One:
Burning Bright
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Eyes glinting green in the darkness. The loneliness of the only one who hunts, who knows. A soft growl emanating animosity older than time itself. A head that lowers sharply as the prey comes into view.
… Two men. One tall. One shorter. The tall one presents his back. And then -- a tempting target. Her target. She will rend him limb from limb. He deserves it. He asked for it.
She bares her teeth. They gleam in the moonlight as she watches her quarry get into some large black object. The men pause at the open doors, exchanging some human words over the top of the black thing. Her dangerously sharp eyesight picks up on something she has not seen in millennia; green. Green eyes. They sparkle and shine in the moonlight.
A fleeting thought: That green. Like her own green?
The breeze carries the scents of the night toward her: The smell of the men. Of weariness, of duty. Of metal and killing. Another newsflash: She is the only one who hunts. Is she? The only one who knows. Is she?
She focuses her efforts, lets the anger flood out of her on a low note of seething. The black object makes a noise not unlike her warning sound. She raises her head just slightly. She watches as the large black thing with her prey inside slowly floats toward her. It turns and her deadly gaze sears through the flat pane of glass, calculating the height, weight, probability of losing the deathmatch to the creature inside.
The black object pulls away.
She pads out of the bushes and sniffs the air. She surveys the parking lot and decides to shun the wide open space. She steals to the edge of the tarmac and into the foliage she slips. She melts into the darkness like blood into wine.
.
.
"That's not what I meant, Dean," Sam sighs wearily, stretching a foot behind him to close the motel room door.
"Oh really? Certainly sounded like it, Sam," he counters. His face is dark with resentment as he drops his duffle to the bed.
"Really. All I meant was, it would have been easier if you'd gone with the knife instead of the gun."
"It's dead, ain't it?" he snaps, sitting heavily and heaving off his boots. He lets them clatter to the floor in a way that warns his younger brother to drop the subject.
Sam huffs. He does not do this lightly. The entire motel room, including its bathroom, is party to the sound and rush of air that all at once slaps his elder brother for being petulant while also acceding the owner really has had enough of the argument and is prepared to wave the white flag.
Dean spares his brother a glance as he gets up again, pulling his shirt and t-shirt off in quick succession.
"I'm in the shower first," he warns, already picking up a towel from the rack by the bathroom door.
"Ok," Sam allows peaceably. His brother passes him and the washroom door is closed firmly but without too much sound, indicating the eldest Winchester is too tired to stay angry at the criticism.
Sam lowers himself to the bed, the many aches and pains of the day filling the front of his mind with painful clarity. He flops backwards onto the blankets, his arms out wide, studying the ceiling. He hears the shower start. He lets his mind go blank.
Something catches his eye. His head shoots left to the suspicious suggestion of movement at the window. He gets up quickly, crossing to the glass and looking out.
Darkness. A parking lot. An empty black space he should not be seeing, considering the time and the antics of the day. He glances at his watch, notes the hands on the weary side of midnight, and backs away from the window. He retreats to the bed, strips down to his shorts, and rolls under the covers. It seems he needs sleep more than cleanliness.
When Dean emerges from the bathroom clad only in a towel, giant clouds of steam following his departure, he spies his brother already snoring. It makes him pause. He considers the snippy exchanges and sarcastic taunts of the last few hours and abruptly wishes he could take it all back.
In a gesture that will speak volumes on the subject of brotherly love - and the responsibility of those with primogeniture - later on toward morning, Dean walks up to the side of his brother's bed and pulls the blanket up over him higher. He turns to his brother's duffle, fishes around for the Taurus handgun, and checks it is loaded. When he finds it ready, he slides it under Sam's pillow without disturbing him too much.
Then he discards his towel, pulls on some shorts, and goes to bed.
.
.
A slight noise. He turns, checks the parking lot. Nothing. Nothing?
He turns to the door. He shucks some the skin he has worn as a disguise, revealing the true twisted, warped form of his true self. He glances at the door again. It is no match for his supernatural abilities and he is under the heavy wooden barrier in a couple of heartbeats.
Two beds. Two apparently comatose forms. He glides over effortlessly. He sniffs at the first, finding it contrary to his memory. He steals to the other bed, leaning over to inhale the scent of the other sleeper. The tracked odour offends him with its humanness but he resists the temptation to snort the vile smell from his nose.
The prone form stirs. A mammoth sneeze erupts from the target. It drives his stalker back from the bed.
He hears a click and whips around.
"What the Hell?" the first, unwanted man gasps. He appears groggy but able enough to pull the trigger on the shiny device he has in his right hand should he need to. "Sam!" the man calls.
He turns on his target, finding him similarly sat up. The target puts a hand on his pillow to keep him upright. Feeling the lump, he slides confused fingers underneath to pull out a gun. He gives it a baffled look before raising it at the creature at the end of his bed. He cocks the handgun.
"Thanks," he manages toward his brother.
"Forget about it," Dean allows, and the previous day's fight is expunged from their collective memory.
"What is it?" Sam asks, still eyeing the creature currently weighing up its options.
"Looks like a striga?" Dean hazards.
"Why is it here?"
"Why don't you ask it, Sam?" is the younger Winchester's impatient reward, prompting him to huff to himself.
Sam opens his mouth but sneezes again.
"You allergic to strigas now?" Dean snorts, already yanking back the covers to get to his feet. He watches the creature carefully, noting it is doing nothing. No, not nothing - its nose is twitching. "Maybe he's allergic to you, too."
"It's not him," Sam realises, getting out of his bed. "It's almost like… there's a cat in the room."
"Seriously?" Dean breaths, pre-occupied by the way the creature is turning toward the motel room door. "Why isn't it attacking us?"
"Maybe it's not dangerous," Sam hazards.
"Ass-hat," Dean accuses.
A hefty thump pounds against the door. The creature backs away. It ignores the boys and their weapons. It races in the opposite direction of the door. It flattens itself against the far wall as the boys watch, speechless as to its actions.
The door rattles in its hinges as another blow strikes home. Dean keeps his gun on the creature in the far corner, the creature which is now beginning to cower in fear. Dean pads in his bare feet to the window, pulling the curtain aside to look out.
The door bursts open. A flash of orange - black - white. Noise and screams and a blur of movement.
"Sam!" Dean shouts. He turns to look for his brother.
Sam is diving across Dean's bed. A very impressive commando roll later and he is safely against the wall under the window. Dean puts a hand down and yanks him up by the upper arm to stand. Both boys have guns aimed vaguely in the direction of the far corner of the room.
A monstrous battle is in progress. Screams and roars. Rolling and tumbling. Swiping and claws. Teeth and tails. Shouts and hisses. The Winchesters realise they have standing-room-only tickets to some unholy brawl that could well dent the far wall in its ferocity.
It is still impossible to separate the blurs of colour, of hideously strong creatures intent on killing each other. There is another scream. This one chills every soul in a two mile radius. The boys feel prickles of supernatural fear arrest their bones. They stare, much like bunnies in the headlights of an approaching freight train, as the darker blur drops to the carpet.
Their heads follow it down. Then they look up in perfect synchronisation at the winner.
Orange striped with black, white patches marred by blood, entrails and dead matter. Whiskers that bounce and drip tiny lumps of bloodied, rent flesh.
The animal looks up, her jade orbs spying the same green looking back at her. The green - like her green. She smell of the two humans, ready to fight, ready to kill - like hers. She recognises the two of them for what they are. It quells her natural instinct. Instead she appraises both males. Her green eyes glint with something the boys sincerely want to believe has nothing to do with them.
Not for the first time, they are out of luck.
The animal takes a step toward the two boys. She shakes her head, sending droplets of blood and torn matter out in a small spray.
"Uh… That's a tiger," Sam observes.
"A friggin' tiger," Dean confirms with wonder. "And it just gutted a striga-like dude in our motel room. Could the night get any weirder?"
"Don't say that," Sam hisses. "Never say that!"
The tiger takes another step. She manages another before the image of her there, in front of them, appears to flicker slightly. It breaks the spell and abruptly she is less imposing.
This is when the boys realise one tiny fact about her has escaped them.
Until now.
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