talk for a man in your position."
He exhales through his nose, inhales through a smirk. "Yeah? And what's my position?"
She squats down next to him.
"Vulnerable."
*******************************************************************
His foot slips and he goes down to one knee, free hand shooting out to break the fall. He knows what the slickness is, even before the Maglite shows him ruby puddles of his brother's blood. Electric spit floods his tongue and he swallows hard. Wipes the back of his hand across his mouth.
"Jesus."
Three feet left, the Mag's beam grabs the edge of some splatter, the crush-swirl of heel-dragged pumice. Five feet beyond that, smeared across the face of a rock, are two bloody finger trails; taillights on a black rainy night. Sam's back on his feet. Picks up the pace.
He's skidding over rock, pebbles grinding underfoot. A drop of red here, scruff of stone there; it's a trail, and he's the hound. He's making his way around a cropping of boulders when he freezes.
"Sam?"
The hairs on the back of his neck flutter.
"Sammy?"
He cocks his head, makes himself breath. The cry is echo-y and distant. Distressed. Sam pinpoints the mouth of a cave twenty yards ahead, but something keeps his feet planted: swap the desert for the woods, and it's Lost Creek all over again. He closes his eyes and waits.
"Help me. Please, Sam!"
It's Dean, but it's not. It's a damn good imitation, but his gut tells him no. He skimmed an excerpt on a website when he was researching…about how some cultures believe hyenas can learn to mimic human voices. Lure victims with the call of loved ones.
Thoughts are dominoes in his head; knocking into one another, rushing toward an end. If it's Dean, Sam needs to get to him now. If it's the ghoul, Sam needs to get to Dean sooner.
If he's dead--
He doesn't have a choice except in how he travels, and their dad taught them to travel smart.
"Nothing lures you without a plan. You make sure you've got one of your own."
******************************************************************
He chastises himself when he comes to. He knows better, he really does. It's not the coolness of the cave that has his jaw playing castanets. Between the concussion and the blood loss and the aching tightness of his muscles, he knows he's going into shock. The last thing he should be doing is sleeping.
He figures he's alone after he rolls to his side. It's not a quiet process, and that bitch would have been on him like a fat kid on Cheetos. He keeps his eyes clamped shut until the ocean roar of pain recedes, then hoists his lids half-mast and lets his dilated pupils adjust.
He's been moved. Doesn't remember it - and that gives him pause - but he knows he used to be on the opposite side of the room from the desiccated corpse he's currently spooning. He'd watched her pick strips from it, chew and smack her lips.
He's scared. Really fucking scared for the first time in a long time. He's having trouble breathing and the pain's too much. He really just - Oh, God… - needs his brother - Sammy, please… - to save him.
*******************************************************************
Sam's moving slowly, and it's torture. Agony. For every foot he inches forward, the Dean-voice moves farther into the cave. It's trying to draw him in, and he needs it to think it's getting what it wants. He's not sure what to expect - hyena or ghoul, a mix of both - but he's got a contingency plan for each.
*******************************************************************
"Dean?"
Oh, God, oh, yes, oh, Sammy, thankyouthnakyou…
"Can you sit up?"
Dean might cry. Sam's hands twist into the front of his shirt, and Dean nearly loses it. "Sammmm."
The 'm' slams a gate on the groan in his throat as his brother maneuvers him into a sit.
"Easy, easy," he coos as he rests him against the cave wall. "You okay?"
Dean manages a nod in reply. Choo-choos a few breaths. Sam's fingers tap his cheek.
"I need you to open your eyes, Dean."
"Mmm."
"So you can watch."
Huh? "What?"
"You like to watch, don'tcha?"
He loses it, then. There's no energy for his shoulders to hitch, his breath to catch. The tears are silent wet heat across his clammy skin.
"'Cause I want you to watch, Dean. I'm gonna make you watch me bring Sam in here, and then I'm gonna make you watch me kill him."
It's her voice, not Sam's. He can hear the smile on her lips.
"And then, I'm gonna eat him, Dean." She leans in until her mouth is next to his ear. "And then, I'm gonna eat you."
He'll come. Sam'll come, goddamnit.
His thick tongue drags over his desert lips. "Don't forget…your nice chianti and…fava beans," he parcels.
She huffs a conciliatory laugh. "All because you had to be such a limpdick." She crouches at his side. "You know, this could have been a lot more pleasurable. Now I'm gonna make sure it's anything but."
"Screw you."
"You wouldn't. That's the problem." She wraps her fingers around the ravaged flesh of his left arm - "Make a little noise for me, Dean," - and squeezes.
*******************************************************************
Sam's head snaps up.
Nonononono…
Because that's Dean. That's his brother screaming like that. Oh, God… That's Dean.
It takes everything Sam has not to race inside.
Nonono. Stay cool. He's alive. He dusts his hands on his jeans, heads for the tumble of rocks to the side of the cave entrance. He's still alive.
*******************************************************************
Dean's eyes roll up. A black shroud rises as his scream tapers off, flash of white teeth above the lose gape of his jaw. He's only out for a second, then his last reserve of adrenalin stokes the fire in his left arm. An electric blanket melts through him, head-to-toe. "'S not…gonna work. He's not…gonna--"
"He's already here."
*******************************************************************
"Sammy!"
It's closer. He turns his head away from the cave entrance. Puts on his best acting chops: frantic desperation. "Dean?" he calls.
"Sam!"
Closer. He sets his shoulder against the rock pile.
"Sam, help me!"
He puts all his weight into it. Shoves. The stones tumble, and Sam looses an Oscar-worthy holler. He has just enough time to get the cap off the flask when she rushes out.
Speed and instinct dormant a month ago sets him in motion. He lashes crisscrossing arcs of holy water in her path. It sizzles and pops on her skin and she screams.
It's like the best CGI he's ever seen - no need for cutaways and close-ups. In a blink, the ghoul becomes a hyena. It falls back on its haunches, springs forward to strike. Never notices the chalk runes on the ground.
The Hermetic sigils are part black magic familiar-trap, part Gary Gygax Monster Manual. Dean'll kick his ass for being so slap-dash desperate, but it works. It fucking works.
The hyena strikes an invisible force field mid-air. Trampolines back and lands on its hip with a yelp. Scrambles like a cyclone to its four shaking legs.
Sam drops the flask. Hops down from his boulder perch and gets his feet planted, lets his breath even out. He pulls the Book of Rites from his pocket and finds his page. Approaches carefully. Minds the sigils.
It's pacing the plane of the pentagon, mane up and lip in a snarl. Laser-hate eyes locked on Sam. Long strings of saliva drip from its maw, and the thing works a rumble to rival the Impala. It screams when he starts the Latin.
*******************************************************************
"Dean. Hey, man. Can you hear me?"
Oh…
"Open your eyes, man. Dean."
Oh, please…
"Dean?"
"Sam?" It's barely audible and immediately crushed by the weight of joy in Sam's voice.
"Hey, man."
A reciprocal transference of relief - palpable, bright, shining - passes between Dean's chest and the hand Sam's placed there.
"That really you?"
"Yeah, man. It's really me."
Dean opens his eyes when he feels his pant leg being tugged, watches his brother maneuver the knife from the sheath in his boot. Sam flashes him a grin, pats his leg. Slips the blade under the rope at Dean's ankles and yanks up.
"You're bleedin'," Dean says.
Sam shakes his head, moves up to kneel at his hip. "I'm fine." He wraps an arm across Dean's chest and eases him forward.
He groans into Sam's shoulder, doesn't even try to keep it in. Makes better management of the hisses and moans that accompany the needlework when the rope at his wrists is cut.
Sam supports him. Allows Dean to lean until at least his right arm is useful again.
"Thought you left me behind, Sammy."
It's an awkward and gentle embrace. Lasts just for a second.
"Nope."
Dean's right hand twists in the back of Sam's shirt.
"I got you, man. No worries."
Dean sighs, then goes limp. Sam cradles him, scared, but sure somehow. Safe.
"I've always got you."