THE
STALKER
By: Karen B.
Summary: Ruined shoes, no pie, a hunt screwed up. Hurt Sam. Awesome Dean. Alternating pov's. Two shot. Story is complete.
Disclaimer: Not the Owner
AN: Published in Blood Brothers Six –2012 ~ A Supernatural Genzine.
Thank you Jeanne!
/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/
Sam raced through the gnarly, burr-infested forest, clutching a triangular Styrofoam takeout container against his chest. He'd ditched their dinner the moment he'd laid eyes on the creature, the moment he gave chase, but somehow, for some odd reason he still held onto Dean's piece of pie as if he were holding onto Dean himself.
Sam rounded a Sycamore, his sparkling white tennis shoes sloshing into a large rain puddle, water soaking through to his socks.
He broke out of the woods, surprised to see it was close to nightfall. The sunset burned low and orange across the sky, the scattering puffy clouds tinged ten shades of violet red, melting and swirling together like different flavors of ice cream. The trees alongside the road whizzed past him as he ran, silhouetted black and almost spooky against the brilliant color of the sky.
Sam ran faster, feet pounding against the unpaved country road, toeing up gravel and puffs of loose dirt with each heavy footfall. His brand new tennis shoes were ruined, caked with sticky mud, dirty water squishing inside his wet socks and in-between his wrinkled toes. Dean was going to kill him.
He ran past a whitewashed fence where one spotted cow stood belly deep in the center of the overgrown pasture. A bell rang, brassy and hollow, and the cow mooed loud and long. Another cow in the not so far-off distance returned the forlorn call, painful and low.
Arms and adrenaline both pumping, Sam ran on.
It had all started with cattle mutilations; the unlucky cow's belly had been split wide, spilling its insides onto the ground. Not much had ever been left behind: blood, leathery skin, gnawed bones, but never so much as a footprint.
At first, it was unclear what was killing off the livestock. Could have been coyotes, could have been demons, could have been some sort of sick cult using the cattle for a ritual sacrifice. The Pennsylvania town of all things used-to-be was old and small. Covered bridges, horse drawn Amish buggies, a five-store outlet mall, cornfields, handmade soap on a rope, grandpa's shorts gently blowing dry in the wind, an all-you-can-eat Denny's.
Dean hated Denny's, so it didn't take him long to find a small family-run diner with the best damn all- American rhubarb pie. While Dean ate his pie, Sam researched and interviewed everyone. It didn't take him long. The town was so small and close-knit, you couldn't wave to your neighbor without everyone knowing about it. By the time Dean had finished his pie, Sam had found out exactly what they were dealing with: a bunch of bored-out-of-their-skulls teen pranksters, whacking the county's beef supply just for kicks. The hooligan teens were good; Sam had to give them credit. Picking the place clean, hoping to scare the townsfolk into thinking they were being visited by aliens. Bring some excitement to the town, figuring a little media attention never hurt anyone. Unfortunately for the teens, the whole Roswell, E.T., Aliens-In-My-Attic theory never sat well with Sam or Dean.
Together, they baited and caught the teens fast, delivering them all, neatly wrapped up in a big pretty pink bow right on Five-O's front doorstep. Sam figured it was a job well done, and hopefully the teens would learn a lesson. The job was a pain in the ass, but nothing scary or supernatural about it. And for once, no human lives had been lost. Now that was good times, Sam thought, when they could pull the plug so easily. Leave a town in their rear view mirror pretty much the way they'd found it: all bodies present and accounted for, less a few Holstein.
Dean had happily announced the case closed. "So long. Peace out. Na-na-naa-na, hey, hey, hey, goodbye!" he'd said to be exact. It was time to celebrate with dinner and more pie.
"Crap," Sam panted. Dean was going to be pissed. Really, seriously pissed. They both should have known things in the Winchester universe were never that easy.
Sam ran past an old John Deere tractor, left where it had died, green paint nearly swallowed by red rust, gears more than likely frozen. Sam shivered. Nothing lasted, not man, not machine. Not a happily ended story.
Their celebration of dinner and pie would be put on hold. The best laid plans of mice and men, Sam thought as he ran. He'd read that book, hadn't he? Not a happily-ever-after-story, either. Softhearted, not knowing his own strength, rabbit-petting, Lennie, shot in the back of the head by his supposed father-figure and friend, George. His friend's lousy attempt at saving Lennie from being killed by the vigilante ranch hands. Crap, Sam hated that book.
A cool breeze ruffled Sam's hair, bringing his focus back to the road beneath his feet. Passing a gas station, he licked at his parched lips. Even if the crooked sign dangling from a piece of kite string in the grimy window had read Open, he wouldn't have stopped for a drink. There was no time.
Not glancing back, Sam ran past an abandoned farmhouse, it too, long forgotten. The home's warm yellow paint and sturdy gutters were now stripped by the cruelty of Mother Nature and Father Time.
"Just great," Sam huffed.
Had he really walked this far just for dinner and pie? He was trucking at full speed. Why was it taking him twice as long to run back to the motel?
Chest heaving and nearly out of breath, Sam tossed his hair out of his face, taking a shortcut across a field and slogging through waves of tall, wet grass, mud oozing in at his ankles.
He swiped the sweat dripping into his eyes, stumbling when he stubbed his foot against a jagged rock. Ignoring the pain and the slit on the toe of his left shoe, he leapt over a huge pile of horse manure. The heel of his shoe came down a bit too early, and Sam didn't make it completely to the other side. He slipped, hands pin-wheeling to gain his balance, dropping the Styrofoam container to the ground. Dean was going to be pissed—big-time.
"Klutz." He could hear Dean's voice in his head.
Ruined shoes, no pie, a hunt screwed up. Yep, he wasn't going to be really seriously pissed, he was going to be royally pissed.
"Shit," Sam gasped, slowing his pace and glancing over his shoulder at the pie spilled from the safety of the container. Bits and pieces of gravel and rhubarb mixed with horseshit. Didn't anyone besides them own a car in this town? Sam shook his head in disgust. Forgetting the pie, he ran.
A dog barked.
Sam ran.
The drone of an airplane buzzed directly overhead.
Sam ran.
The colors of the sky stretched and changed, thinning, diluting from brilliant orange to smoky-gray. Sam's legs were now noodle-like and quivering beneath him. This was the sticks, the boondocks, real backwoods country. The town was so small, no map was needed. There was only one long stretch of isolated country road leading in or out. Sam had gone for pie, dinner, and a six pack of beer. Lured into a false sense of safety, he'd left his gun, his cell, and the Impala back at the motel. Stupid scenario had all the makings of a good-old-fashioned black and white horror movie cliché. There were no payphones, of course, now that he'd come to realize no one in the town was safe and there really was a murderous monster on the loose.
What the hell?
Sam was almost out of breath, a stitch in his side threatening to double him over by the time he neared The Dusty Armadillo where they'd been staying. Place was a real shit hole. Broken, noisy air units, soiled bed sheets, a toilet that overflowed every other flush. Never mind the dizzying, yellow neon sign shaped like an Armadillo lying on its back, all fours stuck straight up in the air like the speed bump they were known to be. And all for the bargain price of thirty-two bucks per night.
Sam raced across the pitted parking lot, slipping on a slick, oily spot.
"Aaagghh!" He went down hard, landing on both knees.
Ignoring the lick of pain, the blood running down his shins, and the sound of what he swore was that dead armadillo laughing at him, Sam clambered to his feet and trudged the last few steps to the white door of room six. Using the rusted door key, Sam opened the door and tottered inside, bloody-kneed, dazed, and totally breathless.
/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/
Most the rooms they'd stayed in had some sort of a theme: trendy pink flamingos, the classic old west, funky romantic flowers. This particular room's theme seemed to be shabby turquoise. Shabby turquoise curtains, fake-furred carpet, bedspreads, painted walls, lamps, furniture. Even the friggin' ceiling and the commode were shabby turquoise.
Dean often thought if he couldn't change the world one monster at a time, he'd change the world, one motel room at a time. But right now, all he wanted was his pie.
He sighed heavily. Dad had left them there weeks ago to handle this one on their own. And handle it they had. With time on their hands, it was Miller time.
He'd been waiting impatiently for Sam to return from the diner. If his dork brother had taken the damn car, he would have been back by now. But no, the kid wanted the fresh air and exercise. Dean looked across the room at the small dinette table where Sam's cell sat. And friggin' hell, he couldn't even call to ask Sam where his pie was, be certain he didn't forget it. Just the thought of pie made Dean's stomach rumble. Sam and his I-need-my-space crap.
Staying in the dead-beat, one-horse town wasn't such a hot idea, even if the idea was Dad's. Dean was bored to near crazy. The backstreet boys were in jail. There were no other Casper's in the area to hunt. They should have blown this joint by now, but they were low on funds and their room was paid-up until the end of the week. And Dad's last orders were to wait there for him.
Replenishing their wallets at the local watering hole down the road and the challenge of getting a peek under the hot waitress' hot-pink poodle skirt—no luck there—were the only things to do. But that was nighttime activity. During the day, there was nothing to do but eat and watch reruns of Mr. Ed, and hope to God someone didn't come in and try to paint him turquoise.
Eyes growing heavy from boredom, Dean blinked at the thirteen-inch black and white television set. And damn it, that talking palomino was just creepy.
"Dude, you better not forget the pie," Dean grumbled, closing his eyes, and swiping the sweat from his brow.
It was hot and, of course, the air conditioner—also turquoise—was on the fritz. Dean unbuttoned his shirt, rubbing a hand over his bare chest. Instead of lying on the stupid twin bed, he imagined himself lying on a towel upon a white-sanded beach. He imagined reaching over to the bronzed body wearing a seductive and very skimpy bikini on the towel next to him. Just as his fingers began caressing her shoulder, there came a warm breeze as the motel room door unexpectedly burst open. The image of the bathing beauty sucked away, Dean sat bolt upright instinctively and exchanged warm skin for the cold metal of his Glock that was tucked under his pillow. Sliding the safety off, he aimed at the door, his finger steady on the trigger.
"Crap, Sam!" Dean raised the barrel to the ceiling immediately and flicked the safety back on. "What the hell?" He fell back against the bed's headboard, letting the Glock drop back to the mattress.
"So…rry." Sam drew in gasping breath after gasping breath, shutting the door behind him.
"Dude, I could have shot you," Dean said shakily, glaring at Sam. "What the hell did you do to yourself?"
Sam couldn't answer, totally short-winded and holding up one finger. Give me a second.
Dean shot off the bed and crossed the room, dropping to a crouch before Sam, tenderly peeling shredded strings of denim away so he could see. "How'd this happen?" He looked up. "Pie, Sam. You were just supposed to get dinner and pie."
"Tried," Sam teetered, obviously out of breath and energy.
"So where is it? I'm starving," Dean said, in a lame attempt to shrug off his worry as he stood and grabbed Sam by the hand, towing him into the bathroom. He pushed his brother down onto the closed toilet lid. Fumbling in a nearby drawer, he said, "How'd you get so banged up?"
Sam sucked in a breath. "Mini-tragedy." He batted away the soapy washcloth Dean already had in his hand. "We have bigger—" Sam gasped. "There's a—" he rasped. "You'll never—"
"Sam, just breathe and let me fix Mr. Owie and finish having my cow. Maybe by then you'll make some sense."
"Mr….?" Sam cocked his head ever so slightly. "What?"
"Ow, Sam. Mr. Owie." Dean huffed. "Just sit still." He continued to clean up Sam's scrapped knees. "Let me guess. Someone's soul was eaten by a money-hungry Evangelist."
"Dean."
"Or did farmer Jones drown in a vat of cow semen." Dean cackled, dabbing at Sam's bloodied left knee. "Frank's hunting dog had a litter of kittens. Billy Ray pulled his own finger and blew up Taco Bell." He chuckled louder at his own wit, now dabbing the washcloth against Sam's bloodied right knee. Damn this town was boring.
"Dean," Sam hissed.
"Sorry."
"I'm all right," Sam hissed again, knee jerking away.
"Sammy, just take it easy and let me look at this." Dean got serious, tossing the bloody washcloth aside, grabbing the first-aid kit and pulling out the gauze and tape.
"Dean, can you stop wet-nursing me for just one minute." Sam grabbed Dean by his shirt, pulling himself up to his feet. "Something weird is going on."
"I'll say." Dean gently pushed Sam back down to toilet seat. "Haven't seen you this excited since I got you that Nerf Blaster for your tenth birthday." Dean chuckled at the memory. "Who'd have thought you wielding a fake plastic gun at a park could get me hooked up with that hot chick, Rhonda."
"Damn it! I'm serious!" Sam yelled. "We got trouble."
"Okay, okay." Dean winced when Sam did as he warped his brother's mutilated knee. "Hurts, huh?"
"Pretty much." Sam calmed, blowing out a few breaths.
"So what do you think we're looking at? Sounds like college pledges taking over the high school kid's gig?" Dean grinned dully.
"Dean, shut up and listen, man. I was headed back from the diner when I saw it."
"It?" Dean raised a brow, closing the first-aid kit and standing.
"Yeah. It. It was a man-like creature with gray worm-like skin, ravaging a corpse alongside the road." Sam grimaced. "It took off into the cornfield when it saw me, dragging the corpse with it."
"Wait, you said a corpse?" Dean came to attention. "As in human?" Dean asked gruffly.
Sam tossed his hair out of his eyes. "Unless cows have started wearing Reeboks."
"Hysterical, smartass," Dean grouched.
Sam shrugged. "I chased after it. Thing's fast, leaves no footprints, but the body it was chowing down on left a solid blood trail, so I followed—"
"You followed a monster. A monster dragging a dead body, that left a friggin' blood trail," Dean raised his voice, "without backup, no weapon, no cell." Dean tensed. "Damn it, Sammy."
"I'm fine, Dean."
"Yeah." Dean waved a hand at Sam's torn up knees. "You look fine. So where'd it go?"
"I don't know. It just disappeared, but, Dean, man, I think it was a maumbi."
"A maumbi?" Dean chuffed. "Weird looking creatures, with a dog's body and a rabbit's head, camped out around farmlands and cornfields? You know that's just a hoax, like Bigfoot."
"Looks more like a flesh-eating, worm-like man, with a knife fetish. And it's supposed to have uncanny powers to control machinery. Thing likes to play with and stalk its prey too, before it kills and eats them," Sam corrected.
"Dude, you know that's tabloid bullshit. No hunter has ever seen one."
"Pretty sure I just did," Sam replied firmly.
"And our cow-mutilating teens?" Dean questioned suspiciously.
"Coincidence," Sam deduced. "And now in lockdown."
"Huh." Dean took that into consideration.
"Dean," Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, "from what I've ever read, the only way to kill the thing is to tear its beating heart right out of its chest."
"You look white, kiddo. You sure you didn't hit your head and dream this thing up or something?" Dean reached out a hand to check for lumps at the back of Sam's head.
"Dude!" Sam whacked Dean's hand away. "My head's just fine. I'm not seeing things. I'm not some fourteen-year-old vying to get my name highlighted in some mindless propaganda magazine."
Dean eyed Sam for a long moment before grabbing his duffel bag and heading toward the door.
"Fine. Only one thing to do then, Sammy."
"What?"
"Find this thing and rip its heart out."
/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/
The unlit country back road was full of potholes with no white line down the middle to designate sides. The Impala thumped along, a sharp wind blowing in through the cracked open passenger window. Sam ran a hand through his hair, disturbed at how fast it had gotten dark. He glanced over at Dean, solid behind the wheel of his chariot, foot pressed down heavy on the pedal. Sam looked at the speedometer. 80 mph. Still, it seemed like they were moving in slow motion. Staring back out the window, he quivered, noting the vaporous fog that had suddenly crept in. Like long tendrils, the fog seemed to suction cup itself to the car, a living thing trying to hold them back. The sky was pitch-black, moonless and starless. It sent a sweaty-cold chill running up and down Sam's spine. Didn't matter how many times they'd dealt with the darkness, Sam never could get used to that ominous, unknowing feeling the dark always seemed to bring. Shaking off the chills, Sam pulled two flashlights from the glove box in preparation.
"Dean, slow down," he said, leaning forward to peer out the windshield, and squinting to see between the small drops of rain dotting the glass.
Dean eased off the gas, bringing her down to thirty-five.
"Right there." Sam pointed. "Up ahead. That's it." He checked the flashlights, flicking the switch on and off several times, testing the batteries.
"You sure?" Dean glanced over.
Before Sam could answer, the car's engine sputtered, choked, then caught again.
"Ah, baby, what? What is it?" Dean cooed, slowing her down to twenty. "Talk to me, honey pie."
Sam rolled his eyes, watching as Dean lovingly caressed the dashboard.
"Can you please act like a normal person and stop talking to the car like it understands every word you say?" Sam griped.
Dean growled, the car stuttering again. "No, sweetheart." The Impala waned, engine finally stalling, headlights going black. "Don't do this to me, baby."
"You either forgot to add gas or we got company, "Sam stated.
"You really don't know a thing about cars, do you, Sam?"
"Car trouble right where I saw the creature chowing down?" Sam huffed. "I'd say I know enough."
"So what are you thinking?" Dean asked, pumping the brake and letting the Impala roll to a stop in the center of the road.
"Curbside dinner," Sam muttered.
"Or coincidence." Dean put her in Park, and then checked the ignition key, turning it on and off several times.
Click, click.
Nada.
He tried the lights, the wipers, the radio, and got more of the same: a big, fat nothing.
"Friggin' fracker!" Dean banged a heavy fist against the steering wheel.
"Really, dude? Baby talking the car, I get, but could you at least swear like a normal person?"
Dean pulled his gun from his inside jacket, and unlocked the safety. "Fine fucking mess, Sammy," he mumbled, checking the clip.
"That's more like it." Sam squinted into the night. To his right was the road. Beyond that, an empty pasture. To his left was the cornfield he'd chased the creature into. Everything seemed dreamy and hazy and out of sorts. He thought about the maumbi chewing on flesh and bone, slurping bloody, soupy insides like a milkshake through a straw
He turned to face Dean and said, "Better shoot like you always shoot, man."
"And how's that, Sammy?" Dean baited.
"Like Eastwood, Pacino, and Wayne rolled into one and overdosed on steroids."
"I'll take that as a compliment, little brother." Dean smiled hugely.
"Was meant as one, big brother." Sam smiled back.
"Sammy, you're such a chick."
Sam huffed in frustration, but said nothing.
Dean gave Sam the "watch yourself" nod, and they exited the Impala, quietly ticking their doors shut simultaneously. There was a tingling in the dirt-and-fertilizer-spiced air. The howl of the wind whipped dead, dried-up leaves and an old newspaper around, adding bushel loads to their unease.
"So, exactly where did you see this thing?"
"Maumbi," Sam insisted.
"Uh-huh." Dean shined his light along the roadside. "I don't see any blood."
"Maybe he came back and licked the platter clean," Sam snipped, annoyed. "Ducked into the cornfield through there." He pointed a finger down one of the long, dark rows.
They both stood scouring the miniature forest of corn. The tall, leafy stalks moved too slowly in the blowing wind, ghost-like and in unison, like a well-trained army of soldiers.
"Okay." Dean, always the first to break the silence, walked to the back of the car. "We stick together, got it?" he said sternly, popping the trunk. He pulled out the weapons bag and slung the heavy duffel up onto his shoulder.
"Maumbi, Dean," Sam reminded. "It's a tight squeeze in there. We don't need to be weighted down. All we need is to put a bullet in it, and cut its heart out."
Dean shut the trunk harder than he had the car door. "Look, Sam. I don't know what you saw. Could be something, could be someone, and could be a sparkling unicorn for all we know. Dad's rules, we go in prepared for anything."
Sam narrowed his eyes and wiped away streams of rain from his face, the action doing little to clear his vision. He knew what he'd seen and he hated Dad's rules. "It was no unicorn, Dean."
Dean glanced back at the field. "You're right about one thing. It's a tight squeeze in there." He turned to face Sam, stepping up close, nose to nose.
They stared wide-eyed at each other for several seconds, a showdown.
Don't blink. Don't blink. Don't blink, was the only mantra running through Sam's head.
Sam blinked first. Damn it, he always blinked first. At least he could win at rock, paper, scissors.
"I win." Dean grinned proudly. "We go this way," he said in a confident tone. He lead the way off the rowed path Sam had pointed out, right into the heart of corn country.
Foggy mist swirled between the stalks, and the pattering drizzle of rain against the large leaves brought that cold chill back to Sam's spine as they slogged onward. Sam fisted the flashlight, its high-powered beam landing on cornstalk after cornstalk. His gun was loaded, safety off, his finger on the trigger. He could fire off a bullet in a split second. That edge didn't make him feel any better; he felt eyes watching them, knew it sure as he knew evil existed.
"I don't like this." Sam bit his lip.
"What's not to like, Sammy?" Dean grumbled at his side. "Mud sucking at our feet, filling our boots. It's good for the skin." Dean glanced up at the sky as the light sprinkle of rain came down like a low pressure shower. "And we have plenty of water to drink."
"Storm's coming in," Sam needlessly stated.
"Look at the bright side, man. We get lost in here, we won't starve to death." Dean shined the beam of his flashlight at the giant, straight stalks towering over them and quivering in the wind. "Corn-out-the- ass." He poked the muzzle of his gun at one of the leaf-wrapped vegetables half-hanging from a broken stem.
Even with their flashlights, the dense mist swirling in their beams of light transfigured every stalk of corn into ghostly apparitions. Flashes of lightning lit the area, turning the hazy fog purple. The howling wind breathing down Sam's neck gave him goose bumps, the large drops of rain pelting his face sharp as wolf's teeth.
They moved farther and farther through the maze of corn, Sam dividing his attention between watching the rear and Dean's back.
Dean pulled the collar of his jacket up around his ears. Sam did the same, the action doing little to shield them from the storm.
"Dean," Sam spoke over the wind and rain, "maybe we should—"
"Shh!" Dean's hand suddenly shot behind him, pressing against Sam's chest and stopping him in his tracks. Quiet, Dean mouthed over his shoulder, standing in one spot and doing a slow spin, gun pointed readily into the shadows.
Sam's boots sunk into the muddy ground and he stiffened, watching the spark of danger cross Dean's face. He aimed his weapon, following Dean's direction. Despite his distaste for being questioned and treated like a kid, he knew his brother. Dean had been endowed with a sixth sense maybe even a seventh. He had an uncanny act foreseeing the unexpected, before the unexpected saw him.
Sam waited. He was, after all was said and done, a good soldier.
/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/
Dean shifted slightly, jostling his gun to his left at several broken stalks of corn. Something was out there. He could sense it nearby, ducking in and out of the shadows, skull-burning eyes watching, boring into him, straight through to his soul. Dean shivered, feeling like an animal being hunted, about to meet its end. Rain started to fall faster, blurring the night. A bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, briefly illuminating the cornfield.
"There!" Dean whirled left.
Thunder rolled in the distance, both their guns raising in tandem to aim at—
"Seriously?" Sam grumbled, swiftly lowering his weapon.
Dean stared, dumbfounded, at the stiff, outstretched arms of what he'd thought was their monster. A straw-stuffed body glared down at him from its post, silently bouncing to and fro in the wind and the rain.
"Son of a—" he cursed, also lowering his weapon. The lifeless figure sported a burlap sack for a face, black magic-marker eyes staring sightlessly, thin crooked lips forming a wicked smile. "What are you staring at, fugly?" Dean glared back at the scarecrow.
"Losing your touch, Obi-wan?" Sam laughed lightly.
"Not funny."
"It's mostly funny," Sam volleyed.
"Look, maybe we should take this up in the morning." Dean snapped off an ear of corn, peeled back the husk, picked off the silk, and took a bite. "Before you end up shot in the ass by some farmer thinking you're after his daughter," he said around a mouthful of yellow. "Yuck!" Dean spit the kernels from his mouth. "Need my pie."
"Round and round with the pie." Sam rolled his eyes. "Look, Dean, we need to find it, and fast. It already dragged one person off that we know of."
"That you know of," Dean reminded. "Come on, then." He continued to lead, zigzagging through the tall stalks and trying to let the pattering sound of rain hitting the leaves calm his fear.
A flash of lightning revealed a dark shadow and bounced off the glint of metal, drawing Dean up short.
"Sam!" Dean shouted his alarm, lurching forward, instinctively placing himself between whatever the thing was and his little brother.
All hell broke loose at once. The dark thing came out of left field—literally—crashing into Dean, knocking him flat on his back.
Dean grunted, air forced from his lungs, nearly knocking him out.
He heard a sickening cry from somewhere behind him. Realization hit him a thousand times harder than a double shot of top-shelf Vodka. Rolling to his side in the slippery mud, Dean caught sight of Sam.
"Guh." The kid jolted hard as the maumbi raised a clawed hand and swiped at Sam's jacket.
"Sam!" Dean cried, just able to make out his brother's silhouette as he went down hard to the ground.
Using both hands and feet, Dean scrambled through the mud, slipping backward more than he was going forward. "Sam!" he cried again, watching Sam's hands clutch his belly.
"Dee," Sam gasped, hunching over into a ball.
"S'm!" Dean called, out of breath. "Oh God," he slipped and slid back down. "Shit!"
Too many things were happening way too fast, making Dean's head spin. The wind and the rain were near blinding and deafening. Sam was still on his knees, hunkered over, in obvious distress. The thing—the maumbi, or whatever it was—was stalking them, circling, moving back and forth through the stalks of corn, laughing—if that's what he could call the awful cackling sound.
Dean's throat tightened. He started toward Sam again, but before he could take another step in his brother's direction, he heard his father's voice loud and clear.
"Stick to the rules of combat. Engage. Secure. Recover. Can't help a fallen solider if you're dead."
"Sam!" Dean was torn. He couldn't take care of Sam with the stalker/maumbi right there ready to pounce out of the shadows again. "Hang tight, bro!" Unwillingly, Dean changed direction, spurring himself to make a bloody mess out of whatever monster—tabloid or not—had just made the biggest mistake of its pathetic life: hurting Sam. "Get ready to have your ass kicked!" Dean whooped his war cry and ran off.
/~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~/
"Ugh." Sam's head had landed with a crack to a rock. Ignoring the flashing lights and ringing bells he made it back up as far as his knees, the stitch in his gut keeping him there, sinking further into the mud. "Dean," he uttered through clenched teeth, watching his brother's fast moving boots blur before he disappeared into the darkness. Sam's brain was foggy, but he saw enough to know what was happening. Dean was going after the maumbi—alone.
"Damn it, no," Sam growled deep in his throat, shoulders hitching up to his ears with each heavy breath. "Dean." Sam awkwardly reached for his gun that had slipped from his hand when his knees had hit the ground, but his movements were uncoordinated and he only managed to push the gun further away.
Sam screwed his eyes shut for a moment.
He was woozy. His fingers deftly found the source of his pain. A chill skittered up his spine, and he felt sick at the feel of the jagged gash along his side.
He stared in the direction Dean had gone. He thought he could hear his brother cursing, the rush of footsteps, the breaking of the large cornstalks, and the sound of gunfire splitting the air. Trying hard to suppress the pain, Sam struggled back to his feet, only to unceremoniously collapse back down to his side. He lay curled in the mud, trembling with wet-cold and weakness.
"Dean." His body involuntarily twitched, then tightened, and he whimpered as another hot wave of pain made him gag.
What the hell happened?
Where was Dean?
Damn his brother for always being overfilled with guts and balls.
Sam's world fogged further, turning upside down.
He was helpless.
He was confused and agitated, sweaty and nauseated. Everything whistled around his head like the wind and the rain, his body began to tingle, and his breathing was far too fast. He knew he was hyperventilating, possibly going into shock.
Sam could do nothing but lay there in the pouring rain, hair plastered over his eyes, unable to help Dean as he promptly passed out.
TBC