Previously appeared in Route 666 #3 (2010), from Ashton Press
A Dog-Bites-Man Story
K Hanna Korossy
"You know this isn't one of our better ideas, right?" Sam sounded skeptical as he regarded the tall chain-link fence.
Dean looked away from his own examination of said fence to throw him a smirk. "Dude, it wouldn't be us if it were."
Sam sighed. "Right, what was I thinking. Because what we hunt isn't dangerous enough."
"It's just a vengeful spirit, Sam. Practically routine."
"Uh-huh." Only Sam could imbue so few letters with so much sarcasm. "'Cause salting and burning a car is all in a day's work."
"It is in our kind of day," Dean tossed back, eyes on the fence again. He didn't say things like that much anymore, not since Sam had declared his intent to go back to school after they killed whatever had gotten Mom, but sometimes he couldn't help himself. Dean shook his head, clearing it of distractions. "You ready, or are you gonna stand out here whining all night?"
"No way, man, we're waiting for the—" The clatter of claws on asphalt approached, then there was a growl. Sam flinched. "Never mind."
"Hey, Cujo!" Dean cooed as a hundred-plus pounds of lean, mean Rottweiler appeared from between two stacks of junked cars, loping toward the fence. "Come see what I've got for you."
He could hear Sam's swallow as he pulled out the tranq gun and tried not to roll his eyes as he waited for what was coming. "Dean…can't we—?"
"Sam," he said with thin patience, "we've been over this. The haunted car's inside the yard. There's a big dog between us and it, just waiting to make ground-Sam out of you. If we're gonna get this done, we have to take care of him first." Dean pointed at the Rottie, which bared its teeth at them both in response.
"I know, but—" Sam made a frustrated motion.
"But you're a big girl who'd rather get mauled than hurt the poor little doggy." Dean rolled his eyes, aiming with deceptive casualness at the dog.
The dart struck center mass, eliciting a whimper from the creature. They both watched as it backed up a step, wobbling then, with a whimper, crashed to the ground. A thump of its tail, an attempt to raise its head that failed, and its eyes closed.
"You wanna go check its pulse, make sure it's still breathing?" Dean offered.
"Bite me," Sam shot back succinctly, then launched himself over the fence.
"Kinda what we're trying to avoid here," Dean answered to his back and followed him.
The fence wasn't that tall; clearly the dog was the real main line of defense. As Dean landed on the balls of his feet next to it, he did spare the anesthetized animal a sympathetic glance. It wasn't like he liked taking out innocent animals that were just doing their job and protecting their turf. He had a soft spot for dogs, too, a trait he'd kept well-hidden from Sam. But a job was a job, and wasn't like the mutt was hurt. It would wake up in a few hours none the wiser and go right back to licking itself and scaring off teens looking for scrap and parts.
"Split up?" Sam whispered harshly next to him. He was glancing around the yard, which looked at least twice as big as Bobby's.
The idea sent a stupid pang through Dean's chest, but he ignored it. He was good at that. "You got the picture?" he asked instead. He knew exactly what a '94 Honda Civic looked like, even a pancaked one. Sam, however, couldn't tell a Honda from a Humvee and had an accident-scene picture for comparison's sake. They'd come prepared to go separate ways.
Sam didn't even dignify him with a response; the kid might not know his cars, but he knew his job. "Call in in ten," he muttered, then peeled off to the right.
Without his brother to watch out for—or to watch his back—Dean's focus tightened to the job at hand and any sign of danger in his surroundings. He'd had enough experience doing that. Slightly crouched, he headed deeper into the junkyard.
It really was a pretty cut-and-dried case, Sam's issues notwithstanding: guy dies in hit-and-run accident, starts haunting the section of road where he'd bought it. What was left of him had been cremated by his family, but considering how he'd been crushed into his car, the whole wreck had to be coated with human remains. There was no choice but to torch the thing if they wanted to send Larry Crisfield to his eternal rest.
Now they just had to find the friggin' death car.
Dean scanned the towers of automotive skeletons as he slunk through the yard. A Civic gave him pause, but it was the wrong year and—though he had to peer closely—wrong color. Didn't help that the junkyard wasn't exactly well-lit. Go figure.
Another pile seemed to be made all of Hondas, and Dean was just narrowing in on a likely candidate when he heard a soft noise behind him.
He paused, head turning back slowly to see…
Cujo's big brother padding toward him, wicked-sharp teeth gleaming in the moonlight.
Terrific. Not that it was that strange to have two dogs guarding a yard, but he and Sam had cased the joint during the day, waited at the fence a while that evening, and had never spied anything but the one Rottie. Where had Hercules been, lurking in the shadows waiting until they let their guard down?
Dean turned very slowly, one arm extended in a placating motion. Or to give the dog something to sink its teeth into, whichever. It beat Dean's throat.
"Hey," he said, his tone friendly and low. "Didn't see you there, buddy. Not gonna steal anything, I swear, just wanna set a little fire. In and out, you'll never know we were here."
The dog lowered its head, stance set, and growled in its throat.
Dean kept his eyes cast down, deferential. He knew how pack hierarchies worked, pretty much had been in one all his life. "Easy, big fella. Don't want any trouble. You let me go and I'll bring you back a nice juicy steak, huh?" His hand inched toward the tranq gun tucked into his pocket. He itched to find his phone, too, warn Sam just in case there were any more of Cujo's siblings wandering around the place, but you always had to deal with the threat in front of you first. Besides, any dog that tracked down Sam would probably just end up on its back, having its stomach scratched by Mr. Softie.
Dean snorted softly to himself at the thought, and saw the dog shift a little closer. The bared teeth opened into a rough, angry bark.
"Hey, I get it, I'm on your turf. Not arguing here, Fido." He'd almost reached the gun. "Just give me a few minutes and I'm outta here, okay?" Dean's fingers brushed the crosshatched metal grip.
He didn't even see the dog leap, just felt the cement block with teeth as it slammed into his chest, hot breath suddenly blasting into his face.
Crap.
Dean was on his back before he knew it, the worst possible place to be. These dogs were trained to be vicious, which meant it would be going for his throat. Instinctively, Dean jammed his arm up between himself and the attacking animal. A cry was ripped out of his throat as two rows of sharp teeth sank through the denim of his jacket and two layers of shirts, into the muscle of his forearm.
A stream of curses went through Dean's head. The tranq gun was now trapped in his pocket, the dog's bulk making it impossible to reach. Maybe he could get to the knife in his boot, but that would take precious time he didn't really have. His switchblade was also buried under dog muscle and fur, and his Colt had been left safely in the car for what was just supposed to be a simple salt-and-burn.
The paws that had been pressing him against the ground, digging into his shoulders, began moving, raking down his chest and scrabbling at his hips, trying to gain leverage to chomp on the mouthful of Dean's arm it had latched on to. The fiery scores of pain were negligible compared to the agony of his arm, but Dean hissed nonetheless as his skin shredded under the assault.
He tried to roll, to put himself on top and gain the advantage. But the dog just sunk its claws deeper into Dean's flesh, holding him down effortlessly. Crap, crap, crap—he wouldn't last long at this rate. Already his head was starting to feel a little light from the pain. Dean searched his scattered thoughts for a new plan.
The gunshots didn't register immediately, not until his hearing caught up with the rest of his senses: the abrupt flattening of his lungs under the dog's sudden dead weight and the end of the jerk-tear shaking of his arm. The air went out of Dean with a grunt as his attacker suddenly became his compressor.
"Hang on, Dean."
He would've started if he'd been able to move. Sometimes he still didn't expect Sam to be there, even after months back together. Maybe he just didn't want to let himself get used to it. But his little brother had showed up now, sounding breathless and oddly distant. Thank God.
Before Dean could try to pull in some air to answer him, the dog's body was shifted, lifting off him. Unfortunately, death hadn't relaxed the iron grip on his arm, and Dean gasped aloud as the embedded teeth yanked at the limb and claws dragged out of his thighs and chest.
"Sorry, sorry. Just…"
Hands moved gently over his arm, then there was a crack of bone, and the steel-trap jaws loosened and were pried off. It felt like a bunch of hot, tiny knives moving through the meat of the limb, just as bad coming out as going in, but there was also relief in not being trapped in the vise grip and pinned by the creature's massive weight, the glaring eyes inches from his own. As the teeth slid free with a sucking sound, however, Dean couldn't hold back a moan.
"Take it easy, almost there." Sam's voice sounded increasingly farther away, and Dean made himself focus. No way was he swooning like some romance-novel chick from a stupid dog attack. Nothing was even broken, and while his shirt felt warmly wet, he wasn't near to bleeding out yet. "Dean?"
The dog was finally completely off him. Dean immediately rolled to his side, his injured arm clutched close. His sleeve was saturated, his arm had two neat rows of holes punched into it, and every breath hurt as the clawed skin on his torso expanded and contracted. Maybe he wasn't dying, but he wasn't exactly awesome, either.
"Dean?" Sam's gigantic hand flattened against his gouged chest, and Dean yanked away with a hiss. "Sorry, just…let me see." Fingers peeled away the grip Dean hadn't even noticed he had on his mangled arm. "How bad is it?"
"Nothin' about fifty stitches won't cure," Dean groaned, pushing Sam's invasive hands away. "'M all right, it's just a bite."
"Dude, your arm looks like hamburger and your shirt's shredded. Tell me another."
"Superficial." Dean pushed himself up with his good hand, shaking off the sudden spots that crowded his vision. "Just a dog."
"More people die from dog bites than wendigo attacks," Sam, ever the practical encyclopedia, said. He'd reclaimed Dean's arm and was wrapping…something around it.
Dean stifled another groan as the pressure pulled tight. Felt like another dog clamping down. "Rather go up against a wendigo," he wheezed, trying to pull away from Sam again. Come to think of it, Sasquatch had the hair to be a dog, and the tenacity. "Leggo, I'm okay." To prove his point, he folded his legs under himself, then pushed up. And promptly sank down again as his weakened body refused to hold him.
Sam was giving him that bratty I told you so look that hadn't changed one bit since he was four. Dean would've considered wiping it off his face if he hadn't needed all his concentration to not fall over. "You ready to stow your pride and let me help you?" Sam sniped.
"You ready to quit being…a whiny bitch?" Dean shot back, breath labored. Man, it still felt like the dog was yanking at his arm, the throb of overall ache shot through with shards of sharp, bright pain.
"You know, you're kind of a jerk when you're hurt," Sam said, but it wasn't harsh. His forehead was bunched as if he were the one in pain as he gently tucked Dean's arm into his half-open jacket, then rucked up his shirt to check the claw marks.
Dean gave up on pride for the moment and just closed his eyes so he wouldn't have to watch. "Whatever," he mumbled, shutting out the feeling of fingertips sliding along his ribs, his abs, brushing against fresh injuries. "You kill the dog?" he added as an afterthought, even though he figured he knew the answer.
Sam's movement froze briefly, and Dean could just picture how his mouth tightened. "What do you think? Attack dog versus obnoxious big brother. Had to weigh that a second but…"
Dean chuckled, then winced. "Sorry."
"Shut up, Dean."
He shut up.
Dean tried to ignore the trip back to the car, what with the hanging off Sam's neck like a friggin' necklace and every step jarring his really, really unhappy arm. The fence still loomed forbiddingly in front of them, but Sam just picked the lock and eased him through it. The kid still had it, no question. Dean couldn't help but admire his little brother's finesse even as he half-moaned, half-hummed his relief at finally sliding his battered body into the car.
"Hey. Sam." He made a grab for his brother and had a feeling he only succeeded in snagging a sleeve because Sam let him. "The Honda. I think I found it right before Hercules found me."
"Who?"
Dean would've rolled his eyes if they hadn't been half-shut already. "Just go burn the bitch. I can wait."
"No." That was it, no argument, no whining.
He felt a frown gathering. "Sam—"
"You go burn it if you want. I'm going back to the motel."
He squinted his eyes open to glare at his brother, who was just backing out of the passenger compartment. "'S is stupid, Sam. I'm not gonna bleed out from a dog bite."
Sam didn't even bother answering him, just slammed the door in his face. Which was another example of why it was all kinds of bad for a little brother to be in charge.
So every pothole on the way back made him swallow bile and embarrassing sounds of pain. So Sam had to mostly carry him into the room when they finally got back to the motel. So Dean sighed with relief at being allowed to sink down into the bed. So what? They still could have finished the job.
Or so Dean consoled himself as he slipped into drugged sleep sometime between Sam giving him morphine and cutting his shirts off, and cleaning and stitching his arm.
He woke once to a dim room and Sam sitting on the other bed staring intently at him. He might have been dreaming, considering he thought he remembered Sam's ridiculously long arm stretched across the space between them to clutch at Dean's forearm. But considering how emo Sammy could be, maybe not.
The next thing Dean knew, the motel room door was clicking shut, a sound his subconscious was tuned to, and Dean lifted his head blearily from the pillow to squint at the tall figure that had just come in.
"Where were you?" he slurred, shifting to his side. Ow. His arm felt a little bit on fire, and a hundred small splinters of pain came alive from his shoulders to his hips.
There was a hesitation he almost thought he imagined, then Sam said "the junkyard" as he pulled off his jacket and tossed it wearily onto a chair.
Dean grunted, tucking his arm against his chest, where he found a pillow wedged. Convenient. He propped the injured limb on it and the burning eased fractionally. "You find the car?"
Sam sat on the edge of his bed, pushing back against Dean's knees, and started unlacing his boots. "It was on top of, like, five other cars. Took me a while to get it down and then torch the thing. The metal didn't really burn, but I got all the organic residue."
Dean's mouth curled a little at the three-syllable words, but then he caught sight of something on the long fingers working at the bootlaces. Frowning, he reached forward and grabbed Sam's wrist. "Oh yeah? So you wanna explain the 'organic residue' on your hands?"
Sam twisted free, aggressive enough to break Dean's grip but gentle enough not to hurt him. The shaggy head turned away from Dean as Sam toed his boots off. "I, uh… I checked the dog."
Dean scrunched his face up, trying to read Sam's shoulders and tone, which was considerably harder than his face. "The dog we put out? It still sleeping?"
"No. I mean, yeah, it was asleep, at least after I gave it a booster shot. But the other dog… I had to make sure it wasn't sick."
Dean's eyes narrowed. "Sick, like…" Realization broke, and he made a face. "You mean rabies? Aw, man, tell me you didn't."
"Only way to be sure, Dean," Sam stubbornly told the rug.
Right. Dad had showed them that one; sometimes hunting the supernatural meant first eliminating the natural. That included making sure animals and people weren't just sick instead of possessed or non-living, which had meant, among other things, a stomach-turning lesson on how to look for the telltale signs of rabies in a diseased animal's brain. "Dude," Dean groaned. "It was just doing its job, man. It attacked because we were in its territory."
Sam nodded, jaw flexing and clenching. "I had to make sure, all right?" One fingernail picked at the rust-colored crust in the creases of his other hand.
Dean sank into the bed, suddenly feeling sucker-punched. Besides patching Dean up like a pro that night, softhearted Sam had killed a dog and then performed brain surgery on it, all on top of their "regular" job. He'd obviously hated every minute of it, but he'd done it for Dean. He would always do it for Dean.
His mind reeled at that. All his life, family—love—was about who stayed with you, watching your back. When Sam had left, it'd felt like amputating a limb, but time and distance hadn't lessened what was between them. He still had Sam, always would, even if the kid left again someday.
The idea left him kinda breathless.
Dean finally swallowed. "Hey," he said softly, nudging Sam in the back with a knee. "Go take a shower, dude."
Sam nodded wearily, and unfolded himself from the bed.
"Sammy."
He paused halfway to the bathroom.
Dean cleared his throat. He didn't say this often, but it felt extra important this time that Sam knew. "Thanks. Bitch."
Sam lifted his head, like a turtle venturing out of its shell, and swiveled back to Dean. His mouth was pursed like he was trying to be annoyed—maybe because of the name, maybe because of the inherent pun, maybe because he was just Sam—but the light in his eyes gave him away. "You're an idiot, Dean."
"Yeah, pretty much," Dean said, gamely shrugging.
Sam snorted, hair sliding into his eyes as he shook his head, then turned away.
Dean's grin only half-faded when the bathroom door clicked shut after Sam. Huh. So. Maybe there was hope for his family, after all. Not that they weren't still massively screwed up, but…maybe…
Dean sighed, settling back into the pillow, feeling a good kind of drowsy instead of the bone-deep weariness that often dogged him. Even his arm had settled into a muted kind of ache. Sam would no doubt want to check it in the morning, mother hen that he was…
Dean fell asleep facing the light-rimmed bathroom door.
The End
Next Sunday: "He's My Family"