Those Little Things That Gnaw at You
Perched high atop a stack of baled hay, waiting in thedarkened barn for the beast to return to his lair, he strained to hear those dreaded sounds. That godawful scurrying, rustling noise….
RATS!! Damned rats! Could there be a more disgusting, fear-inspiring word in the entire world? Dean Winchester, sure as hell, didn't think so.
He could recklessly hunt skinwalkers and vengeful spirits, fearlessly face poltergeists, laugh in the face of vampires, even demons but none of those brought on the gut-wrenching nausea or shuddering cold sweats he felt at the mere visual contact of RATS.
His mind wandered back to that long ago night in St. Louis when Dad had run so low on funds that all he could afford was a bucket of chicken to feed his boys. There would be no motel or television that night.
It was the last night of the lunar cycle and he had a vicious werewolf to snuff. All he needed was a safe house for the boys.
They'd found an older, vacant house for sale in a quiet tree-shrouded area. Stealthily, John had picked the lock on the rear door and swiftly deposited the boys with their chicken, sleeping bags, and flashlights in the tiny, shadowy kitchen.
Dean dragged along a precious comic book and his most prized possession, the new Remington sawed-off, double-barrel shotgun his Dad had given to him on his ninth birthday two months prior. He would entertain and protect his little charge, Sammy.
Dad had spread the sleeping bags on the floor and with his usual "shoot first, ask questions later" and "take care of Sammy, I'm counting on you" admonishments had smiled, slipped out the door and vanished into the night.
Time had passed without incident until near midnight. Dean had patiently read Sammy to sleep after dinner, and then settled down with the flashlight to finish reading Captain America.
Already in soldier mode at his tender age he opted to climb into the sleeping bag, boots and all.
As he was drifting off, something cold and wet touched his cheek .
His bright green eyes snapped open to the sight of something furry. Even as he gave out a startled yelp and was throwing himself out of the sleeping bag, thrashing wildly and scuttling backwards like a crab across the floor, he managed to snap on his flashlight.
As he swept the beam across the floor it encountered a sea of Jello red eyes, furry bodies and hairless reptilian tails. Like an advancing army they scuttled forward, accompanied by those abysmal scritching and squeaking sounds.
Horrified as they closed in on Sammy's sleeping form and not knowing if they were attracted to chicken or children, Dean didn't waste time giving them a choice.
Fighting his own heretofore unknown, but very real, disgust and fear at the sight of the scurrying creatures, he forced himself to close the distance between himself and Sam's still sleeping form.
He struggled to gather up his little brother, sleeping bag and all and with a mighty heave, shoved him onto the kitchen countertop, desperate to leap up there with him as he felt bodies swirling around his feet. Sam never even changed his breathing pattern.
Turning, despite himself, flashing his light on the floor around his feet, Dean watched a rat dart forward and snatch one of Sammy's drumsticks off his abandoned plate. With a simple snap of its oversized front teeth it sheared the bone in half with a disgusting crunch. Dean didn't have to use his overactive imagination to visualize the damage those teeth could and would inflict.
With that, he snatched his book, flashlight, sleeping bag and shotgun and threw them onto the pulling himself up after them, unable to stop the his fearful yell as claws dug into his leg and clung until his frantic kicks dislodged the creature and sent it flying across the room.
Crouching there on the counter, heart pounding, he thought it might be safe but he wasn't sure. He was Sammy's protector and there was no way in hell those filthy creatures would get to his Sam.
Always one to think on his feet, Dean used the upper kitchen shelves to climb to a higher vantage point atop the refrigerator, flashlight trained on Sam, gun at the ready. Through the long fearful, watchful night Dean, the hunter-guardian, stood a lonely vigil until a triumphant John returned with the morning sunrise.
His father looked a bit surprised to see Sam in his warm cocoon, sleeping on the counter, and even more so at the sight of cross-legged Dean, dark circles beneath his alert green eyes, perched like a hawk near the ceiling.
Dean, always on guard, shotgun cradled in his arms.
Dean!" John exclaimed. "What are you doing up there? Give me your gun and get down from there." He accepted the shotgun as Dean handed it down.
Dean opened his mouth to explain his actions, but bit down on his bottom lip, deciding to keep it to himself. How could he tell his father of the rats, when they were such a small threat compared to the evil John and faced and destroyed every day.
The young hunter-in-training simply added it to his wall of memories and lessons learned. "I heard some funny sounds," he lied, managing to look embarrassed. "I just thought we'd be safer up here."
"Did you stay awake all night?" John asked as he helped him down from his lofty perch. "How'd it go, son?"
"I was protecting Sam, it's okay." He was so tired he could barely keep his eyes open.
Rats or no rats, Dean decided it was all worth it as John reached out and smiling, ruffled Dean's blond hair, shaking his own head in mild disbelief. "I'm proud of you, son, for protecting your brother, but you need to get some sleep. C'mon let's wake Sammy and get going. I've got a little money for us to get some breakfast."
Dean nodded and started gathering up the items scattered about the kitchen as John gently shook Sam awake.
Sitting atop the tallest pile of hay bales, shotgun balanced on his arm, Dean smiled tightly at the memory of that long ago night.
After hours of listening to the tiny squeaks and scurrying he could hear all around him in the darkness, skin crawling, he would have happily embraced the creature they were hunting like a brother.
He never told his father or Sammy how that night had really gone, but learned a lot about seeking a higher vantage point when dealing evil.
And in his mind, evil definitely included rats.
He had stored that knowledge for future use.
He was, after all, his father's son…a Winchester.
End Notes: Thanks to any and all who've taken their time to read my first attempt at joining the ranks of accomplished writers on this fiction site.