Bloody Murder for Rebecca L. Dobbie
Title: Bloody Murder
Author: JustRuth
Recipient: Rebecca L. Dobbie
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Season One Supernatural scariness
Author's Notes: “The Murder Maverick” is a legend of the Texas hills. The gist of the story goes as follows: two men (one a Civil War veteran with one arm) at the local cattle drive get into a dispute over a yearling calf. The veteran is shot down and the murderer is later killed after foolishly drawing on a Texas Ranger. The calf is allegedly branded with the word “Murder” and driven off to become a feral bull. After its death, the bull becomes a death omen.
Manly Wade Wellman wrote a poem called “the Murder Bull” as a Silver John song in one of his books.
Summary: On the way east from Grand Junction, Colorado, Dean sees a chance to cross ‘ride a bull’ off his bucket list - but an unseen enemy may be out to shorten that list!
Word count: 2550
Then: Two weeks ago
The older man and the red and white bull watched as the limping black steer was unloaded from the trailer.
“What do you think, Redbone? Stormshadow’s just been pulled from the pro circuit because of a hoof infection. You can heal him up and we can give old Murder a rest,” said the owner of the ranch. “This guy can teach the young hot-shots how to hang on for eight seconds.”
Bloody Murder, the red and white bull snorted and pawed the ground. The black bull turned and looked at the trio with cold, almost calculating dark eyes. He flicked his tail as if swatting a fly and turned away.
“I agree old friend,” muttered Redbone, his hound-like face uncharacteristically grim. “There’s something about this one that just ain’t right.”
Now:
The brothers had just passed Denver on their way back from Grand Junction and were angling their path on the Interstate to cut through Nebraska on their way to Minnesota to visit Pastor Jim when Dean whooped, “Sammy! Look at that!”
“Huh?” Sam had been dosing. “Look at what?”
“You missed the billboard. There’s a Round-em-up Steakhouse up ahead. They’ve got mechanical bull riding.” Dean was almost bouncing up and down behind the wheel.
“Mechanical bull riding?” Sam blinked the sleep from his eyes.
“Yeah! It’s fun and chicks dig it. I always wanted to ride one of those since that bar in El Paso.”
“The one where Dad had to save your ass because you were drinking underage and smart mouthed the bouncer?”
“Bucket list Sammy! Don’t you have a bucket list?”
“Yeah,” Sam quietly replied. “I did.” He turned to stare out the window.
Shit, Dean thought. I did it again. Sooner or later he’d have to figure out how to talk to Sam without having him get depressed and thinking about Jess.
“Anyway, we can’t leave Colorado without getting a good steak.” Dean half hoped Sam would bring up the fact he’d said that last night and this morning at breakfast so they could argue. Sam just sighed.
Shit. Dean thought as he made the turn. Shit.
The Round-em-up had a gaudy neon sign featuring three cows and a cowboy that blinked on and off to look like they were walking towards the place. On the top of the restaurant a neon pink cowgirl rode an orange mechanical bull. It took two circles of the parking lot before Dean found a spot for the Impala. The air smelled of burning wood.
Sam had to admit his mouth was watering at the scent. The steak they’d had last night had been decent, but a little too tough for Sam’s taste. He hadn’t indulged in another slab of beef this morning and frankly, the way Dean tore into his had left him a little queasy.
“Fork tender USDA Number One Prime cuts!” promised the menu chalkboard at the door as they waited. Dean headed into the bar “to pick up a couple of beers.”
Sam picked up a tattered copy of the local paper. Amid the various ads for garage sales and church services was a half-page for “Colonel Benteen’s Wild West ranch featuring ABRA champion bull Bloody Murder!”
The picture was in color of a speckled bull with blunted horns that arched up instead of out; its muzzle looked like it had been dipped in chestnut paint - or dried blood.
‘Do you dare ride the Champ?’ The text challenged.
The red spots on the bull suddenly shifted to form the word ‘MURDER.’
“Sam?” Dean’s voice made him jump and the word vanished. “You okay? Geez, you just went white.” He handed him a lager in a glass etched with the image of the cowgirl sign. “I got two tickets for the ride.”
“I’m fine,” Sam drank the brew a little too fast. Just my imagination. It’s not real. It can’t be real. “Wait - - ride? I don’t want to ride.”
“Chicken! It’ll be fun.”
“Dean!” Just before Christmas break, Sam’s friends had dragged him to a bar that featured a mechanical bronco for a guy’s night out. By the end of the night; Phil got a broken arm, Jim got a broken nose, Luis got spectacularly sick in the lobby and Sam had his butt grabbed by a guy in black chaps. It was not a series of memories he wanted to revisit.
“Winchester, party of two?” called the hostess in a white cowboy hat and a short denim skirt that made Dean’s face light up.
The steaks were excellent. Sam felt a little queasy, but put it down to the fact his brother liked his meat obscenely rare and was devouring it like a starving wolf. Dean was flirting with the waitress (white hats and short skirts seemed to be the uniform) and keeping an eye on a crawling sign near the ceiling.
“There’s our numbers!” He whooped. “Come on, let’s go!”
He tried to protest but Dean grabbed him under the armpit and unless Sam wanted to start an embarrassing wrestling match in the middle of the restaurant, he had no choice but to be dragged into the bar.
******
Earlier that day:
“I knew you could do it, Redbone.” Colonel Benteen admired as he watched the black steer pace the pen.
“It shouldn’t have healed up that fast,” Redbone frowned.
The black steer looked at him and he could have sworn it smirked.
No, something was just not right and he needed to call a friend to help him sort things out.
******
Now
Sam yelped indignantly as Dean shoved him towards the bull first. It had been ages since he’d been on a horse. The only thing he remembered was “ride with your knees, not with your heels.”
He made four and a quarter seconds before landing in the sawdust that was supposed to cushion his fall. He got up and limped out of the pit, swearing under his breath as he could feel the dust worming its way into places it didn’t belong.
“YEE-HAW!” Dean whooped as his turn started. He had a white hat in his free hand that Sam recognized as the waitress’. She was there cheering him on from the sidelines. Dean also seemed to be able to hang on better than most.
“He’s going to tie your record, Slim,” Sam heard behind him.
“I’m not worried,” Slim drawled back.
Sam glanced behind him at Slim. There was something about the young man that made the back of his neck prickle, but for the life of him, he couldn’t fathom what it was.
The crowd started to cheer and whoop as Dean’s name started crawling up the lit board that proclaimed “Champions.”
“He’s going to knock you down!” Slim’s friend yelled.
“He won’t last.” Slim’s handsome face tightened with anger.
“We’re on a way to a new champ!” squealed the waitress into a microphone. She started a countdown at ten, nine, eight . . .
“Son of a bitch!” Slim barked.
The whole bar area erupted in wild cheers as Dean’s name sent the board flashing and ringing.
It was going to be hell to be living with him for the next two days, Sam groaned inwardly.
Slim seemed to be taking his ouster with good grace as he bought Dean a drink.
“’Course it’s nothing like riding a real bull,” he drawled at Dean. “That takes more than luck.”
“Hey, that wasn’t luck,” Dean bristled. Sam rolled his eyes and appealed to ceiling for help. “That was skill, my man.”
“Sure,” Slim sneered.
“You think I can’t ride a real bull?”
“Of course you can,” cooed the waitress under his arm. “I bet you can do anything.”
“You come to Colonel Benteen’s Wild West show tomorrow and I’ll pay to see this ‘skill’ of yours.” Slim’s smile was nothing pleasant. Sam involuntarily flinched. He could have sworn he saw something red flash in Slim’s eyes.
“Maybe I’ll just be there,” snarled Dean in that tone that said he was going to do this come hell, high water or any of Sam’s objections.
Sam started feeling queasy again. The Chuck Wagon’s Rest motel with its cattle drive motif didn’t help his unease.
******
Dean sat upright at the first cry. Sam was thrashing in his bed. “No!” He croaked hoarsely. “No! N-No, NO!”
“Sam?” Dean swung his legs out of the bed. “Sam? Sammy - whoa!” Sam sat upright, flailing. Dean ducked one arm and got behind him, one knee on the bed and grabbed him from behind in a bear hug. “‘S okay, ‘s okay, I gotcha, I gotcha.”
Sam stopped flailing and went limp, gasping as if for air - or as if he were sobbing.
“I gotcha,” Dean repeated. He let go of the bear hug and circled until he was in front of Sam, keeping a grip on his arms so Sam would know he was still there. “Look at me. Look at me, Sam. We good? Sam? We good?”
Sam focused on him briefly, then looked away. “Yeah,” he finally said. “I’m good.”
“Good.” Dean let go. “Might as well go get breakfast.”
It was as if Sam had been stung. He shot to his feet and ran to the bathroom, puking.
Dean came to the door, not knowing what to do. “Sam what’s going on?”
Sam could only shake his head.
“Ok,” said Dean. “No eggs for you this morning.”
******
Later that day
“We’re not clowns,” said the smaller, slimmer gray haired man. His sun-weathered face was grim. “The term we use now is ‘bullfighters’.”
“Although you’ll never catch me in them tight pants,” the second older man grinned briefly. He had introduced himself as “Redbone” ‘cause momma said my face was as long as a hound’s’ the two men were Bloody Murderer’s handlers.
“Our job is to save the cowboy once he gets off the bull,” continued the gray haired man. “It’s not easy to ride one of these animals.”
“I think they can figure that out for themselves, Achilles.”
Sam leaned forward; fascinated. He hated clowns, but he was not scared at all of these fierce, solid men. Dean was trying to be bored with the “rodeo clowns” lecture, but was interested in spite of himself.
“There have been bull fighters as far back as ancient Crete,” explained Achilles. “There’s an old wall painting . . .”
“The Toreador Fresco?” asked Sam.
“You’ve seen it?” Achilles blinked.
“Only in a book.”
“Well, when I retire I’m going to go see it in person,” Achilles said.
Redbone snorted and leaned on the fence. “You ain’t never retiring, old man.”
The big red and white bull was browsing in a corner of the pen. He lifted his head and snorted too.
“Murder doesn’t believe you’ll ever retire either.”
Sam felt the color drain out of his face at the image from a half-remembered dream. He’d seen those horns red with blood and MURDER spelled on its side.
“Murder,” he whispered involuntarily.
“Yup,” said Redbone, “Bloody Murder - he’s unseated more cowboys than just about any other bull on the circuit. Colonel has retired him and keeps him for breeding. Stormshadow is actually a steer and he’s still a contender. He’s just healed from an injury. The Colonel will probably send him back to the circuit.”
“Well, well,” Slim and a small group of rough looking men from the bar came up to the corral. “Looks like you weren’t scared off, Pretty Boy.”
“Take more than an asshole like you to scare me off. So,” Dean folded his arms. “What do I have to do to ride one of these guys?”
“Besides being a fool?” asked Achilles.
“Colonel,” Redbone turned to a man in a suit. “You can’t be serious about allowing this?”
“They’ve paid the money,” there was something odd about the Colonel’s face. “They’ll go on Stormshadow.”
******
Dean felt his mouth go dry. His stomach muscles tightened up as he realized this was not a good idea. The black steer was in the chute, standing almost eerily still.
“Ok,” Achilles tightened the rope around Stormshadow’s body. “Scoot forward, you’ve got to be almost sitting on your hand. Did you rosin up?” Dean nodded. “Good. Grab the rope - no, don’t wrap it like that you’ll either lose your hand or be tied to the bull. Good. Keep your other hand up really high. That’s what will help you balance. Get ready and go!”
With not even a snort, the steer jumped free. He kicked high and started to spin. Dean tried to lean against the force. The rope slipped through his grip and he felt himself falling.
Winded, he bounced painfully on the ground. Almost as soon as he hit, the two ‘clowns’ (he swore he would never call them that again) were yelling and dodging in the bull’s face. He heard Sam call his name as he struggled to his feet.
The black steer shook off the old men and headed straight for him, horns down. Sam cursed, trying to drag him towards the fence.
A thunderous bawl stopped the beast in his tracks. Bloody Murder charged across the corral. Stormshadow turned and their horns clashed together. Sam finished dragging Dean through the fence.
“Look at that,” Slim sneered. “Guess it was luck after all.”
Redbone clapped his hand on Slim’s shoulder and it sounded like he was cussing him out in some Native American tongue. Slim shook all over and suddenly dropped to his knees - vomiting what looking like black sludge.
There was another loud bawl from the corral. Sam got Dean on their feet and Dean could see the black steer lying on the sand. Bloody Murder stood over it, his horns gleaming with blood.
“Luck indeed,” Achilles said grimly. “We should all have such luck.”
Sam went white and swallowed hard. Dean felt pretty pale himself. This was an experience he was never going to repeat.
******
“So,” said Redbone. “Those were the Winchesters?”
“Yes,” Achilles shook his head as he stood next to the stall. “There’s something odd about them. Rumor has it that their father has made a bad enemy and not a human one.”
“Huh,” said Redbone. “Well, I wish them luck.”
In the stall, Murder gave a moo of agreement.
******
Behind the restaurant
“Idiots,” snarled the waitress as she stared into the bubbling depths of an ornate silver cup. “I don’t want to hear your excuses! Fine, I’ll just have to take care of them myself. I don’t care what Father says”
She poured the thick, liquid contents of the cup over the ground. “Well, it was fun being with you, but I’m going to have to find some new clothes.” The woman choked and a thick black cloud erupted from her mouth. As it fled into the air, the woman fell down, a shockingly small quantity of blood dripping from her cut throat.
******
Lincoln Highway, going through Nebraska
“Don’t you say another word,” Dean growled as the brothers got back on the road.
“I mean it,” Sam folded his arms. “The next time you want to cross something off your bucket list? Count me out!”
“Bite me.”
“Bite yourself.”
Author: JustRuth
Recipient: Rebecca L. Dobbie
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Season One Supernatural scariness
Author's Notes: “The Murder Maverick” is a legend of the Texas hills. The gist of the story goes as follows: two men (one a Civil War veteran with one arm) at the local cattle drive get into a dispute over a yearling calf. The veteran is shot down and the murderer is later killed after foolishly drawing on a Texas Ranger. The calf is allegedly branded with the word “Murder” and driven off to become a feral bull. After its death, the bull becomes a death omen.
Manly Wade Wellman wrote a poem called “the Murder Bull” as a Silver John song in one of his books.
Summary: On the way east from Grand Junction, Colorado, Dean sees a chance to cross ‘ride a bull’ off his bucket list - but an unseen enemy may be out to shorten that list!
Word count: 2550
Then: Two weeks ago
The older man and the red and white bull watched as the limping black steer was unloaded from the trailer.
“What do you think, Redbone? Stormshadow’s just been pulled from the pro circuit because of a hoof infection. You can heal him up and we can give old Murder a rest,” said the owner of the ranch. “This guy can teach the young hot-shots how to hang on for eight seconds.”
Bloody Murder, the red and white bull snorted and pawed the ground. The black bull turned and looked at the trio with cold, almost calculating dark eyes. He flicked his tail as if swatting a fly and turned away.
“I agree old friend,” muttered Redbone, his hound-like face uncharacteristically grim. “There’s something about this one that just ain’t right.”
Now:
The brothers had just passed Denver on their way back from Grand Junction and were angling their path on the Interstate to cut through Nebraska on their way to Minnesota to visit Pastor Jim when Dean whooped, “Sammy! Look at that!”
“Huh?” Sam had been dosing. “Look at what?”
“You missed the billboard. There’s a Round-em-up Steakhouse up ahead. They’ve got mechanical bull riding.” Dean was almost bouncing up and down behind the wheel.
“Mechanical bull riding?” Sam blinked the sleep from his eyes.
“Yeah! It’s fun and chicks dig it. I always wanted to ride one of those since that bar in El Paso.”
“The one where Dad had to save your ass because you were drinking underage and smart mouthed the bouncer?”
“Bucket list Sammy! Don’t you have a bucket list?”
“Yeah,” Sam quietly replied. “I did.” He turned to stare out the window.
Shit, Dean thought. I did it again. Sooner or later he’d have to figure out how to talk to Sam without having him get depressed and thinking about Jess.
“Anyway, we can’t leave Colorado without getting a good steak.” Dean half hoped Sam would bring up the fact he’d said that last night and this morning at breakfast so they could argue. Sam just sighed.
Shit. Dean thought as he made the turn. Shit.
The Round-em-up had a gaudy neon sign featuring three cows and a cowboy that blinked on and off to look like they were walking towards the place. On the top of the restaurant a neon pink cowgirl rode an orange mechanical bull. It took two circles of the parking lot before Dean found a spot for the Impala. The air smelled of burning wood.
Sam had to admit his mouth was watering at the scent. The steak they’d had last night had been decent, but a little too tough for Sam’s taste. He hadn’t indulged in another slab of beef this morning and frankly, the way Dean tore into his had left him a little queasy.
“Fork tender USDA Number One Prime cuts!” promised the menu chalkboard at the door as they waited. Dean headed into the bar “to pick up a couple of beers.”
Sam picked up a tattered copy of the local paper. Amid the various ads for garage sales and church services was a half-page for “Colonel Benteen’s Wild West ranch featuring ABRA champion bull Bloody Murder!”
The picture was in color of a speckled bull with blunted horns that arched up instead of out; its muzzle looked like it had been dipped in chestnut paint - or dried blood.
‘Do you dare ride the Champ?’ The text challenged.
The red spots on the bull suddenly shifted to form the word ‘MURDER.’
“Sam?” Dean’s voice made him jump and the word vanished. “You okay? Geez, you just went white.” He handed him a lager in a glass etched with the image of the cowgirl sign. “I got two tickets for the ride.”
“I’m fine,” Sam drank the brew a little too fast. Just my imagination. It’s not real. It can’t be real. “Wait - - ride? I don’t want to ride.”
“Chicken! It’ll be fun.”
“Dean!” Just before Christmas break, Sam’s friends had dragged him to a bar that featured a mechanical bronco for a guy’s night out. By the end of the night; Phil got a broken arm, Jim got a broken nose, Luis got spectacularly sick in the lobby and Sam had his butt grabbed by a guy in black chaps. It was not a series of memories he wanted to revisit.
“Winchester, party of two?” called the hostess in a white cowboy hat and a short denim skirt that made Dean’s face light up.
The steaks were excellent. Sam felt a little queasy, but put it down to the fact his brother liked his meat obscenely rare and was devouring it like a starving wolf. Dean was flirting with the waitress (white hats and short skirts seemed to be the uniform) and keeping an eye on a crawling sign near the ceiling.
“There’s our numbers!” He whooped. “Come on, let’s go!”
He tried to protest but Dean grabbed him under the armpit and unless Sam wanted to start an embarrassing wrestling match in the middle of the restaurant, he had no choice but to be dragged into the bar.
******
Earlier that day:
“I knew you could do it, Redbone.” Colonel Benteen admired as he watched the black steer pace the pen.
“It shouldn’t have healed up that fast,” Redbone frowned.
The black steer looked at him and he could have sworn it smirked.
No, something was just not right and he needed to call a friend to help him sort things out.
******
Now
Sam yelped indignantly as Dean shoved him towards the bull first. It had been ages since he’d been on a horse. The only thing he remembered was “ride with your knees, not with your heels.”
He made four and a quarter seconds before landing in the sawdust that was supposed to cushion his fall. He got up and limped out of the pit, swearing under his breath as he could feel the dust worming its way into places it didn’t belong.
“YEE-HAW!” Dean whooped as his turn started. He had a white hat in his free hand that Sam recognized as the waitress’. She was there cheering him on from the sidelines. Dean also seemed to be able to hang on better than most.
“He’s going to tie your record, Slim,” Sam heard behind him.
“I’m not worried,” Slim drawled back.
Sam glanced behind him at Slim. There was something about the young man that made the back of his neck prickle, but for the life of him, he couldn’t fathom what it was.
The crowd started to cheer and whoop as Dean’s name started crawling up the lit board that proclaimed “Champions.”
“He’s going to knock you down!” Slim’s friend yelled.
“He won’t last.” Slim’s handsome face tightened with anger.
“We’re on a way to a new champ!” squealed the waitress into a microphone. She started a countdown at ten, nine, eight . . .
“Son of a bitch!” Slim barked.
The whole bar area erupted in wild cheers as Dean’s name sent the board flashing and ringing.
It was going to be hell to be living with him for the next two days, Sam groaned inwardly.
Slim seemed to be taking his ouster with good grace as he bought Dean a drink.
“’Course it’s nothing like riding a real bull,” he drawled at Dean. “That takes more than luck.”
“Hey, that wasn’t luck,” Dean bristled. Sam rolled his eyes and appealed to ceiling for help. “That was skill, my man.”
“Sure,” Slim sneered.
“You think I can’t ride a real bull?”
“Of course you can,” cooed the waitress under his arm. “I bet you can do anything.”
“You come to Colonel Benteen’s Wild West show tomorrow and I’ll pay to see this ‘skill’ of yours.” Slim’s smile was nothing pleasant. Sam involuntarily flinched. He could have sworn he saw something red flash in Slim’s eyes.
“Maybe I’ll just be there,” snarled Dean in that tone that said he was going to do this come hell, high water or any of Sam’s objections.
Sam started feeling queasy again. The Chuck Wagon’s Rest motel with its cattle drive motif didn’t help his unease.
******
Dean sat upright at the first cry. Sam was thrashing in his bed. “No!” He croaked hoarsely. “No! N-No, NO!”
“Sam?” Dean swung his legs out of the bed. “Sam? Sammy - whoa!” Sam sat upright, flailing. Dean ducked one arm and got behind him, one knee on the bed and grabbed him from behind in a bear hug. “‘S okay, ‘s okay, I gotcha, I gotcha.”
Sam stopped flailing and went limp, gasping as if for air - or as if he were sobbing.
“I gotcha,” Dean repeated. He let go of the bear hug and circled until he was in front of Sam, keeping a grip on his arms so Sam would know he was still there. “Look at me. Look at me, Sam. We good? Sam? We good?”
Sam focused on him briefly, then looked away. “Yeah,” he finally said. “I’m good.”
“Good.” Dean let go. “Might as well go get breakfast.”
It was as if Sam had been stung. He shot to his feet and ran to the bathroom, puking.
Dean came to the door, not knowing what to do. “Sam what’s going on?”
Sam could only shake his head.
“Ok,” said Dean. “No eggs for you this morning.”
******
Later that day
“We’re not clowns,” said the smaller, slimmer gray haired man. His sun-weathered face was grim. “The term we use now is ‘bullfighters’.”
“Although you’ll never catch me in them tight pants,” the second older man grinned briefly. He had introduced himself as “Redbone” ‘cause momma said my face was as long as a hound’s’ the two men were Bloody Murderer’s handlers.
“Our job is to save the cowboy once he gets off the bull,” continued the gray haired man. “It’s not easy to ride one of these animals.”
“I think they can figure that out for themselves, Achilles.”
Sam leaned forward; fascinated. He hated clowns, but he was not scared at all of these fierce, solid men. Dean was trying to be bored with the “rodeo clowns” lecture, but was interested in spite of himself.
“There have been bull fighters as far back as ancient Crete,” explained Achilles. “There’s an old wall painting . . .”
“The Toreador Fresco?” asked Sam.
“You’ve seen it?” Achilles blinked.
“Only in a book.”
“Well, when I retire I’m going to go see it in person,” Achilles said.
Redbone snorted and leaned on the fence. “You ain’t never retiring, old man.”
The big red and white bull was browsing in a corner of the pen. He lifted his head and snorted too.
“Murder doesn’t believe you’ll ever retire either.”
Sam felt the color drain out of his face at the image from a half-remembered dream. He’d seen those horns red with blood and MURDER spelled on its side.
“Murder,” he whispered involuntarily.
“Yup,” said Redbone, “Bloody Murder - he’s unseated more cowboys than just about any other bull on the circuit. Colonel has retired him and keeps him for breeding. Stormshadow is actually a steer and he’s still a contender. He’s just healed from an injury. The Colonel will probably send him back to the circuit.”
“Well, well,” Slim and a small group of rough looking men from the bar came up to the corral. “Looks like you weren’t scared off, Pretty Boy.”
“Take more than an asshole like you to scare me off. So,” Dean folded his arms. “What do I have to do to ride one of these guys?”
“Besides being a fool?” asked Achilles.
“Colonel,” Redbone turned to a man in a suit. “You can’t be serious about allowing this?”
“They’ve paid the money,” there was something odd about the Colonel’s face. “They’ll go on Stormshadow.”
******
Dean felt his mouth go dry. His stomach muscles tightened up as he realized this was not a good idea. The black steer was in the chute, standing almost eerily still.
“Ok,” Achilles tightened the rope around Stormshadow’s body. “Scoot forward, you’ve got to be almost sitting on your hand. Did you rosin up?” Dean nodded. “Good. Grab the rope - no, don’t wrap it like that you’ll either lose your hand or be tied to the bull. Good. Keep your other hand up really high. That’s what will help you balance. Get ready and go!”
With not even a snort, the steer jumped free. He kicked high and started to spin. Dean tried to lean against the force. The rope slipped through his grip and he felt himself falling.
Winded, he bounced painfully on the ground. Almost as soon as he hit, the two ‘clowns’ (he swore he would never call them that again) were yelling and dodging in the bull’s face. He heard Sam call his name as he struggled to his feet.
The black steer shook off the old men and headed straight for him, horns down. Sam cursed, trying to drag him towards the fence.
A thunderous bawl stopped the beast in his tracks. Bloody Murder charged across the corral. Stormshadow turned and their horns clashed together. Sam finished dragging Dean through the fence.
“Look at that,” Slim sneered. “Guess it was luck after all.”
Redbone clapped his hand on Slim’s shoulder and it sounded like he was cussing him out in some Native American tongue. Slim shook all over and suddenly dropped to his knees - vomiting what looking like black sludge.
There was another loud bawl from the corral. Sam got Dean on their feet and Dean could see the black steer lying on the sand. Bloody Murder stood over it, his horns gleaming with blood.
“Luck indeed,” Achilles said grimly. “We should all have such luck.”
Sam went white and swallowed hard. Dean felt pretty pale himself. This was an experience he was never going to repeat.
******
“So,” said Redbone. “Those were the Winchesters?”
“Yes,” Achilles shook his head as he stood next to the stall. “There’s something odd about them. Rumor has it that their father has made a bad enemy and not a human one.”
“Huh,” said Redbone. “Well, I wish them luck.”
In the stall, Murder gave a moo of agreement.
******
Behind the restaurant
“Idiots,” snarled the waitress as she stared into the bubbling depths of an ornate silver cup. “I don’t want to hear your excuses! Fine, I’ll just have to take care of them myself. I don’t care what Father says”
She poured the thick, liquid contents of the cup over the ground. “Well, it was fun being with you, but I’m going to have to find some new clothes.” The woman choked and a thick black cloud erupted from her mouth. As it fled into the air, the woman fell down, a shockingly small quantity of blood dripping from her cut throat.
******
Lincoln Highway, going through Nebraska
“Don’t you say another word,” Dean growled as the brothers got back on the road.
“I mean it,” Sam folded his arms. “The next time you want to cross something off your bucket list? Count me out!”
“Bite me.”
“Bite yourself.”