A/N: Mish, I'm sorry I couldn't post this earlier, kiddo. Real Life got in the way. I'll make it up to ya. A huge thank you to PADavis who beta'd this for me. And, hey, Nana? You mean to say that a plot slipped in here? Oh, dang.

Timeline: 2nd season, right after Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things. Geez.

A/N the 2nd: The dogs in this story are Tibetan Mastiffs. The site will not allow me to post the link in the story notes, but if you head on over to the American Tibetan Mastiff website

you'll get a pretty good idea what these beasts look like. And thanks to Phoebe for the info about those creampuffs of the canine world, the English Mastiff. If they were in this story they'd slobber all over Dean and then push him off the couch. Not exactly what I had in mind.

A/N the 3rd: BTW, I know that slamming your shoulder against something hard is not the proper way to reduce a shoulder dislocation. I loved seeing Mel Gibson do it in Lethal Weapon. What's good enough for Martin Riggs is good enough for Dean Winchester. So there. Nyah! (Yeah, I know. Real mature…)

Disclaimer: I do not own Supernatural. This is for entertainment only, and not for profit.

Chapter 2 – the bluebird of happiness

Dean came out of the white out moments later, on his hands and knees, gasping, panting. His muscles shivered and trembled underneath his skin. Each breath he took in was ragged and the stale air felt heavy, leaden, going in through his nose, down his throat. It was almost too much for his lungs but he forced himself to breathe in and out, slowly, ignored the taste of dirt and dust and God only knows what else in his mouth and throat.

Dead places smelled like this.

Places like Roosevelt Asylum. Like any number of dead places, holes in the world, Dean had ever been in. Normal got ripped to shreds in spaces like this. The shadows had teeth and a quick death was the best case scenario.

He had a chance now. Had his right arm back. He felt better. That white hot flare of pain roared through his bones and burned itself out. He could tell without even looking that his shoulder was back in place.

Dean coughed, then let out a loud, hoarse whoop of relief.

As the pain of his right shoulder subsided, the other pains in his body took up the slack. He felt tied and achey all over. His back hurt like hell too, especially when he sat up, twinges of pain that skipped merrily up and down his backbone like a little girl playing hopscotch.

Dean glanced down, saw the white of bone in his left arm and quickly looked away.

Okay. All right. He was not gonna stare at his left arm. Hell no. He'd had worse injuries than this on hunts. No need to dwell on this shit.

On the plus side, he had one good arm, two good legs. Well, maybe not that good, because he couldn't walk. Not yet.

On the minus side, there was a pack of demon dog bastards just waiting to tear into him.

Dean stared over at that open door. They'd walked out that way, and the sight of that plain wooden door and that quiet hallway beyond scared the hell out of him.

Da!

That voice inside his head was low and rumbling, hungry and eager. It wasn't his voice, or Sam's voice, and it sure in the hell wasn't Dad. The word wasn't any language he'd ever heard before, and immediately after there was an echo, soft and light.

NOW!

The hair on the back of Dean's neck stood up, straight and painful.

Shut the door.

Dean pulled himself upright on two wobbly knees and one good arm. He didn't go for the door, he went in the opposite direction, towards the file cabinet.

Shut the fucking door, shut it right now ---

It rocked and wobbled when he slammed into it the first time, but it was solid enough. He pushed into it, put his shoulder into it, pushed with his legs.

Da!

The sharp edges cut into the knees of his worn jeans, but that didn't matter

NOW!

Dean caught a glimpse of black fur, orange eyes, and sharp white teeth, and the cabinet was heavy but he could do this, he could, he had to. What's dead should stay dead? He still felt that way.

But not like this. Not gnawed to death, torn apart bit by bit like some dime store chew toy.

Four feet away from the door, and they were grinning at him

…bu…

Three feet away and he was scrambling, grabbing at the edge of the door with his one damn good hand, pushing into the file cabinet, bruising his hip and legs and Dean didn't give a damn about any of that

…boy…

Two feet away and the dog in the lead was in mid air, leaping, jaws stretched wide and open like something Dean saw during Shark Week

…da…

…now…

Dean swung the door shut and the lead dog was caught near the upper left hand corner, wriggling between the door frame and the door, half in, half out, snarling, snapping at Dean's arm. Its hot breath smelled like rotten meat and sulfur, raised gooseflesh up to his shoulder. Dean was moving on pure adrenaline now, as he somehow half lifted, half threw the file cabinet up against the door,

The dog shrieked and snarled as the file cabinet slammed into the door. Dean leaned into the rusty metal, and the animal squirmed and wiggled, pinned, torn between snapping at Dean and trying to pull itself free in the opposite direction.

The dog's eyes bulged, flared neon orange. Its mouth widened and its body flattened out in the opposite direction.

Dean's eyes widened when he saw that. He froze, and the door opened up, crashed against the file cabinet.

Just a little wider, and the mutt would be in the room with him.

Dean didn't notice. He stared blankly ahead, was only dimly aware that he was standing by the door and the fucking dog was straining at get at him. He was caught up in the memory. He was helpless, just like before. Just like he'd been when they took him down.

He couldn't stop them. That was the worst part. He couldn't move his arms and legs, just laid there, staring up at them as they pulled his jacket off, then his tee shirt.

They were half dogs, half something else, orange eyed, slick black skin, pointy ears and mouths filled with teeth. They had hands instead of paws, long black clawed fingers.

…pretty…

… snying rje po…

They touched him all over, and they weren't dogs then. Not all the way.

…long time…

…dus tshod ring po…

Dean could feel their tongues against his skin. Moist warm nose leather, warmth of their breath as they smelled his skin, got his scent.

Didn't matter if they spoke out loud, or inside his head. He could hear them.

…play time…

…rtse mo rtsed chu tsod…

He knew what they were saying…

…fun…

He could hear them.

…snang pa skyid skyid…

…so much fun to play with…

Just like he could now.

Another hard knock against the file cabinet, and the fucking mutt was nearly halfway through, smiling this time, grinning, ears laid back. Dean blinked and came back to himself just as the thing's teeth missed his left forearm by mere inches. The file cabinet and the door rocked back. Dean's heels slid backwards on the tile floor, left black scuff marks, and he lunged forward again, threw his whole fucking weight into it, as the top file drawer came off its track and tilted, spilling paper onto the floor.

The dog yelped again as the door slammed into it again, yelped and began to flatten out again. Dean repeatedly slammed the door and the filing cabinet into its sorry ass. Dean growled, low and deep and dangerous.

The dog yipped as it pulled away, in the opposite direction this time, back out into the hallway. The others raised their voices, howling, snarling.

And the door slammed shut.

Whatever was left in the top drawer of the file cabinet rattled again, and Dean jerked the drawer out halfway with his good hand. Would have been nice if somebody had left a pistol or something in there. Maybe a bottle of booze? Jack or José would be a pretty welcome damn sight right about now.

Dean put his hand inside the drawer and started pulling everything in there out. Pieces of paper first. Blank invoices. Old, yellowed around the edges. Maybe Anderton Ironworks was the name of the factory. Didn't mean a damn thing to Dean. Didn't ring any bells, either, but it was nice to have a name to go with the place.

Ironworks, huh? Maybe they'd left some metal around. Something he could work with.

He reached in further. A black magic marker and a brown paper bag was next. Dean felt something smooth and round and pulled it out. Stared at it like it was the last thing he expected to see in this place.

Huh. Maybe the patron saint of hunters wasn't having an off night after all.

It was a roll of duct tape. Still good too, from the look of it.

Dean sat up, took a deep breath, and stared at his left arm. "Son of a bitch," he whispered softly.

It was a fucking mess.

His hand looked funny. It hung down at an odd, broken angle. He had teethmarks in his skin, all the way from his wrist down to his elbow, rips and gashes caked with dried blood. There was a five inch tear right in the inside of his arm, and white bone sticking up through his bruised, torn skin.

The good news was it looked like a clean break, straight across the ulna and the radius.

The bad news was he was headed for the hospital after this. He'd need surgery, probably. Screws. A round of heavy duty antibiotics, to be sure. Broken bone that's exposed to open air usually sets up infection.

Lovely. Just fucking lovely.

Dean stared at his left hand, stared at the way it hung down, limp and distorted. Didn't look real. Didn't feel like it was even attached to him. If he didn't know better, he would have figured it was some really gross special effect instead, something he'd seen at the movies. Die Hard, maybe. Bruce Willis.

Yeah. Bruce Willis could get tagged like this and still kick some evil bastard's ass.

Dean reached up and poked at his left hand with his right forefinger.

Damn. It didn't hurt.

Dean laughed, and poked himself again.

Will you stop doin' that?

"D-Dad?" Dean lowered both arms into his lap, stilled himself for a moment. The room did a slow leisurely turn around him. His heartbeat pulsed in time with this dull throb at both temples.

You got a fever, kiddo.

"It's…it's…warm in here…." Dean swayed from side to side. He panted and wheezed, and his chest ached. The air in the room was suddenly too warm, too humid against his skin. It weighed him down, made it hard to think. "Don't tell me, lemme guess." Dean glanced down at his left arm again, even though he told himself not to. "I'm poisoned. Demon dog slobber, right?"

Yep. Dulls the nerve endings. They're not doing you any flaming favors. Makes their chew toys last longer, I guess. You're probably gonna go into shock sooner or later.

"Well, aren't you the bluebird of happiness."

John chuckled. Hey. I do what I can.

"You're not my real Dad, are you? My Dad's dead. 'm hallucinating, right?"

I'm whatever you want me to be, bud. Yeah, you're hallucinating. But it could have been worse.

"Worse?"

I could be a dancing blue elephant instead.

Dean huffed. "Huh. You got me there." He stared down at his left elbow, slowly unrolled and wrapped the tape tight around his skin.

Don't think about this, you dumb prick. Just do it.

The edges of bone grated together as he wrapped the tape around and around, up his arm. Dean yelped, just a little. A sharp, bright stab of pain went screeching up his nerve endings, but it died down after a moment or so.

All he could think of was getting it wrapped, past his wrist. Not tight. Snug. Snug enough to keep everything inside from spilling out. He wrapped the ends of the tape around and over his palm a couple of times, then bit the end of the tape off with his teeth.

Dean flexed his left hand a few times, wriggled his fingers. It wasn't one hundred percent, but he could grip things. Huh. The cure-all for pain is demon dog spit. Who knew?

He didn't want to think about how he'd feel this crap, whatever it was, wore off.

For some reason, all Dean could think of was Sam's bitchface when he saw this. The mess that they made of Dean's arm. The duct tape field dressing. That was typical Winchester style, all right. Gauze and cotton were for wusses.

"Got taken down by a dog, huh?" Sam's face would be full of that mix of relief and broodiness. "Send you out to pick up some dinner, and you can't even do that right."

Sam could bitch. Good Lord, the kid could bitch.

And Dean wanted to hear him bitch, at least one more time. Wanted to hear Sam bitch about no health insurance and fake credit cards.

Outside in the hallway something snuffled noisily around the bottom of the door. One of the dogs whined, low and pitful, like a housepet trying to get back inside after a night out.

"Just how stupid do you think I am?" Dean grumbled, and inside Dean's head Dad laughed.

Wasn't right. They were putting on a show, something to distract him, while the others snuck up from behind.

Ace? Dad rumbled softly. You gotta go.

Dean nodded. "I know."

He kept the duct tape and the rope they'd strung him up with, dumped them into the brown paper bag with the black magic marker. There was nothing else in this room, or the next two smaller rooms, except a cruddy looking set of metal shelves and two beat up looking desks pushed up against the far wall. He'd gone through all the desk drawers at a record pace, hoping that he'd get lucky again, but the only other thing left behind was dust bunnies and a packet of mayo. Nothing to get excited about.

The doors in all the rooms were off their hinges, but it was that last door that gave him the creeps.

Well, that and turning the lights off in all the rooms. The sounds outside the front door added to the whole creepiness factor. They were growling and snarling now, getting more impatient.

He managed to make it over to the last door, made it without tripping and breaking his damn fool neck. Dean stood there in the dark with his right hand on that worn brass knob.

Now if this was one of those dumbass horror movies there would be a fugly crouched on the other side. The audience would be screaming, "Don't open the door, you dumb bastard!" and the vic would open the door anyway.

Dean turned the knob, slowly. This door was closed, but it wasn't locked. He took a deep breath and pulled it open a couple of inches.

The hallway was dark, four doors on each side, eight closed doors in all. There was a chain link partition just beyond the hallway at the opposite end. The rest of the place looked like the open floor of some factory, filled with rusty oversized factory equipment that was probably too outdated to move or auction off when the place closed.

There was a door on the far wall. And right over that was a red overhead door light that said EXIT.

Maybe it was the fever spiking, but right then and there this gleefully creepy voice spoke up inside his head. Sounded like one of those game show announcers.

"What's behind door number one or door number two, Dean? You really wanna find out? Ain't nobody out here but us puppies, and none of us look like those chicks on The Price Is Right. Think you can make it to that EXIT door before we bite your ass off, Winchester?"

They were out there. He could feel them. Three or more of them had doubled back around, while the others stayed at the other door and made him think they were all still out there. They were between him and the exit door, crouched in the shadows of all that abandoned metal and steel.

Dean could hear them too, inside his head. Bits and pieces of words as they moved through the dark. Maybe that wasn't a part of the plan. Maybe there was something messed up inside his head, the same part that made him think Dad was in there, too. The fever baked slowly, just underneath his skin, and he didn't miss those faint jagged red streaks of infection going up his arm.

It was gonna get worse. Of that Dean had no doubt.

If he had to go, he'd make sure that Cujo and Lassie and Toto and all the other damn mutts in this place took the trip with him.

Factory meant metal. Iron and steel. Maybe the place hadn't been cleaned out all the way. Maybe he could find something he could use on these mutts, something to put them down for good.

He wasn't the first human they'd ever hunted here, but he wanted to make sure that he was the last.

Dean opened the door even wider, and slipped silently into the dark.

TBC next Tuesday. More Dean whump, and Sam and Bobby start putting two and two together.