A/N: I hate my internet provider. I shall say no more.

A/N #2: More plot has snuck in here. Iz ashamed.

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

Chapter 5 – things ancient and primal

Another motel someplace, somewhere. After a while they all blurred together, except for the places that were really nice, which were few and far between. This place wasn't so bad. It was halfway clean, surprisingly quiet. Dad got a job loading boxes at this warehouse on the other side of town. He wasn't hunting anything in this town; it was just a lay up, a place to rest.

Until the next hunt.

So that left nine year old Dean at home with five year old Sam. Sammy stared at the walls with this blank look on his face that made Dean's skin crawl a little. No kid should look like that. Five years old, Sam should have been climbing the walls, bouncing off the ceiling.

The tv in the room was busted. Sam wasn't interested in the few car magazines and week-old newspapers that were laying about. Dad promised he'd stop and get some comic books or coloring books on his way home from work, but Dean knew that money was tight. Dad wouldn't get paid for another week.

So Dean told Sammy stories, fairy tales that he remembered from somewhere

"Once upon a time there was a dead boy walking…"

But that wasn't right. He couldn't remember where he got that one from.

Dean tried again.

"What's dead should stay dead…"

Sammy wasn't interested. He didn't perk up until he heard the dogs outside, barking.

…bu…

So Dean let one of them in.

…boy…

Sammy played with the dog. Sammy laughed, and it sounded like he was screaming, and Dean couldn't understand where all the blood came from. He couldn't understand why his left arm felt so funny.

He could hear Dad whispering inside his head, from far away.

Not real. Dean, you hear me?

That meant Dad was close. That meant Dean had to get the dog out of the room before Dad got back.

Another nudge in the left shoulder, a little harder this time.

Dean groaned, a rough, confused sound.

…lang yar bu…

Wet breath against his right cheekbone.

Wake up boy…

And he didn't know what was touching him.

…snying rje po…rumbled inside his skull, followed by…pretty…

This wasn't some nightmare brought on by bad pizza or Chinese food gone rancid. Dean cracked one eye open, and it all came back to him then. He remembered it all, the warehouse, the dogs, the mummies posed like department store manikins in all those rooms over the factory floor.

Dean came back to himself with a jerk. He sat with his back against a wall, up on the catwalk, and he remembered that too, remembered being bounced against the bricks like a damn tennis ball.

His left arm was still wrapped in duct tape. He ached all over, pain from his back and side blending together until his entire body fairly screamed out in pain, which, the way this night was going, was nothing new. The only piece of good news in this whole clusterfuck was he hadn't managed to skewer himself with the butcher knife when he went airborne and slammed smack into his good friend Mr. Wall.

Said knife lay on the floor, about an inch away from his right hand.

Dean panted like a dog, which was a bad joke, when he really thought about it. His heart pounded against his chest so hard it was a wonder he could still draw breath. This was just one more hard knock to his system, one more insult that his body had endured this night. Part of it was just his mind and body's natural reaction to being the chew toy for the night, but he had to calm the hell down, and do it quick, fast and in a hurry.

He was eye to eye with Pluto and the dog was grinning at him, wide and happy, those orange eyes glinting in the dim overhead lights like a jack o'lantern.

Pluto's belly was on the ground, front paws outstretched, ass in the air and that thick tail arched over its back. Dean had been around enough dogs, had played with enough dogs in his time, to recognize a play bow when he saw one. Its eyes were bright and happy, and that huffing sound it made deepened, the sound of it rattled Dean's spine.

Playtime was over.

Dean cocked his head to one side slightly. Cujo, Toto, Rin Tin Tin, and Lassie sat in a semi-circle in front of the exit door down there on the factory floor. Ears were cocked, heads were tilted to one side. It was him and Pluto up on the catwalk together, and Pluto was putting on a show for the others.

…shi pa bu…shi pa…

…dead boy…dead…

Dean rolled his eyes. That dead thing kinda lost its charm after the first fifty times. Fucking demons and their fucking head trips.

Son of a bitch, Dad's voice whispered inside Dean's head.

Glad you could make it, Dean thought dryly. This is real, right?

Afraid so. Sounded like Dad. Steady. Dependable. Every bit like Dad. Not bad, as far as hallucinations go. Just one more kick in the ass. One more thing to have to deal with tonight. The friggin' dog things, and whatever else his subconscious decided to spring on him.

They're testing you. Lettin' this bastard take first crack at you.

I know, Dad.

Pluto stared at Dean, and Dean stared right back.

Damn demon mutt, Dean thought to himself. Like to have some holy water with me right about now. Give this bastard an enema.

Holy water, blessed objects…that made him think of Pastor Jim Murphy, for some reason. Blue Earth, Minnesota, and Dean always acted blasé about it, but he loved that place. Winter, summer, didn't matter. He always felt welcome there. Pastor Jim accepted him, didn't push or pry at him. Dean could breathe there, and it was one of the few places on earth he felt absolutely safe and secure in, which was a real laugh, seeing that Dean didn't really believe in God, and Pastor Jim was one of God's folks.

One day, when he was a kid, Dean watched Pastor Jim bless a rosary in his church.

"May this rosary and the one who uses it be blessed, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit." It was one of the gifts God had given Man, the pastor explained, the ability to pray, especially in times of need.

And sometimes those prayers might get answered.

After all this time, especially after he saw his mother pale and bruised and bleeding on the ceiling of Sam's nursery, Dean always figured that the dude upstairs must have had his name on a list. Yep, Dean Winchester was number one with a bullet on the heavenly shit list. Ye shall do no favors for this kid, now and forever.

Dean moved slightly, and his right fingertips touched the knife.

Pluto grinned. It looked at the knife, and then looked Dean directly in the eyes.

Go ahead, that look said. Try it.

Now Dean remembered the simple prayer. The idea nagged at him. Maybe something inside his head had been knocked loose too.

What the hell. It was simple enough, but he changed it slightly.

May this knife and the one who uses it be blessed, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

Then, because he was Dean Winchester, damn it, he added this: Yea, though I walk through the valley in the shadow of death I shall fear no evil, for I am the meanest son of a bitch in the valley.

Dad laughed. You'll have to get in close. No way around that, kiddo.

Sounds like a plan. Never wanted to live forever anyway.

Dean grinned at the dog, bright and feral. Something in those orange glo eyes flickered, dark and coiling.

The dog roared as it lunged at him.

Dean put his left arm up, jammed it tight inside critter's mouth, pushed backwards into the thing's mouth just as hard as it pushed towards him. There was a white hot spark of pain as his broken bones shifted, but the pain was distant, like it was happening to someone else, in the next room, maybe. He would feel it later on.

Not now.

The duct tape wrapped around his left arm began to shred. Dean moved, relied on muscle memory as he blanked his mind and went to work. He didn't think about how horrific it was that this unnatural bastard was straddling him, rabbit kicking him with its hind legs. He was vaguely aware of its nails tearing into his chest and his belly.

Pluto was showing off for his buddies down below. It wanted Dean's throat in its jaws, wanted to feel Dean's pulse in its mouth, fast and strong and panicky, just before it closed those jaws and ripped Dean's throat out.

The knife went in, over and over again, thudded against bone. Dean felt it, felt the blade slip and cut his hands. He would not stop.

Pluto stopped moving, and Dean sat there blinking in surprise.

Son of a bitch.

Some of the blood was his. Dean was pretty sure of that. Red hot stripes down his chest and belly, and the duct tape around his arm was pretty much ripped away. Pluto's thick fur concealed most of the stab wounds, but he was drenched with blood. Blood and thin wisps of dead white smoke coming out of his nose and mouth.

One eye was gone, carved out somehow, and smoke seeped out of that blank, empty socket.

Dean could feel the beating of his own heart. He was alive, fucking alive, and he might not end this job that way, but that was more than enough, right now. Maybe the patron saint of hunters was on the job this night. Maybe angels were watching over him after all. Whatever the reason, he'd just killed a fucking demon dog with a fucking knife, one he'd blessed with a simple prayer.

So.

Sometimes the answer was yes.

Down below the four remaining dogs just sat there, staring up at him.

Stuff like this just didn't happen. Not like this. Not to him. Dean shuddered all over, felt a thrill of adrenaline sizzle through his nerve endings. He got to his feet, switched the butcher knife over to his left hand and stared at his right palm, painted in blood. His blood, and the mutt's.

Dean stared at the dark redness. It was like paint. War paint.

He drew a stripe across his forehead, one down the bridge of his nose. Two more stripes on each side of his face, from his cheekbone down to his jawline. He pressed his hand into the skin over his heart, then pulled it away. The palm print was perfect.

He felt ancient and primal, huge, bigger than himself. Older than the earth itself. His blood sang in his veins. This was man versus animal, hunter and prey, and right now the lines had been blurred.

"Come on, you sonsabitches!" Dean roared. "Who's next?" He spread his arms wide, and the dogs' eyes darkened, went from orange glo to pitch black.

No one moved.

They were each focused on each other, and none of them noticed a slight disturbance in the air, in the darkness above them. The sound was almost like the rustling of black feathered wings.

Bobby made it in ninety minutes.

Sam eased into the passenger seat of the Chevelle gingerly. His arm twanged a little more now; he hadn't taken any more pain medication. He put his duffel bag on the floor between his feet, careful not to jostle the guns and flasks of holy water and other stuff inside. The bag was bulging; Sam packed everything he could think of.

"Hey, Bobby."

Bobby huffed. "Where to?"

"The cell phone signal is on I-14, ten miles out. It's stationary. Hasn't moved for the last hour and a half."

"Okay."

Sam hissed a little as the pain in his arm started singing soprano. "Bobby, I appreciate this, but you didn't have to ---"

Bobby scowled. "We gonna start that up again? You're in no damn condition to be out here by yourself, Sam. You got a busted wing ---"

"Dad taught us to be ambidextrous," Sam muttered.

"And you look like shit," Bobby finished.

Sam stopped short. "I…I do?"

"Yep."

Sam would remember that moment later on, because it was the last normal moment that night.

Something thumped hard onto the hood of the Chevelle. Bobby cursed as he hit the brakes.

Sam stared straight ahead at what had landed on the hood.

"What the hell?" Bobby muttered.

It was a dog. Huge and black. It smiled at the both of them, bright and cheerful, and the smile even reached those orange day glo eyes.

TBC next Tuesday.