Casualties 1/8: Tigers
Title: Casualties 1/8: Tigers
Author: July
Rating: R
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: right up through S3 finale
Disclaimer: Possession is 9/10s of the law. I'm holding out hope for that 10%.
Notes:Betad by the delightful and delicious montisello.
Summary: She smelled him before she saw him: a nimbus of scotch fumes laced with gun powder and paranoia.
Chapter One: Tigers
Dictators ride to and fro upon tigers which they dare not dismount. And the tigers are getting hungry.
-Winston Churchill
But why? Why is it my job to save these people? Why do I have to be some kind of hero? What about us? Mom's not supposed to live? Sammy's not supposed to get married? Why do we have to sacrifice everything, Dad? It’s...yeah.
-What Is and What Should Never Be
Canaan, Vermont
May 17th, 2008
“You’re not Robin Wandell,” Ellen hissed. “Robin Wandell’s not knee high to a grasshopper.”
“I’ll be twenty three next month,” she said calmly.
“The hell is going on out here?” She smelled him before she saw him: a nimbus of scotch fumes laced with gun powder and paranoia. Rufus appeared behind Ellen’s head. Robin gave him a little finger wave.
“Good to see you,” she said.
“Shit,” Rufus said, disgusted. “The hell happened to your face? Put the gun down, woman. I know her.”
“Well I don’t,” Ellen answered, not moving a hair.
“It’s my house,” Rufus said flatly. “She’s coming in.” He locked the door behind them. The interior was darker than she remembered and the smell of grave dirt and iron filings hung like sediment in the air. He was looking at her, but she preferred his assessing gaze on her face and her bandaged arms to the poorly disguised horror she had grown used to.
As soon as her eyes adjusted, she realized she was facing another gauntlet. Singer was there, waiting with a shot glass of holy water. Under the brim of his hat, he was avoiding her eyes. She took the shot and handed the glass back to him. Rufus was behind her, a gentle hand on her shoulder guiding her into the kitchen. There was a Rottweiler in the hallway, baring its teeth, but Bobby silenced it with a glance. At the doorway, they passed a beautiful blonde girl who couldn’t be any older than Robin. And that was a test of another kind so she kept her eyes on the floor. It was Jo, Ellen’s daughter, who was looking at her like she was Lydia the Tattooed Lady.
“Have a seat,” Ellen said, jerking a chair out from the head of the kitchen table. Robin was grateful to be offered it. It was a long drive from Reno and she had signed herself out of the hospital as soon as she could hold a pen. She sat down in the chair and then she almost fell out of it. At the other head of the table, staring at her scars, was a face she’d only seen on corrupted digital video. She named him Samuel, meaning, ‘I asked the Lord for him.’
“Who is she?” he asked and she had to physically grip the edge of the table to keep herself upright. She tried to focus. He looked almost ill: grey, unshaven. None of them looked like they had slept in weeks, but he looked like something was hollowing him from the inside out. She thought about the little Spartan Boy, being eaten alive in secret. He smelled funny, too. She couldn’t place it. Damn, that was going to bug her. The others were sitting down; even the dog had lain down behind Bobby’s chair.
“Robin Wandell,” Rufus said and took another belt.
“What is she doing here?” he asked and still she couldn’t place it. Damp, of some kind.
“Hell if I know,” Rufus replied, pouring himself two more fingers.
“I have something for you,” she announced, in a small voice that sounded a little tinny. Looking down the table, he met her eyes for the first time. It looked like someone used to live there.
“And what would that be?” What was that smell? It was something from before, from her life before. Something from Iowa. It crowded her memory, overwhelming the fresh earth and the freezing rain.
“He asked you a question, girl,” Singer growled from underneath his trucker hat. “You’d best be answering.” Robin tilted her head, ignoring him. Tears, she realized. Sam Winchester smelled like tears.
“I have the Colt.”
“She’s lying,” Sam said at once. “That gun is long gone. We looked for that gun for months.”
“It’s in my car.” Rufus watched her carefully.
“The hell it is,” Jo said, crossing her arms.
“You don’t know where that gun is,” Ellen scoffed. “And even if you did-“
“Non timebo mala.”
That shut them up for a moment. Ellen poured herself a drink. The dog whined a little. He didn’t like her and she could hardly blame him. Bobby scratched at his beard.
“Say that’s true-and I ain’t saying it is-where the hell did you find it?”
“Nevada,” she said. “It was in Nevada.”
Sam stood up, kicking his chair behind him into the wall. It hit the wall with violence and left a scuff on the wallpaper. He crossed the room in two long strides. She was too tired or too scared or something because she was having trouble tracking. What did he want over here?
“Sam, kid,” Bobby said, in a placating tone of voice. Too late, though, Sam was behind her.
“It wasn’t in Nevada,” he said. “It wasn’t in Nevada.” He put his hands on the back of her chair and pulled her away from the table with a screech of hard wood on ceramic tile. Sam grabbed her above one elbow and spun her onto her feet. She cried out a little, and stumbled, when his fingers dug into her inner arm. The next thing Robin knew, she was up against a wall and trying not to scream because she could feel his hands on either side of her tearing out her stitches.
“Sam!” she heard Bobby yelling, saw him rising from the table. She could have told him to save his breath. Sam saw no one, heard no one, but her.
“If it was in Nevada, we would have found it. I would have found it. If it was there, if it was that close, I would have found it,” he insisted. “We would have been in time.”
“It was in Nevada. Kate and some of her friends had it. She says hello, by the way,” Robin spat back, maybe just to be contrary. His grip tightened and she made a noise that was half squeak, half gasp. She also looked at his face. Sam didn’t look hollow anymore. Not the Spartan Boy, but more like the fox, devouring someone bite by bite.
“Sam, kid, look at what you’re doing,” Bobby said, gently, one hand on his shoulder. “Look at her arms, Sam. Look at her arms.” And just like that, Sam dropped her. She slumped against the wainscoting and slid to the floor. Above her, Sam braced both of his hands against the wall. Bobby tried to get another hand on him, only to be shoved back with enough force to make him stumble against the table. Next to her mother, Jo clenched and unclenched her hands. Cautiously, she approached Sam.
“Hey,” she said quietly. Jo stepped up beside him and put her left hand over his right, overlaid on the faded wallpaper of the kitchen. He turned to her. “Sam. It’s okay.” Jo smiled at him and Robin could she see was consciously working to keep his eyes on hers. “Let’s go outside. Get some air?”
“Yeah,” Sam said. He looked down at Robin like she was a dead thing the Rottweiler had dragged in. He and Jo stepped out back and the screen door slammed shut behind them.
“Come on then,” Ellen bent down over her and cussed. Rufus appeared behind her with a first aid kit that would have put an ambulance to shame. She wouldn’t be surprised if he kept DMSA capsules in there, just in case, next to his tinfoil hat. Bobby stood at the window, keeping one eye on the pair in the back yard. Ellen peeled back the light tape and the bloody sterile gauze.
“Holy hell,” Bobby whispered. Robin looked down. Her stitches were torn up in a couple places but she was pretty sure he was looking at the puncture wounds up and down her arm, like she’d tried to shoot up in a dozen places at once. Or been fed on by six vampires up and down her brachial artery.
“It was in Nevada.” They could say whatever else they wanted, but they couldn’t take that away from her. There was a noise in her ears like water rushing by. “It’s in my duffle,” she said. “The black 4-runner. Keys in my pocket.” She looked up at Bobby. “It was in fucking Nevada.” And then she was out.
Duluth, Minnesota
March 19th, 2007
“Robin?”
“Nggh. Mrffs.”
“The phone’s for you.”
“Is there coffee?”
“It’s long distance.”
“But is there coffee?”
“It’s from somebody-“
“Adam?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know what happened the last time I woke up and there wasn’t coffee?”
“Um…no?”
“People died, Adam. Better men than you.”
“I’m shaking in my boots.”
“WHERE IS MY COFFEE?”
“You can be a real bitch in the morning, you know that?” He left the room and Robin rolled out of her bed with a string of invectives. She wasn’t all that hungover, really, just pissed off. Some more. It was the best of hockey seasons; it was the worst of hockey seasons. Advancing to the championship round was glorious. Losing 4-1 to the goddamn Badgers was not. She was pretty sure her teammates hadn’t even come home from the bar last night. The flight home from Lake Placid had been an exercise in torture.
And Steve wasn’t there. He hadn’t showed up. Not to the championship game, not to the Frozen Four, not to a single damn bracket. Somewhere in the country there was a werewolf or a boogeyman or a restless spirit that was more pressing, more urgent, more important than her. To be perfectly honest, she wasn’t entirely sure there was enough tequila in Minnesota to numb that kind of pain. Classes started up again today and she wasn't ready to put on a happy face and make nice with the world again. In the kitchen, she heard the coffee maker start.
“Thank you, Adam,” she called. He was a good find, she thought. Cross country runners had the best butts. He was charming, too. One comment about her beautiful grey eyes and it was all over. And he made great coffee.
“Yeah, yeah. And there’s still a call on hold for you. Somebody named Rufus?”
The bottom dropped out of her stomach. No way, she thought, no way was this the phone call. It was inevitable, maybe, but not now. This was a bad week, maybe the worst of her life so far. She could almost taste her ring yesterday and now? No way would God screw her over like this. It was bad logic, Robin knew that, but she had to believe it. She twisted her left hand in the unkempt mass of her hair and pulled it over her shoulder. Her right hand was steady as she reached for the receiver.
“Rufus?” she said, very quietly.
“This is that phone call,” he said brusquely but not unkindly. “I’m sorry.” There was a high-pitched whining noise and then she was sitting on the floor next to the bed, but she didn’t remember getting there. “You still there?” She had always liked his voice: low, gruff, but mellowed, like good booze. “Robin?”
“Yes,” she said, with a preternatural calm she didn’t feel but had somehow leeched into her voice anyway. “I’m still here.” I’m still here. “When?”
“About a week ago.”
“A week? I’ve been…” Playing hockey-eating, sleeping and breathing hockey. And being pissed off. Pissed off for a week that Steve hadn’t come to the tourney. She thought she might throw up. “He’s gotta be-did you call the coroner?”
“Yes.”
“He’s gotta be-Rufus, they’ve gotta put him in the ground. Now.” There was a twinge of hysteria in her voice. She wasn’t there and they were going to do it wrong. “No autopsy. They can’t-they can’t-“
“I told them.”
“No cremation. They can’t cremate him.”
“I know who to call. We all make arrangements. We all prepare.” She tucked her legs into her chest and rested her forehead on her kneecaps. He prepared. Her father had made arrangements. Put your external affairs in order, get ready what you have in the field, then build yourself a home. He might as well have been at her elbow, so clearly did she hear Steve’s voice.
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“There’s more. Do you want to hear it?” Robin closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Steve was it. He was her family. There was no one else. She felt something inside of her snap like a rib, but it hurt different, and she already knew it would never knit back together.
“Yes. All of it.”
Canaan, Vermont
May 18th, 2008
She woke up on Rufus’ bed to the sound of a screen door opening. It was 3AM by her watch. Someone had taken the time to remove her sneakers and toss a blanket over her. Her arms hurt like a bitch. But there were new stitches and fresh gauze. That was nice of them, actually. She was thirsty as hell but there were people talking in the other room and she didn’t want to miss her chance to eavesdrop.
“Get on out there, then, Rumsfeld.” Bobby said. There was the sound of paws on tile as the dog slipped out into the back yard. “Is he sleeping?” he asked someone.
“He’s down for the count.” Jo was there. She sounded old.
“With enough whiskey in him to pickle a pig,” Ellen added.
“Gonna have to switch over to the cheap stuff soon.” Rufus, too.
“I think it needs to be said,” Ellen said, a silence around the table, “that we don’t know what happened in that house in Indiana. He won’t eat. He barely sleeps. And you saw him this afternoon. I don’t like it.”
“He’s just…he’s day to day right now, Mom.”
“He’ll come around,” Bobby insisted.
“How long can we keep this up?” Ellen pushed it. “If we run much further we’re going to need a boat. Sooner or later, Bobby, Sam is going to have to make a decision.”
“I’m telling you, Ellen, he will come around,” he sounded defensive. “I have known the Winchesters for twenty years. Sam is just like his Daddy. He will think himself in circles for weeks and then two minutes to midnight he will make his decision. And dollars to donuts it will be the right one.”
“I feel better already,” Rufus said dryly.
“At least we have the Colt,” Jo said. There was a drawn out pause.
“I can’t believe it was in Nevada the whole time. If we’d known, we mighta made it.”
“There was no way you could have known, Singer.” Rufus put it bluntly. She could hear him pouring himself another drink. “That boy’s time was up and you know that. He knew it, too.” Sometimes a good man perishes in spite of his goodness, her father’s voice said.
“It isn’t right,” Ellen said. “It isn’t right.”
“Right doesn’t have a damn thing to do with it,” Rufus scoffed. “But these are the facts, Ellen: Dean is in hell. But we have a knife and we have a gun and a crazy girl in the other room who brought us that gun. I can promise you that any child of Wandell’s will be a help.”
“There’s something else. About that,” Ellen replied cautiously. Robin could hear that she was uncomfortable. “Last spring...”
“Last spring I got a call from Dean,” Bobby said. Silently, Robin climbed out of bed and padded barefoot down the hall. They were seated around the kitchen table again, the Colt equidistant from them all, like an NRA centerpiece. “He was in Duluth.”
“He was in Duluth, alright,” Jo muttered.
“He was in Duluth,” Bobby continued peevishly, “looking for his brother. He’d tracked Sam there from Iowa.” He pulled his cap off, ran a hand across his hair, and pulled it back on.
“You better not be saying what I think you’re saying,” Rufus said, his voice invested with more heat than she had ever heard. Robin was pretty sure he was about to start making threats when she appeared in the kitchen, leaning heavily against the doorjamb. She was angry, and pale, and the scars were livid reminders on her face.
“Last spring Sam got my father killed,” she said flatly. They all turned to look at her. “And these assholes helped him cover it up.” Rufus stared at her open-mouthed now. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to drop his scotch.
“He didn’t kill your father,” Bobby said, like she’d just suggested that the moon was made of green cheese. “He was possessed. I’m sorry, but he didn’t kill your father.”
“The hell he didn’t,” Robin ground out. “How long did the Winchesters hunt that yellow-eyed demon? How many others did they piss off or exorcize along the way? And not once, not once, did they stop long enough to take simple precautions to avoid possession. It was careless and it was stupid and it was arrogant. And their mistakes got my father killed.”
Across the room, Jo flushed and Ellen put on her poker face. Rufus still hadn’t moved. Bobby’s face was hidden under his cap but his voice was completely unrepentant.
“If sorry isn’t good enough,” he said, “then you might want to show yourself the door. Because right now we don’t have time for whatever petty revenge you’ve got in store.”
“Petty revenge?” she said, straightening up and staring him down. “Despite the fact that Sam’s responsible for my father’s death, despite the fact that you all have a target the size of Montana painted on your back, I stole a gun for you and brought it all the way across the country to your fucking doorstep and you have the gall to stand there and accuse me of petty revenge?”
“Then why are you here?” Jo asked pointedly, still in high color.
“Because my father wanted me--would have wanted me to be here. If he were still alive, Steve would have wanted me to be here.” Her voice trembled a little and Jo looked away. Ellen, on the other hand, was watching her like she was seeing her for the first time. Robin grabbed at the door frame again, realizing she was swaying a little on her feet. Bobby was staring at her so hard she could feel him thinking. Rufus was still frozen.
“Sit down before you fall down, girl,” Bobby said, having come to some kind of decision. He offered her his chair and got her a glass of water. She drank it all in one go and he refilled it. The room was quiet and she wondered what sort of meeting they had been holding when she interrupted: a council of war or preparing for an intervention.
“Who’s Kate?” Ellen asked. Memories of brown hair, a cruel smile, and very, very sharp teeth.
“It doesn’t matter,” Robin said. “She’s dead. They’re all dead.”
“You kill them all with your bare hands, Rambo?” Bobby asked with exasperated sarcasm.
“Turns out there’s a gun that can kill anything,” she smart-assed him right back. “So I used that instead.” Rufus snorted.
“Back talk,” Bobby muttered, opening the fridge for a beer. “Nothing but back talk and sass.” A wave of cold air swept from behind her chair. She didn’t smell coolant, though, or the condenser; she smelled something damper, just dredged up from the bottom. And something warmer and tangier and so fresh it was almost appetizing: blood.
“Where’s the dog?” Robin whispered.
“Rumsfeld?” Bobby shut the door of the fridge and made for the door.
“Shit. Don’t open that, Singer” Rufus said and stood up in a hurry.
“Jo, go get Sam.”
“Dammit, Rumsfeld,” Bobby said, exhaling, with a note of defeat. “God dammit.”
“What is it?” Rufus asked, pulling a revolver out of the silverware drawer.
“Rawheads. I saw three just now.”
“What the sam hell are you talking about?” Ellen asked, rising to her feet, too.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Robin said. That was what they smelled like, but rawheads didn’t hunt in packs. And they didn’t eat dogs. Rufus passed her a riot gun from the pantry and a case of slugs from on top of the fridge. Unquestioningly, she loaded it and slipped the spare slugs into her pockets.
“What the fuck is with the rawheads?” Sam half-yelled, rushing into the room. He had a duffle in hand and he was pulling out something that looked like a taser.
“Get your gear, Ellen,” Bobby ordered. “We’re bugging out.” Robin stumbled back into Rufus’ room to put her shoes on and grab her keys. This was not good.
“...brought this down on my house!” Rufus was yelling.
“Rendezvous at Driftwood,” Bobby said, ignoring him. “Are you good to drive?”
“Give me the gun,” Sam said.
“I asked if you were good to drive, not aim and discharge a loaded firearm,” Bobby said.
“I knew it was a mistake,” Rufus said. “I knew it. No honor amongst thieves, it’s the first goddamn rule. I trusted you, Singer.”
“You can take it up with me in Driftwood!”
“They’ll be serving ice tea in hell before I meet up with you again,” Rufus hissed back.
“Save the hair-pulling for later, boys. We’ve got bigger problems,” Ellen said, having procured a semi-automatic from God knew where. She handed it to her daughter who snapped a clip into place. Robin pulled her keys out of her front pocket and slid one off the ring.
“By the time I’m done,” Rufus was saying, “you won’t have any friends left. How much help do you think they’ll give you once they know what happened to Steve?”
“It’s okay,” Robin heard herself say. “Rufus, it’s okay. Nobody else has to know. Please, don’t tell anybody else.” She approached him and held the key out.
“The hell is this?”
“It’s the key to our place,” she said. “The alarm code is E414. It’s secure as I could make it. And more guns than you can shake a stick at.” He stared at her. “Go on. It’s what Steve would have wanted.”
“E414, huh?” he raised an eyebrow.
“Something he said to me once,” she smiled and almost choked on it. “Go on, take it. He would have wanted a friend to have it.”
“Touching stuff, really,” Sam said. “But is he the wind beneath your wings?”
“Don’t be an ass,” Bobby said, loading the Colt. “She knows everything. Are you good to fire this?” Sam sneered at him. The fox was back. Rufus took the key and Robin shrank back into the shadows.
“I’m just like my daddy, remember?” he said, taking the gun from Bobby. “Guess what, Bobby? It’s two minutes to midnight. I know what to do.”
“About damn time,” Ellen muttered. “You load that gun, Jo?”
“Yes.”
“Good, cause you’re riding with her.” Ellen jerked her head in Robin’s direction. “Read the map so she doesn’t get lost. Stick close. Make friends. You understand me?”
“Got it,” Jo said and stepped across to stand next to Robin, who could only imagine what they looked like: a before and after PSA for falling out of the ugly tree, probably.
“Your mom’s kind of scary.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Give me the knife, Sam,” Bobby said. Sam hesitated. “The fuckers killed my dog.” He passed Bobby the knife.
“Bobby, you’re out the back with Ellen,” Sam said with authority. “I’ll take the front with Jo and Scarface, here.” Robin blushed furiously.
“Watch your mouth, boy,” Rufus said.
“And you, Rufus, can go to hell whichever way you want,” Sam added.
“See you all Driftwood,” Ellen said and kicked open the back door. That was one way to end an awkward conversation. Bobby was close on her heels. Rufus paused, fixed Sam with a look that might have killed a lesser man, then turned and nodded to Robin. Then he followed the others into the night.
“Come on,” Sam said and they were out the front door just a few seconds later. Her eyes adjusted quickly.
Two of them were out here: one in front, between them and the street, and the other to their right. They reeked of mold and close spaces and dead children. Fighting down the urge to vomit, Robin chambered a round and turned to their right and took three steps towards the monster. She aimed and fired in one fast motion and put a hole the size of a golf ball in its head. She turned back to the others and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.
Sam wasn’t three feet away from the thing, staring at it in an eerily detached way. He held the Colt in his right hand, but his arm was slack against his side. Jo was almost completely behind him, trying to stand her ground. Her gun must have been in her jacket pocket because she had butane in one hand and a lighter in the other and a can of salt under her arm. The rawhead advanced again and Sam was nose to nose with it. It turned to look at him and the little slits it had for nostrils flared. Robin was pretty sure it was smiling.
“Shoot it,” Jo said. She sounded scared. “Sam, shoot it.”
Instead, Sam slipped the Colt into his left hand and reached behind him with his right, pulling something about from between the waist of his jeans and the small of his back. The taser? The rawhead opened its mouth now, like a snake, trying to catch the scent on its black little tongue. Robin chambered another round. There was only one problem with firing slugs from a shotgun: with rock salt you’d burn a man, with birdshot you’d skin him, with buckshot you’d put him in the hospital, but with a slug you would close his eyes forever. She couldn’t afford to miss and she really didn’t want to fire. There was a high-pitched whining noise while the taser charged up.
“Please, Sam. Shoot it.” Jo’s hands were shaking. The weak light was plenty for her to see by. Sam stepped back a few feet. He raised his right hand. It was steady and the light that the moon cast onto the silver ring he wore seemed to multiply in luminance.
“Jo,” he said, like it was a different person speaking. Staring there at the monster, some kind of sea-change had taken place. He sounded human again. Not the Spartan or the fox or the thing on her security video, but somebody whose name might actually be Sam. “Are your feet dry?”
“They’re dry,” she said.
Sam pulled the trigger. The leads hit home and the visual impact of the electrocution that followed was enough to make them all flinch a little. It writhed on the ground until it smoked. There was a burnt smell in the air: charred dead thing. Robin gagged a little and put a hand over her face.
“I fried it,” Sam said. “It’s extra frickin’ crispy.”
“Yeah it is,” Jo said, relieved and on the edge of nervous laughter. “You fried it.”
“I only got one shot. I made it count,” he said, but he was talking to somebody else. Jo flicked a glance at Robin, before turning back to him. “I’m not gonna leave town without you.”
“Sam? We’re going to Driftwood.”
“I fucking hate rawheads,” he said. “I fucking hate them.”
“Driftwood, Sam,” Jo said. “I’ll see you in Driftwood.” She reached up, then, on tip-toes because he was pretty damn tall, and rustled his hair. He looked at her, then raised his hand and looked past her at someone else. Sam smiled.
“Watch me.” He wasn’t talking to either of them, it was obvious. Sam turned and headed towards his car, wherever it was. Jo put a hand over her eyes for a quick second, trying to see or not see something.
“Come on,” she said, and tossed Robin the butane. “Turn and burn.” It was a matter of minutes. Perversely, Robin kind of hoped the neighbors were watching. Welcome to our world, she thought, if you think this is crazy shit, wait till you see what we can do with a little blood and a lot of Latin. But more likely they would close the blinds and forget they ever saw two young women setting fire to a pair of corpses.
Robin set off at a brisk jog towards the side street next to Jo. Sam had scared her in the house and he’d pissed her off good. But she couldn’t shake the way he stood there, with his arms down, letting the monster close in on him. Young men must carry millstones and youths stagger under loads of wood, said Steve at her shoulder. They really couldn’t get out of town fast enough.
Chapter 2
Author: July
Rating: R
Genre: Gen
Spoilers: right up through S3 finale
Disclaimer: Possession is 9/10s of the law. I'm holding out hope for that 10%.
Notes:Betad by the delightful and delicious montisello.
Summary: She smelled him before she saw him: a nimbus of scotch fumes laced with gun powder and paranoia.
Chapter One: Tigers
Dictators ride to and fro upon tigers which they dare not dismount. And the tigers are getting hungry.
-Winston Churchill
But why? Why is it my job to save these people? Why do I have to be some kind of hero? What about us? Mom's not supposed to live? Sammy's not supposed to get married? Why do we have to sacrifice everything, Dad? It’s...yeah.
-What Is and What Should Never Be
Canaan, Vermont
May 17th, 2008
“You’re not Robin Wandell,” Ellen hissed. “Robin Wandell’s not knee high to a grasshopper.”
“I’ll be twenty three next month,” she said calmly.
“The hell is going on out here?” She smelled him before she saw him: a nimbus of scotch fumes laced with gun powder and paranoia. Rufus appeared behind Ellen’s head. Robin gave him a little finger wave.
“Good to see you,” she said.
“Shit,” Rufus said, disgusted. “The hell happened to your face? Put the gun down, woman. I know her.”
“Well I don’t,” Ellen answered, not moving a hair.
“It’s my house,” Rufus said flatly. “She’s coming in.” He locked the door behind them. The interior was darker than she remembered and the smell of grave dirt and iron filings hung like sediment in the air. He was looking at her, but she preferred his assessing gaze on her face and her bandaged arms to the poorly disguised horror she had grown used to.
As soon as her eyes adjusted, she realized she was facing another gauntlet. Singer was there, waiting with a shot glass of holy water. Under the brim of his hat, he was avoiding her eyes. She took the shot and handed the glass back to him. Rufus was behind her, a gentle hand on her shoulder guiding her into the kitchen. There was a Rottweiler in the hallway, baring its teeth, but Bobby silenced it with a glance. At the doorway, they passed a beautiful blonde girl who couldn’t be any older than Robin. And that was a test of another kind so she kept her eyes on the floor. It was Jo, Ellen’s daughter, who was looking at her like she was Lydia the Tattooed Lady.
“Have a seat,” Ellen said, jerking a chair out from the head of the kitchen table. Robin was grateful to be offered it. It was a long drive from Reno and she had signed herself out of the hospital as soon as she could hold a pen. She sat down in the chair and then she almost fell out of it. At the other head of the table, staring at her scars, was a face she’d only seen on corrupted digital video. She named him Samuel, meaning, ‘I asked the Lord for him.’
“Who is she?” he asked and she had to physically grip the edge of the table to keep herself upright. She tried to focus. He looked almost ill: grey, unshaven. None of them looked like they had slept in weeks, but he looked like something was hollowing him from the inside out. She thought about the little Spartan Boy, being eaten alive in secret. He smelled funny, too. She couldn’t place it. Damn, that was going to bug her. The others were sitting down; even the dog had lain down behind Bobby’s chair.
“Robin Wandell,” Rufus said and took another belt.
“What is she doing here?” he asked and still she couldn’t place it. Damp, of some kind.
“Hell if I know,” Rufus replied, pouring himself two more fingers.
“I have something for you,” she announced, in a small voice that sounded a little tinny. Looking down the table, he met her eyes for the first time. It looked like someone used to live there.
“And what would that be?” What was that smell? It was something from before, from her life before. Something from Iowa. It crowded her memory, overwhelming the fresh earth and the freezing rain.
“He asked you a question, girl,” Singer growled from underneath his trucker hat. “You’d best be answering.” Robin tilted her head, ignoring him. Tears, she realized. Sam Winchester smelled like tears.
“I have the Colt.”
“She’s lying,” Sam said at once. “That gun is long gone. We looked for that gun for months.”
“It’s in my car.” Rufus watched her carefully.
“The hell it is,” Jo said, crossing her arms.
“You don’t know where that gun is,” Ellen scoffed. “And even if you did-“
“Non timebo mala.”
That shut them up for a moment. Ellen poured herself a drink. The dog whined a little. He didn’t like her and she could hardly blame him. Bobby scratched at his beard.
“Say that’s true-and I ain’t saying it is-where the hell did you find it?”
“Nevada,” she said. “It was in Nevada.”
Sam stood up, kicking his chair behind him into the wall. It hit the wall with violence and left a scuff on the wallpaper. He crossed the room in two long strides. She was too tired or too scared or something because she was having trouble tracking. What did he want over here?
“Sam, kid,” Bobby said, in a placating tone of voice. Too late, though, Sam was behind her.
“It wasn’t in Nevada,” he said. “It wasn’t in Nevada.” He put his hands on the back of her chair and pulled her away from the table with a screech of hard wood on ceramic tile. Sam grabbed her above one elbow and spun her onto her feet. She cried out a little, and stumbled, when his fingers dug into her inner arm. The next thing Robin knew, she was up against a wall and trying not to scream because she could feel his hands on either side of her tearing out her stitches.
“Sam!” she heard Bobby yelling, saw him rising from the table. She could have told him to save his breath. Sam saw no one, heard no one, but her.
“If it was in Nevada, we would have found it. I would have found it. If it was there, if it was that close, I would have found it,” he insisted. “We would have been in time.”
“It was in Nevada. Kate and some of her friends had it. She says hello, by the way,” Robin spat back, maybe just to be contrary. His grip tightened and she made a noise that was half squeak, half gasp. She also looked at his face. Sam didn’t look hollow anymore. Not the Spartan Boy, but more like the fox, devouring someone bite by bite.
“Sam, kid, look at what you’re doing,” Bobby said, gently, one hand on his shoulder. “Look at her arms, Sam. Look at her arms.” And just like that, Sam dropped her. She slumped against the wainscoting and slid to the floor. Above her, Sam braced both of his hands against the wall. Bobby tried to get another hand on him, only to be shoved back with enough force to make him stumble against the table. Next to her mother, Jo clenched and unclenched her hands. Cautiously, she approached Sam.
“Hey,” she said quietly. Jo stepped up beside him and put her left hand over his right, overlaid on the faded wallpaper of the kitchen. He turned to her. “Sam. It’s okay.” Jo smiled at him and Robin could she see was consciously working to keep his eyes on hers. “Let’s go outside. Get some air?”
“Yeah,” Sam said. He looked down at Robin like she was a dead thing the Rottweiler had dragged in. He and Jo stepped out back and the screen door slammed shut behind them.
“Come on then,” Ellen bent down over her and cussed. Rufus appeared behind her with a first aid kit that would have put an ambulance to shame. She wouldn’t be surprised if he kept DMSA capsules in there, just in case, next to his tinfoil hat. Bobby stood at the window, keeping one eye on the pair in the back yard. Ellen peeled back the light tape and the bloody sterile gauze.
“Holy hell,” Bobby whispered. Robin looked down. Her stitches were torn up in a couple places but she was pretty sure he was looking at the puncture wounds up and down her arm, like she’d tried to shoot up in a dozen places at once. Or been fed on by six vampires up and down her brachial artery.
“It was in Nevada.” They could say whatever else they wanted, but they couldn’t take that away from her. There was a noise in her ears like water rushing by. “It’s in my duffle,” she said. “The black 4-runner. Keys in my pocket.” She looked up at Bobby. “It was in fucking Nevada.” And then she was out.
Duluth, Minnesota
March 19th, 2007
“Robin?”
“Nggh. Mrffs.”
“The phone’s for you.”
“Is there coffee?”
“It’s long distance.”
“But is there coffee?”
“It’s from somebody-“
“Adam?”
“Yes?”
“Do you know what happened the last time I woke up and there wasn’t coffee?”
“Um…no?”
“People died, Adam. Better men than you.”
“I’m shaking in my boots.”
“WHERE IS MY COFFEE?”
“You can be a real bitch in the morning, you know that?” He left the room and Robin rolled out of her bed with a string of invectives. She wasn’t all that hungover, really, just pissed off. Some more. It was the best of hockey seasons; it was the worst of hockey seasons. Advancing to the championship round was glorious. Losing 4-1 to the goddamn Badgers was not. She was pretty sure her teammates hadn’t even come home from the bar last night. The flight home from Lake Placid had been an exercise in torture.
And Steve wasn’t there. He hadn’t showed up. Not to the championship game, not to the Frozen Four, not to a single damn bracket. Somewhere in the country there was a werewolf or a boogeyman or a restless spirit that was more pressing, more urgent, more important than her. To be perfectly honest, she wasn’t entirely sure there was enough tequila in Minnesota to numb that kind of pain. Classes started up again today and she wasn't ready to put on a happy face and make nice with the world again. In the kitchen, she heard the coffee maker start.
“Thank you, Adam,” she called. He was a good find, she thought. Cross country runners had the best butts. He was charming, too. One comment about her beautiful grey eyes and it was all over. And he made great coffee.
“Yeah, yeah. And there’s still a call on hold for you. Somebody named Rufus?”
The bottom dropped out of her stomach. No way, she thought, no way was this the phone call. It was inevitable, maybe, but not now. This was a bad week, maybe the worst of her life so far. She could almost taste her ring yesterday and now? No way would God screw her over like this. It was bad logic, Robin knew that, but she had to believe it. She twisted her left hand in the unkempt mass of her hair and pulled it over her shoulder. Her right hand was steady as she reached for the receiver.
“Rufus?” she said, very quietly.
“This is that phone call,” he said brusquely but not unkindly. “I’m sorry.” There was a high-pitched whining noise and then she was sitting on the floor next to the bed, but she didn’t remember getting there. “You still there?” She had always liked his voice: low, gruff, but mellowed, like good booze. “Robin?”
“Yes,” she said, with a preternatural calm she didn’t feel but had somehow leeched into her voice anyway. “I’m still here.” I’m still here. “When?”
“About a week ago.”
“A week? I’ve been…” Playing hockey-eating, sleeping and breathing hockey. And being pissed off. Pissed off for a week that Steve hadn’t come to the tourney. She thought she might throw up. “He’s gotta be-did you call the coroner?”
“Yes.”
“He’s gotta be-Rufus, they’ve gotta put him in the ground. Now.” There was a twinge of hysteria in her voice. She wasn’t there and they were going to do it wrong. “No autopsy. They can’t-they can’t-“
“I told them.”
“No cremation. They can’t cremate him.”
“I know who to call. We all make arrangements. We all prepare.” She tucked her legs into her chest and rested her forehead on her kneecaps. He prepared. Her father had made arrangements. Put your external affairs in order, get ready what you have in the field, then build yourself a home. He might as well have been at her elbow, so clearly did she hear Steve’s voice.
“Thank you. Thank you so much.”
“There’s more. Do you want to hear it?” Robin closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Steve was it. He was her family. There was no one else. She felt something inside of her snap like a rib, but it hurt different, and she already knew it would never knit back together.
“Yes. All of it.”
Canaan, Vermont
May 18th, 2008
She woke up on Rufus’ bed to the sound of a screen door opening. It was 3AM by her watch. Someone had taken the time to remove her sneakers and toss a blanket over her. Her arms hurt like a bitch. But there were new stitches and fresh gauze. That was nice of them, actually. She was thirsty as hell but there were people talking in the other room and she didn’t want to miss her chance to eavesdrop.
“Get on out there, then, Rumsfeld.” Bobby said. There was the sound of paws on tile as the dog slipped out into the back yard. “Is he sleeping?” he asked someone.
“He’s down for the count.” Jo was there. She sounded old.
“With enough whiskey in him to pickle a pig,” Ellen added.
“Gonna have to switch over to the cheap stuff soon.” Rufus, too.
“I think it needs to be said,” Ellen said, a silence around the table, “that we don’t know what happened in that house in Indiana. He won’t eat. He barely sleeps. And you saw him this afternoon. I don’t like it.”
“He’s just…he’s day to day right now, Mom.”
“He’ll come around,” Bobby insisted.
“How long can we keep this up?” Ellen pushed it. “If we run much further we’re going to need a boat. Sooner or later, Bobby, Sam is going to have to make a decision.”
“I’m telling you, Ellen, he will come around,” he sounded defensive. “I have known the Winchesters for twenty years. Sam is just like his Daddy. He will think himself in circles for weeks and then two minutes to midnight he will make his decision. And dollars to donuts it will be the right one.”
“I feel better already,” Rufus said dryly.
“At least we have the Colt,” Jo said. There was a drawn out pause.
“I can’t believe it was in Nevada the whole time. If we’d known, we mighta made it.”
“There was no way you could have known, Singer.” Rufus put it bluntly. She could hear him pouring himself another drink. “That boy’s time was up and you know that. He knew it, too.” Sometimes a good man perishes in spite of his goodness, her father’s voice said.
“It isn’t right,” Ellen said. “It isn’t right.”
“Right doesn’t have a damn thing to do with it,” Rufus scoffed. “But these are the facts, Ellen: Dean is in hell. But we have a knife and we have a gun and a crazy girl in the other room who brought us that gun. I can promise you that any child of Wandell’s will be a help.”
“There’s something else. About that,” Ellen replied cautiously. Robin could hear that she was uncomfortable. “Last spring...”
“Last spring I got a call from Dean,” Bobby said. Silently, Robin climbed out of bed and padded barefoot down the hall. They were seated around the kitchen table again, the Colt equidistant from them all, like an NRA centerpiece. “He was in Duluth.”
“He was in Duluth, alright,” Jo muttered.
“He was in Duluth,” Bobby continued peevishly, “looking for his brother. He’d tracked Sam there from Iowa.” He pulled his cap off, ran a hand across his hair, and pulled it back on.
“You better not be saying what I think you’re saying,” Rufus said, his voice invested with more heat than she had ever heard. Robin was pretty sure he was about to start making threats when she appeared in the kitchen, leaning heavily against the doorjamb. She was angry, and pale, and the scars were livid reminders on her face.
“Last spring Sam got my father killed,” she said flatly. They all turned to look at her. “And these assholes helped him cover it up.” Rufus stared at her open-mouthed now. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to drop his scotch.
“He didn’t kill your father,” Bobby said, like she’d just suggested that the moon was made of green cheese. “He was possessed. I’m sorry, but he didn’t kill your father.”
“The hell he didn’t,” Robin ground out. “How long did the Winchesters hunt that yellow-eyed demon? How many others did they piss off or exorcize along the way? And not once, not once, did they stop long enough to take simple precautions to avoid possession. It was careless and it was stupid and it was arrogant. And their mistakes got my father killed.”
Across the room, Jo flushed and Ellen put on her poker face. Rufus still hadn’t moved. Bobby’s face was hidden under his cap but his voice was completely unrepentant.
“If sorry isn’t good enough,” he said, “then you might want to show yourself the door. Because right now we don’t have time for whatever petty revenge you’ve got in store.”
“Petty revenge?” she said, straightening up and staring him down. “Despite the fact that Sam’s responsible for my father’s death, despite the fact that you all have a target the size of Montana painted on your back, I stole a gun for you and brought it all the way across the country to your fucking doorstep and you have the gall to stand there and accuse me of petty revenge?”
“Then why are you here?” Jo asked pointedly, still in high color.
“Because my father wanted me--would have wanted me to be here. If he were still alive, Steve would have wanted me to be here.” Her voice trembled a little and Jo looked away. Ellen, on the other hand, was watching her like she was seeing her for the first time. Robin grabbed at the door frame again, realizing she was swaying a little on her feet. Bobby was staring at her so hard she could feel him thinking. Rufus was still frozen.
“Sit down before you fall down, girl,” Bobby said, having come to some kind of decision. He offered her his chair and got her a glass of water. She drank it all in one go and he refilled it. The room was quiet and she wondered what sort of meeting they had been holding when she interrupted: a council of war or preparing for an intervention.
“Who’s Kate?” Ellen asked. Memories of brown hair, a cruel smile, and very, very sharp teeth.
“It doesn’t matter,” Robin said. “She’s dead. They’re all dead.”
“You kill them all with your bare hands, Rambo?” Bobby asked with exasperated sarcasm.
“Turns out there’s a gun that can kill anything,” she smart-assed him right back. “So I used that instead.” Rufus snorted.
“Back talk,” Bobby muttered, opening the fridge for a beer. “Nothing but back talk and sass.” A wave of cold air swept from behind her chair. She didn’t smell coolant, though, or the condenser; she smelled something damper, just dredged up from the bottom. And something warmer and tangier and so fresh it was almost appetizing: blood.
“Where’s the dog?” Robin whispered.
“Rumsfeld?” Bobby shut the door of the fridge and made for the door.
“Shit. Don’t open that, Singer” Rufus said and stood up in a hurry.
“Jo, go get Sam.”
“Dammit, Rumsfeld,” Bobby said, exhaling, with a note of defeat. “God dammit.”
“What is it?” Rufus asked, pulling a revolver out of the silverware drawer.
“Rawheads. I saw three just now.”
“What the sam hell are you talking about?” Ellen asked, rising to her feet, too.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Robin said. That was what they smelled like, but rawheads didn’t hunt in packs. And they didn’t eat dogs. Rufus passed her a riot gun from the pantry and a case of slugs from on top of the fridge. Unquestioningly, she loaded it and slipped the spare slugs into her pockets.
“What the fuck is with the rawheads?” Sam half-yelled, rushing into the room. He had a duffle in hand and he was pulling out something that looked like a taser.
“Get your gear, Ellen,” Bobby ordered. “We’re bugging out.” Robin stumbled back into Rufus’ room to put her shoes on and grab her keys. This was not good.
“...brought this down on my house!” Rufus was yelling.
“Rendezvous at Driftwood,” Bobby said, ignoring him. “Are you good to drive?”
“Give me the gun,” Sam said.
“I asked if you were good to drive, not aim and discharge a loaded firearm,” Bobby said.
“I knew it was a mistake,” Rufus said. “I knew it. No honor amongst thieves, it’s the first goddamn rule. I trusted you, Singer.”
“You can take it up with me in Driftwood!”
“They’ll be serving ice tea in hell before I meet up with you again,” Rufus hissed back.
“Save the hair-pulling for later, boys. We’ve got bigger problems,” Ellen said, having procured a semi-automatic from God knew where. She handed it to her daughter who snapped a clip into place. Robin pulled her keys out of her front pocket and slid one off the ring.
“By the time I’m done,” Rufus was saying, “you won’t have any friends left. How much help do you think they’ll give you once they know what happened to Steve?”
“It’s okay,” Robin heard herself say. “Rufus, it’s okay. Nobody else has to know. Please, don’t tell anybody else.” She approached him and held the key out.
“The hell is this?”
“It’s the key to our place,” she said. “The alarm code is E414. It’s secure as I could make it. And more guns than you can shake a stick at.” He stared at her. “Go on. It’s what Steve would have wanted.”
“E414, huh?” he raised an eyebrow.
“Something he said to me once,” she smiled and almost choked on it. “Go on, take it. He would have wanted a friend to have it.”
“Touching stuff, really,” Sam said. “But is he the wind beneath your wings?”
“Don’t be an ass,” Bobby said, loading the Colt. “She knows everything. Are you good to fire this?” Sam sneered at him. The fox was back. Rufus took the key and Robin shrank back into the shadows.
“I’m just like my daddy, remember?” he said, taking the gun from Bobby. “Guess what, Bobby? It’s two minutes to midnight. I know what to do.”
“About damn time,” Ellen muttered. “You load that gun, Jo?”
“Yes.”
“Good, cause you’re riding with her.” Ellen jerked her head in Robin’s direction. “Read the map so she doesn’t get lost. Stick close. Make friends. You understand me?”
“Got it,” Jo said and stepped across to stand next to Robin, who could only imagine what they looked like: a before and after PSA for falling out of the ugly tree, probably.
“Your mom’s kind of scary.”
“I get that a lot.”
“Give me the knife, Sam,” Bobby said. Sam hesitated. “The fuckers killed my dog.” He passed Bobby the knife.
“Bobby, you’re out the back with Ellen,” Sam said with authority. “I’ll take the front with Jo and Scarface, here.” Robin blushed furiously.
“Watch your mouth, boy,” Rufus said.
“And you, Rufus, can go to hell whichever way you want,” Sam added.
“See you all Driftwood,” Ellen said and kicked open the back door. That was one way to end an awkward conversation. Bobby was close on her heels. Rufus paused, fixed Sam with a look that might have killed a lesser man, then turned and nodded to Robin. Then he followed the others into the night.
“Come on,” Sam said and they were out the front door just a few seconds later. Her eyes adjusted quickly.
Two of them were out here: one in front, between them and the street, and the other to their right. They reeked of mold and close spaces and dead children. Fighting down the urge to vomit, Robin chambered a round and turned to their right and took three steps towards the monster. She aimed and fired in one fast motion and put a hole the size of a golf ball in its head. She turned back to the others and the hairs on the back of her neck stood up.
Sam wasn’t three feet away from the thing, staring at it in an eerily detached way. He held the Colt in his right hand, but his arm was slack against his side. Jo was almost completely behind him, trying to stand her ground. Her gun must have been in her jacket pocket because she had butane in one hand and a lighter in the other and a can of salt under her arm. The rawhead advanced again and Sam was nose to nose with it. It turned to look at him and the little slits it had for nostrils flared. Robin was pretty sure it was smiling.
“Shoot it,” Jo said. She sounded scared. “Sam, shoot it.”
Instead, Sam slipped the Colt into his left hand and reached behind him with his right, pulling something about from between the waist of his jeans and the small of his back. The taser? The rawhead opened its mouth now, like a snake, trying to catch the scent on its black little tongue. Robin chambered another round. There was only one problem with firing slugs from a shotgun: with rock salt you’d burn a man, with birdshot you’d skin him, with buckshot you’d put him in the hospital, but with a slug you would close his eyes forever. She couldn’t afford to miss and she really didn’t want to fire. There was a high-pitched whining noise while the taser charged up.
“Please, Sam. Shoot it.” Jo’s hands were shaking. The weak light was plenty for her to see by. Sam stepped back a few feet. He raised his right hand. It was steady and the light that the moon cast onto the silver ring he wore seemed to multiply in luminance.
“Jo,” he said, like it was a different person speaking. Staring there at the monster, some kind of sea-change had taken place. He sounded human again. Not the Spartan or the fox or the thing on her security video, but somebody whose name might actually be Sam. “Are your feet dry?”
“They’re dry,” she said.
Sam pulled the trigger. The leads hit home and the visual impact of the electrocution that followed was enough to make them all flinch a little. It writhed on the ground until it smoked. There was a burnt smell in the air: charred dead thing. Robin gagged a little and put a hand over her face.
“I fried it,” Sam said. “It’s extra frickin’ crispy.”
“Yeah it is,” Jo said, relieved and on the edge of nervous laughter. “You fried it.”
“I only got one shot. I made it count,” he said, but he was talking to somebody else. Jo flicked a glance at Robin, before turning back to him. “I’m not gonna leave town without you.”
“Sam? We’re going to Driftwood.”
“I fucking hate rawheads,” he said. “I fucking hate them.”
“Driftwood, Sam,” Jo said. “I’ll see you in Driftwood.” She reached up, then, on tip-toes because he was pretty damn tall, and rustled his hair. He looked at her, then raised his hand and looked past her at someone else. Sam smiled.
“Watch me.” He wasn’t talking to either of them, it was obvious. Sam turned and headed towards his car, wherever it was. Jo put a hand over her eyes for a quick second, trying to see or not see something.
“Come on,” she said, and tossed Robin the butane. “Turn and burn.” It was a matter of minutes. Perversely, Robin kind of hoped the neighbors were watching. Welcome to our world, she thought, if you think this is crazy shit, wait till you see what we can do with a little blood and a lot of Latin. But more likely they would close the blinds and forget they ever saw two young women setting fire to a pair of corpses.
Robin set off at a brisk jog towards the side street next to Jo. Sam had scared her in the house and he’d pissed her off good. But she couldn’t shake the way he stood there, with his arms down, letting the monster close in on him. Young men must carry millstones and youths stagger under loads of wood, said Steve at her shoulder. They really couldn’t get out of town fast enough.
Chapter 2