Title from a Richard Siken poem. (By the way, it's actually a lot of fun to research fictitious monsters. And then mash up all the different information into one fic)
Shivering and coughing are good. When you're cold and choking, respectively. It's when you stop shivering-muscles giving up on warmth, and stop coughing-lungs without air, that's bad. But bleeding is just plain old bleeding and it's supposed to stop. Has to stop or else…
Dean rolls his leg, shifts it by millimeters across the bedspread. It's hard to differentiate between dried blood and swamp gunk. He's playing Where's Waldo, except looking for fresh blood instead of some goofy dude in a striped shirt. But there's definitely a lot going on down there. The headboard pokes wooden knobs into his backbone as he stares down his torso, stares at the lump of mud, blood, and torn fabric that's attached to his hip and nearly reaches the end of the bed.
It stinks. Or he does. Rotting leaves and stale water and old sweat. But there's no one here to complain about the smell. He'll shower. Just as soon as he can. Whenever his leg can actually go back to supporting his weight instead of dragging limply behind him, drops of blood like a breadcrumb trail.
OoOoO
"So. It could be a ghoul, though I hear they like their meat in the pot nine days old."
The pair of hunters startle, bristling, when Dean drops into a seat at their table, beer bottle making a dull thud as he smacks it down.
"Who are you?" demands the one.
"Or maybe it's a werewolf, though the full moon seems more like a coincidence than anything else. My money's on a bunyip." Dean takes a swig from his drink, all casual confidence and practiced ease.
"What the hell are you on about, boy?" the one continues.
The other squints at him. "You a hunter?"
"Oh, right. Sorry." Dean's many things but apologetic isn't one of them. "Dean Winchester." He sticks his hand out, hovering above their plates of half-eaten burgers.
"Winchester?" repeats the first one, making no move to accept the handshake.
His partner does, grips Dean's palm in his, though it is a bit overly warm and when he lets go, Dean nonchalantly wipes the transferred smear of ketchup on his jeans. "I'm Roy. This is Walt."
Walt narrows his gaze, digging up information from his memories or sizing Dean up or who even knows what. "Any relation to that bastard John Winchester?"
The quirk of Dean's lips give him away before he answers. "That bastard is my dad."
Roy stuffs a trio of lukewarm fries into his mouth when Walt shows no remorse for the insult. But Dean doesn't take offense, even sort of agrees, though he would never ever admit to it.
"How'd you find us?" Walt says, jutting his chin out like four inches of stubble is going to intimidate Dean.
"You're not nearly as subtle as you think you are," Dean chuckles.
OoOoO
When it finally does show, Dean's brain sort of stutters. Not out of fear. It's been a long time since some nasty creature of the dark really scared him. No, his brain starts and stops, flickers and flutters as it attempts to process, to translate what manner of monster is rising out of the swamp in front of him. It's like nothing he's ever seen before, and definitely not like the pictures he'd found on the local library's computers. It's a mismatched amalgamation of animal features and characteristics not found in nature.
The head breaches the water first, stumpy neck weaving as it rises, large sack like a pelican's under the jaw wobbling. The face is reminiscent of a dog in the same way cough syrup is reminiscent of cherries. Enormous eyes bulge from the top of the skull, and when the reptilian eyelid clicks over the pupil as it blinks, the sound is nearly audible. Approximately the size of a full grown calf when it finally stands upright, Dean is able to see the flipper like appendages attached to the prominent shoulder blades that stick up behind the creature's head. What he had at first taken to be fur, he now realizes is a collection of tiny, black feathers, piled in layers on the its chest and halfway across its back. From there, it's crusty scales all the way down the powerful hind legs, which are not flippers, to the whippet's tail, which ends in a stringy bunch of matted horse's hair.
Green water and globs of algae run off the bunyip, dropping back into the swamp with faint plops and splashes. It opens its snout and Dean only has time to marvel at how all those miniature tusks fit into such a confined space before the thing lunges with surprising agility.
OoOoO
They want to use him as bait but heaven help him, Dean doesn't want to be bait. As Walt staunchly defends his idea, Dean thinks he gets it now: why his dad hates working with other hunters, avoids collaboration like the plague, takes solo gigs as often as possible. Roy is sitting head down, looking like a pet owner at the vet's. Sorry but not sorry enough to change the situation. As if this has to be done. Like it's the only way.
"We have to stop the killings," he mutters, all low and resigned like Dean's the cat about to get a rabies vaccine.
He must make a noise of protest, though he doesn't remember doing it, because Walt crosses the room in three steps and plants himself in front of Dean, and delivers his ultimatum. "Do you have a better idea?"
It's difficult to hear beyond the whooshing of his pulse in his ears. It's ridiculous, but too late to stop the panic slowly climbing from the pit of his belly up to the roots of his hair. He wants to say, I'm not the smart one. Ask Sam. Sammy's the smart one. Sammy'll have a better plan. But Sam's not here. Dad's not here. Just Dean. Dean and the two strangers he's trusting to watch his back.
OoOoO
The knife in his hand feels pitifully small against the charging beast and Dean curses first Roy for being clumsy enough to drop his rifle into the murkiness of the Everglades, and then himself for handing over his own shotgun as a replacement. The bunyip bounds, lurches, splashes toward him and then it's on him, the momentum and weight of its bizarre body knocking them both into the swamp. Dirty water closes over his head and giant teeth clamp around his leg and he's flailing and slashing wildly with his blade, wonders where the hell Walt and Roy are while he's getting mauled.
The thing shakes him, side to side. Then, impossibly, the pressure increases. Jaws tightening, the bunyip throws itself to the right, spinning them both through the water. Equivalent to a crocodile's death roll and Dean knows he's screwed. It only gets one rotation before there's a muffled bang and something slices through the gloom and the muck. The creature utters some kind of distressed noise, a yelp or a growl or a bark, Dean can feel the vibration of it where its mouth is fastened to his thigh.
OoOoO
He's been slogging through the wetlands for hours. Maybe. The face of his watch is misty with condensation, the same humidity that clogs his throat when he breathes, wraps around him like a second skin. Hopefully it'll dry out fine because a new watch isn't really an expense he can afford. The sun hangs somewhere in the sky, the same as its been all freaking day. But that's just Florida, he supposes.
A checkered strip of forest green and coffee brown squeezes high up on his leg, like an anxious toddler. Of course, now the fabric's also algae green and dried blood brown but hey. The shirt was already a lost cause. It's the least Walt could do to make up for his stupid plan.
When his next step takes him unexpectedly deeper into the marshy ground, grass giving way to sucking mud that won't release his boot without an extended battle of wills, he debates phoning for a rescue. He doesn't even know who he expects to come get him because there's no way an ambulance is getting through all the muck. But at this point, with a hunk of flesh missing from his leg and his clothes soggy and heavy and his depleted energy and nearly nonexistent motivation, he'd take whoever showed up-park rangers, search and rescue, coast guard, a local fisherman in a kayak, anything.
Of course, he has no guarantee that he won't get arrested or at the very least put in the nuthouse. Then again, he could probably say gator attack and no one would think twice. As long as he ditched his gun and the multiple knives hidden on his person.
The lack of power in his cell ends the debate and he puts it back in his pocket and tries to find the strength to keep walking.
OoOoO
The bunyip's jaws do not release postmortem and it takes the combined effort of both Walt and Roy to pry the dead monster's mouth off of Dean. The teeth, massive and curved, pull out with grudging squelches and Dean looks away when he thinks he catches sight of a piece of skin stuck between two of them. Walt kicks the body to verify the lack of life, as if the bullet lodged in the top of its spine isn't proof enough, then kicks it again and again until it sinks into a deeper area of water, swallowed by the Everglades. Convenient disposal of evidence.
"Gimme your shirt," Roy says, hand held out expectantly.
Walt is even less enthusiastic than the bunyip teeth, but he relinquishes his outer layer. Roy flips out a pocket knife and cuts away a section, goes to work tying it around the bleeding wound in Dean's thigh, hands uncomfortably close to Dean's crotch. Even though he knows it's necessary in order to bandage the wound, Dean still wriggles and prays for a swift end to the field medicine.
He's lost too much blood to have it any other way so he ends up leaning on Roy for the trek back to the road. When they get to the truck, Walt opens the driver's door, stops with one boot on the foot rail. "You going to be okay getting back to your car?"
It's a challenge, pure and simple. Dean pushes away from Roy's unfamiliar height, and straightens his back. "I'm good."
Walt climbs into the truck. Starts the engine. Roy hovers, uncertain. "Are you sure, kid? We could give you a ride..."
Dean smirks. Doesn't have to speak. After a moment of hesitation, Roy leaves. Dean waits until the tail lights disappear before he turns and heads back into the water, wonders what in the world he was thinking, parking so far from here. Should have followed Walt's truck the first time, seeing as how the guy may have been a jerk but at least he was a jerk who knew the area.
Baby's a sight for sore eyes and Dean's thankful the bunyip tore into his left leg. At least he doesn't need that one to drive.
OoOoO
That night, he dreams an alligator crawls out of the swamp in the parking lot. It knocks at his motel room and when he opens the door, it comes inside, napkin already tied fashionably around its neck. It has a smooth mellow voice, like an old time Hollywood actor, when it says it would like to eat him. But after a single bite, if huffs in disappointment, turns for the door without finishing.
"I didn't like the taste," Dean hears it say.