Disclaimer: I do not own Skinwalkers nor its characters. They belong to LGF, After Dark, and whoever else screwed the movie up.
Note/Warning: Character death.
***
Blood
There's blood on his hands when he comes in.
He locks the door; twisting it until it won't turn anymore, his breathing labored, staring paranoid. He doesn't look at her, not yet. He moves to the window. His forehead leans against the coolness of the glass. His eyes are only half closed.
"Caleb?"
She's never seen him like this. She's seen him rabid for his own son's death. She's seen him scared of them simply looking at him. She's seen him numb at their touch, and she's seen him try to respond without any real will to.
But never like this. She's never seen this.
There's blood on his hands. There's blood on the locks now; red on dirty metal.
He still doesn't look at her. He doesn't respond, and those half closed eyes are staring out the window.
"Caleb?"
"It didn't work."
She pauses; just three feet away, but she isn't sure they're even in the same room together.
Tim's sound asleep on the bed furthest from the window. Innocent and unaware; a little boy's bliss. He hasn't stirred this entire time, and she's hoping it stays that way.
"What didn't work?"
He doesn't answer. He's moving, finally, turning towards her. His eyes are open now, paranoia replaced by despair. They're still just as rabid. There's blood on his face; on his neck. He's staring straight at her and straight through, and she can't see anything except the blood soaking his shirt.
"Caleb, what happened?"
He walks right by her. Doesn't even hear; he's somewhere far away, and she isn't sure she'll get him back this time.
She always gets him back though. She's always supposed to get him back.
Till death do us part – but did he already die? Sometimes she isn't so sure that was ever a lie.
He heads into the bathroom. He doesn't lock that door.
She looks at the peaceful boy in his bed. She glances at the door, bolted shut, and the drying smudges of red turning brown.
It's a stupid decision, but she's made plenty of those.
He's undressed by the time she enters. The water's running; he's waiting for it to warm up. There's blood everywhere, there's only one wound. The flesh on the left side of his neck is mangled, gushing freely.
"Caleb, you need a doctor."
"It didn't work."
She's starting to understand what he means. She's starting to lose her concern; he isn't supposed to want it to work, he isn't supposed to want to leave her again. She doesn't understand him, and he never tries to explain.
He never did.
That's how she's known this whole time it was still Caleb.
She thinks of Tim, and her concern shifts to the sleeping child.
"Did you lead any here?"
He shakes his head. He reaches in, feels the water. He looked over his left shoulder – blood pumps out, trickling down new paths with the movement – and stares at her. He still isn't seeing her. "I killed her. It didn't work, and I couldn't stop myself."
Her. As soon as he says "her," Rachel's gut clenches and that anger boiling up spills over. She slaps him hard, hard enough that he stumbles and faces forward again. She tries to slap him again; she wants to slap him until he tells her he's sorry.
But he grabs her arm, and then the other when she raises that one. He holds her wrists tight, and she can only cry. He pulls her over, holds her; clings to her the way she's wanted him to for months.
Her face is covered with blood – her blood, her blood, and she should be happy – and cries. She's washing his chest off for him. She tries to hit him, but he catches her again. So she does something he can't stop, because he can't even see it coming. She bites. She bites his chest, clamps her teeth down hard, and he shouts.
It scares her; an echo of a roar she hasn't heard since the night she got him back.
He reacts fast, now she can't see the next move coming. He's biting now, biting and ripping at her clothes.
They haven't really touched in over thirteen years.
She doesn't fight him like she knows she should. She just helps him instead, helps him with that other bitch's blood on her face and her tears on his chest. She doesn't push him away when he drags her into the shower. She doesn't bite when he kisses her harder than he ever did while his teeth were much sharper.
He's panting again, eyes wide and rabid again; there's still blood on his hands, and now some of it's hers as he bites to break the skin. He's hard and unforgiving; she wonders if this is how he fucked the other one.
She isn't sure if that would make her feel better or worse.
It hurts, and it's a relief at the same time. It's ugly, and she's almost ashamed. It's dirty, but he's still holding her like she really matters.
"I killed her…I just snapped. I just snapped. I didn't mean to pull the trigger. I just couldn't take it anymore. I can't take it anymore."
He's rambling, and she wants to make sense of it, but he's going faster, harder, deeper, and she's about to cry because she's finding she likes it this way just a little too much. He's losing what's left of his mind, and she's doesn't want to see the appeal of his old vices.
"And the look in her eyes…the utter horror in her eyes when the wolf died…"
It's sinking in that something's very wrong. She's fading. She can't feel much anymore, she can barely feel him. There's a sharp pain somewhere, but she can't focus anymore. She opens her eyes, stares up into his rabid pair.
"Forgive me."
It's a bloodbath in the motel room when the bathroom door opens. Tim never woke up, he never saw the wounded woman, didn't hear the door unlock; a little boy's bliss.
There's blood on his hands when he comes in.